The sun was high and unforgiving by the time I arrived at the village of Narrowgrove, the first dot on my map—barely worth mentioning to most nobles, but to me, it was the beginning.
The roads were no longer paved in polished stone but in dry, cracked dirt. The scent of pine mixed with smoke and earth filled the air. Mud-walled homes leaned into each other like weary travelers sharing secrets. Thin figures, wrapped in worn clothing, passed by with bundles of firewood or baskets of barely-ripe vegetables. A few goats wandered freely, nibbling at tufts of brittle grass.
I had stepped into a different story—a harsher one. One untouched by gold coins and royal academies.
Children played barefoot in the dust, their laughter soft but strangely distant. Their clothes were stitched and faded. Some looked up at me with eyes full of curiosity; others avoided my gaze, as if I were something that didn't belong.
"These are the forgotten footnotes of the kingdom," I thought, clutching my notebook.
I tried to speak to a passing man—middle-aged, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of a tool-laden yoke.
"Excuse me, sir, may I ask—"
He walked right past me.
Another woman saw me approach and quickly shooed her child indoors.
I paused. This was nothing like the academy, where eyes followed me with awe or jealousy. Here, I was a stranger with soft hands and clean boots—a figure of distance, maybe even suspicion.
But I didn't stop.
Instead, I found a quiet place near the village well and simply… watched.
That's when they came.
Three older men sat on a cracked stone bench under the only tree offering shade. Their clothes were patched, their hands calloused, and their eyes—sharp.
One of them noticed me sketching in my notebook.
"You writing about our chickens, city boy?" he asked, his voice like gravel dipped in sarcasm.
I smiled gently. "No… about your stories."
There was a pause.
Then another old man snorted a laugh. "Our stories? What could a boy like you want with those?"
"Because no one else is writing them," I said. "And if no one does, they'll be forgotten."
That gave them pause.
Slowly, cautiously, the mood shifted.
They gestured for me to sit.
And I did.
Beneath that tree, in the heart of the most overlooked village I'd ever seen, I listened. For hours.
One spoke of the famine five winters ago—how they boiled bark to make soup. Another spoke of the one school they had, which now stood empty because no teacher would stay. The third spoke softly about his granddaughter—gifted, clever, but with no books to read and no future to offer her.
I scribbled every word, heart heavy and hands eager.
"You're not like the others," one said finally, squinting at me.
"I used to be," I admitted. "But I'm trying to change that—with words."
They didn't say much after that.
But when I stood to leave, one of them handed me a folded piece of cloth. Inside it was a faded, crumpled drawing—a little girl's picture of her grandfather holding her hand beside the well.
"She drew this. Before her mother took her to the capital to work. Said it was her dream to go to a school with windows."
"Thank you," I whispered, tucking the drawing into my book.
As I walked away, I realized something important:
The academy taught us how to write stories.
But this village… it taught me why stories mattered.
Not to impress nobles.
Not to win contests.
But to speak for those who had no voice.
And with every word I wrote from that day on, I swore to myself—I would never forget Narrowgrove.
Not as long as my ink could still flow.
Goldwind City—it lived up to its name.
Bustling with color, life, and music, it greeted me with the scents of roasted spices, candied fruits, and fresh bread. Street performers played lively tunes as ribbons of laughter and chatter filled the air. Even the cobblestones were smoother, shinier—like the city wanted to be remembered by the soles of your feet.
I indulged myself.
Honey-glazed meat skewers, rice cakes wrapped in lotus leaves, sweet milk bread still warm from the oven—I tasted everything. I had written about cities like this, imagined them in dreamlike detail. Yet now, the tastes were real. The sounds, tangible. For a moment, I simply enjoyed being an eight-year-old boy set loose in a city of wonders.
But stories rarely allow happiness to last too long.
That's when I saw her.
A blur of movement.
A girl—barely older than five—darted between legs and carts, clutching something to her chest. A bread roll.
"Thief!" shouted the bread seller, a burly man with red cheeks and a flour-dusted apron.
He moved fast for someone his size, snatching the girl by the collar of her dress before she could escape into the crowd.
People turned their heads but did nothing. No one intervened.
I did.
"How much for the bread?" I asked, stepping forward with two silver coins in my palm.
The shopkeeper blinked. "She stole—"
"But I'm paying."
He hesitated, then snatched the coins with a grumble and released her.
The little girl hit the ground hard but clutched the bread like a sacred treasure.
She looked up at me with wide, hollow eyes. Her clothes were thin and dirty, her hair matted, and her cheeks sunken.
"Why were you stealing?" I asked gently.
She stared at me, unsure. Then, perhaps sensing no danger, she whispered:
"I got four little brothers… They cry when they're hungry. Mama's sick. Papa went to the mines last winter and never came back. If I don't feed them… they'll die."
Her voice cracked, but she didn't cry.
I had never felt a silence so heavy.
All around us, the city continued its golden dance—bells ringing, people laughing, coins clinking. But in this corner of a busy street, reality hung low like a storm cloud.
So this was the other side of prosperity, I thought. The part left out of the songs and stories.
I crouched beside her.
"Can I walk you home?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
I followed her through the alleyways, away from the polished center of Goldwind. Past broken walls and narrow lanes filled with rusted carts, she led me to a crumbling tenement.
Inside, four little boys sat in a row, too tired to speak, too hungry to play. Their mother lay in the corner, her breathing shallow.
I bought food. Medicine. More than she could've ever stolen. I handed it all over without expecting thanks.
But as I turned to leave, the little girl tugged my sleeve.
"Will you write about us?"
That question—so simple, so heavy—nearly broke me.
"Yes," I said. "I promise."
That night, at the inn, I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I wrote.
And for the first time in my life, the page fought back.
Because how do you capture the strength of a starving child? The courage it takes to steal not out of selfishness, but out of love? The quiet suffering of a family hidden behind city lights?
"In a city made of gold, shadows grow deeper," I wrote."And in those shadows, tiny hands carry the weight of entire worlds."
I didn't know what readers would think.
But I knew—deep in my bones—that this story needed to be told.
The sun had barely risen when I found myself standing again before the crumbling building in the forgotten corner of Goldwind.
This time, I didn't come empty-handed.
Behind me, a cart creaked under the weight of sacks—rice, flour, dried vegetables, salted meat, fruit preserves, and enough clean water for a week. Alongside the cart rode a middle-aged physician, his gruff face softening only when he saw the condition of the family.
The little girl, Ayla, opened the door with the same wary expression, but it melted when she recognized me.
"You came back," she said softly.
"I keep my promises," I replied with a smile.
The doctor moved past me with his kit, inspecting their frail mother and asking gentle questions. Ayla's brothers, too timid to speak the day before, peeked from behind a faded curtain, their eyes wide at the sight of so much food.
Ayla led me into the room and watched in silence as the doctor tended to their mother.
"She's weak," the doctor finally said. "But with proper food, medicine, and rest, she'll recover."
Ayla's hands trembled slightly as she reached for the loaf of honey bread I handed her.
"You're really like someone from a story," she whispered. "Like a traveler who shows up when everything seems lost."
"No," I said, kneeling to her eye level. "I'm a writer who listens. And your story matters."
I gave her a small pouch of silver—enough to sustain them for months. Her eyes welled up, but she wiped them with the back of her hand and stood tall, like a little soldier.
"Thank you," she said. "When I grow up, I'll help people too. Just like you."
I didn't have words. Only a lump in my throat.
I left quietly as they began to eat, the aroma of warm food slowly replacing the chill that had once clung to the room.