The Fire Left Behind.
My steps felt heavy as I returned home that day. The old wooden gate creaked softly as I closed it slowly. Silence. Only the whisper of the wind and the gentle bubbling of an emptiness I once knew. It felt... exactly like five years ago—when the world seemed to leave me alone amidst weeds and soil.
I sat on the doorstep, staring out at the small patch of field and the sheep pen.
My uncle's final words echoed in my mind:
"If I could go back, I would choose differently. If I were you, I would choose differently. Find the meaning in that choice. I believe… you'll understand that."
"What did he mean by that?!" I murmured, my voice no louder than the wind.
The days that followed... returned to what they once were. I herded the sheep to the meadow, bathed them in the summer, and sold a few to afford food. I laughed with the buyers, pretending to be cheerful, while my heart remained on the training ground—with the sound of clashing wood and the echo of spirited shouts.
That was my life... until three years passed.
Now I am eighteen.
My hair is longer, my body sturdier, and my skin darkened by the sun. But my heart—still holds the embers of the past. From time to time, I still walked to Uncle's house. Sat on his porch. Waited. Even though I knew no carriage would return, and no heavy voice would greet me in the morning.
In that first year, I began to waver. Money grew scarce, sheep fell ill, and food... was barely enough for one meal a day. I stood for a long time in front of Uncle's house. Then, slowly, I stepped into the back room—his workshop.
The room was dusty, but everything remained as it was. Hammers hung on the wall, the forge stood cold yet sturdy, and metal slabs lay stacked in wooden boxes. I stepped in, approaching the pile of materials.
"Tin..." I whispered, lifting a small gray piece.
My hand touched the hammer. The cold metal bit into my palm, yet somehow, it felt familiar. On the wall, rough sketches hung—sword designs, notes on length, weight, even the angle of strikes.
I looked around. Recalled Uncle's movements. How he lifted the hammer, heated the metal, then struck it again and again, until rigid steel became something alive.
"This..." I whispered, eyes beginning to glimmer, "is the trail he left behind."
The next day, I lit the forge.
Of course, I failed. The metal refused to take shape, and my arms ached for a full day. But I smiled. My spirit... had returned. For the first time in three years, I knew what I wanted to do. I would learn. Study every detail Uncle once did. Forge swords. Sell them. Survive... and one day, perhaps, become more than just a shepherd abandoned by fate.
The days changed. My hands blackened with soot. My shoulders burned from the forge's heat. But with every strike of the hammer, every burst of flame, I felt more alive. This wasn't just about food. This was about legacy. About rediscovering who I was—and who he was, the man who once led me down this path.
Behind each spark, I could hear his voice again. "Your strike's too soft, boy. Like punching a loaf of bread!"
I laughed to myself, wiping sweat from my brow. "Don't worry, Uncle," I muttered. "One day, I'll forge a sword that would even leave you speechless."
And that was when my life began anew—not as a herder, but as a blacksmith.