After days and nights of shared labour,
Octavio and Fabale had managed to earn not just a few coins, but the goodwill of the town. Farmers had gifted them grains in gratitude — simple offerings, but to Octavio, they meant the world. Not wealth, but warmth.
Still, even while working, they were always cautious.
"What if someone recognizes me?"
That question haunted Octavio every time a stranger's gaze lingered too long.
---
On the morning of their departure…
"Oi! Off to work again, boys?" the innkeeper called out, leaning against the doorframe with a crooked smile. "You two work harder than half the town! Back in my day, I could've kept up—maybe. But now I'm getting old, hah!"
From the kitchen, his wife's voice rang out like a bell.
"Old, my foot! You just worked hard to impress me and never stopped bragging since! Stop yapping at those boys and bring these dishes in!"
She turned to Octavio and Fabale with a wink.
"Don't waste time on that bag of bones. Go earn money — it's more useful than he is."
Octavio chuckled and shook his head, eyes twinkling.
"Money can be earned again... but these moments can't."
The innkeeper blinked, caught off guard by the softness in Octavio's voice.
Then Octavio stepped forward and said gently,
"We're leaving today. Thank you — truly — for everything you've done for us."
There was a pause.
"...So," the innkeeper murmured, his smile fading just a little, "the time has come, huh?"
Octavio gave a quiet nod.
---
During their stay,
the two young travelers had grown close to the couple. When Octavio had first arrived — weak, injured, half-starved — the innkeeper had given him food without a coin in return. And later, as they both struggled to survive, the man offered them rooms at half the price.
They weren't rich, not by any means.
But they shared what little they had — again and again.
That touched Octavio in ways he couldn't express.
He learned something no palace lesson ever taught him —
"To help someone, you don't need riches.
Just a warm heart and pure intentions."
Just as Octavio and Fabale turned to leave, the innkeeper's wife suddenly gasped.
"Wait—!"
She rushed back inside, her slippers flapping against the wooden floor. Moments later, she returned, slightly out of breath, holding two small jars wrapped in cloth.
"Take these," she said, pressing one into each of their hands. "Ointments. You'll need them more than you think."
Octavio looked at her, puzzled. She gave him a light scolding glance, the kind that hides deep concern behind pretend irritation.
"With how reckless you two are," she huffed, "these will be more useful than money. And remember—no one will be there to bandage you up if you fall sick. If you get hurt, how will you earn money? How will you get home?"
Her voice softened then, eyes briefly glancing away.
"So... just take care. Not for yourselves... but for the ones waiting for you."
---
Octavio and Fabale froze, her words hitting deeper than either expected. A strange warmth curled in their chests — not fiery or overwhelming, but like the glow of a hearth on a cold night.
They turned to her, eyes shining with something unspoken.
"We will," Octavio said with a small smile.
Fabale nodded, voice quiet but sure,
"Take care... and thank you."
With those words, they departed.
Two shadows walking into the horizon —
carrying nothing but a bag, a few coins, and the blessings of those who saw past their secrets… and cared anyway.
---
After their departure, the innkeeper and his wife returned to their usual rhythm — wiping tables, scrubbing pots, sharing little quarrels wrapped in love.
But as the sun dipped lower, casting a golden hue over the inn, the innkeeper stepped into his small room to fetch a ledger. That's when he noticed it — a pouch, neatly placed on the center of the table.
His brows furrowed.
"Hmm? Who left this here?"
Curious, he picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. As he untied the knot and peeked inside, his eyes widened in disbelief.
"Wife!" he called out, voice sharp with shock. "Wife! Come quick!"
His wife rushed in, apron still dusted with flour, worry etched on her face.
"What happened? What's wrong?"
"Look! Look at this!" he stammered, holding the pouch open.
She leaned in — and gasped.
Inside lay a glittering pile of gold coins. Enough to sustain the inn for months. Enough to fix the broken chimney. Enough to bring ease to their simple life.
But that wasn't all.
Tucked beneath the coins was a folded piece of paper. The innkeeper's hands trembled slightly as he opened it.
Written in neat, careful handwriting:
---
"For those golden-hearted souls
who never forgot what it means to be human.
Thank you… and take care.
From —
Think of us….. as your children ."
The innkeeper's wife went utterly still.
Her lips parted, but no words came. The paper in her hands quivered slightly.
A long silence stretched between them. And in that silence… something cracked open inside her.
"…As your children," she whispered, the words tasting like memory.
A quiet sob escaped before she could stop it.
She sank into the edge of the bed, clutching the note to her chest as if it were a lost child returned in paper form.
The innkeeper sat beside her slowly, gently, their shoulders touching.
Their grief was not loud — it never had been.
They had buried it beneath chores and discounts, under bowls of stew and kind smiles.
Years ago, they had lost their first child to illness — unable to afford the medicine he needed.
Years later, their second boy had sailed away, vowing to return with riches.
But he never did.
And since then… they had no one.
No one to call "son."
No one to call "home."
Until now.
"Do you think it was them?" his wife asked softly, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Octavio… or that other kind boy?"
He thought for a long moment. Then shook his head.
"…Maybe. Or maybe someone else was watching — someone who saw what we offered, even when we had little."
He looked at the pouch again — not with greed, but reverence.
This wasn't a payment.
This was a blessing.
"A gift not just for what we did," he said, voice low. "But for who we are."
His wife clutched his hand.
For the first time in years, they didn't feel old or forgotten.
They didn't feel empty.
They felt like parents.