It is late outside. My brother fell asleep long ago; he can't stay up as late as us. My father and I sit still in our chairs while my mother goes around picking up the dirty utensils. The candles resting on the side of the stone kitchen wall fill the room with a moody, cozy light. The room is quiet, and the cold wind outside is all that resonates. My father sits across from me, giving me a soft smile. His wrinkled face is withered from the countless hours and days he has spent under the sun. His arms cushion the old wooden table. His palms are giant—bigger than my face.
"What you did today was honorable," my father says, breaking the silence in the room. I raise my eyebrow, uncertain of what he means. "You stopped your brother. If he had gone to the travelers today, they might have ignored him—the way they ignored you. This would have shattered his dream."
My mother looks around, her ears perked up to catch our conversation. She slows down her pace, tempted to hear everything we say.
"I think it's wrong. I shouldn't have stopped him," I say, turning my head to see the bright candles. "Maybe they wouldn't have ignored him. Maybe they would have told him a story."
My father looks around for a moment, brushing his long beard. His long black hair fades and disappears into the background. "Maybe," he answers, looking at me. The wrinkles and little scars on his face are small compared to his sharp dark eyes. "But you and I can never know."
He makes a waving gesture with his hand, signaling my mother to leave the room. She kisses us and wishes us a final goodnight before going upstairs. My father glances at her as she climbs the stairs, waiting for the sound of the creaking floor to end.
"Why do you and your brother dream of the North so much?" he asks, gazing at me. "Why do you want to go so close to the center? The more you reach the center, the more dangerous it gets."
Is he not curious? Doesn't he ever want to be more than just a simple farmer? My father has always had a hidden agenda against the North. He has always hated it for some reason, despite telling us he hasn't been there. My brother likely wants to go North because of the hate my father has for the lands there, covering his real reason with lies about wanting to see the castles. I, however, am not like my brother. I want to go North for something more. I want to be more.
"He and I want to see the big towns. The massive stone walls that surround them and the long mountains that dwarf them," I reply, my eyes wide and my hands spread outward. "To become big and change the world. I am small here, Father—a dust particle that will wash away with time."
"It is small things that change this world, Eric," my father says. His words fill the room with silence.
This is not the first time he has told me this. When I was still a child, these words comforted me, giving me hope that perhaps one day I might change the world in some way. But now I am sixteen. I am no longer a child. If he is right, why hasn't he changed this world? Is he not small? Aren't my mother and the people in the village small? Yet none of them have changed anything. I will not be given hope by old fallacies.
"Lies," I mumble, clenching my teeth. "If those words are true, why haven't you changed anything?"
My father is a composed man. His old serious eyes meet mine, which are filled with anger. Deep inside, a dread creeps over me as he faces me like that. "You are still too young to understand, Eric," he mutters, his eyes never leaving mine. "I have changed the world—not once. Once you're older, you'll see it, understand it. Then you can change this world yourself."
His words echo loudly, resonating in my mind long after he has finished speaking. What has he changed? He's obviously lying, trying to cover his grand statements so they don't sound hollow. If he had truly changed the world, even a child would know. He tells lies. I know it. I know it. I can't change the world. He can't. My brother can't. My mother can't. We're farmers. We're just little flies buzzing around, with no one even knowing we exist.
Enraged, I storm away from my father, my footsteps pounding the ground as I head to my room. I pass my mother, who sits on the top step of the stairs. She tries to grab me, but my wrathful thoughts won't allow her. Slamming the door behind me, I throw myself onto the bed. My throat tightens as a wave of helplessness surges through me, and before my eyelids can stop them, the tears come—hot and relentless. I hate this feeling. This crushing weight of being so… small. Insignificant. It breaks something deep inside me, and I can't seem to put it back together. My father has accepted his fate of being tiny; my mother has too. But I have not. I can acknowledge this fact. I cover myself with the blanket, trying to hide the shame I feel. My body faces the cold plank wall.
Suddenly, the wooden door to my room creaks open, and I conceal my sobs. I hear the soft footsteps of my mother and father. "Eric, are you asleep?" they whisper, standing over me with worried voices. "We love you, and we believe you can change the world."
I don't respond. Their words are gentle, and for a moment, I feel warmth in my chest. A small part of me wants to turn around, to face them and let them hold me. Their words comfort me, but I can't. I don't turn. After a moment, they quietly leave the room, and I calm down.
I stay awake for a while, reflecting on my behavior. Should I have been so enraged? Was it necessary to refuse my mother's embrace? Should I have turned?
Not long after, I begin to fade away, my eyes closing slowly and my body falling weightless. But as soon as I begin to drift off, the blare of a horn awakens me, followed by the sound of a haunting scream…