(Summary: Riven and Goldie's Forest Walk)
Third-Person Narrative View ( ・ω・)
Riven, a 19-year-old northerner with black hair tucked under a blue wooly cap, dressed in black and standing at 5'9", walks quietly beneath the trees. The forest is still, but beside him trots Goldie—a small, shimmering yellow cat with a spiritual glow. Though she appears golden, her true color is a soft pink, visible only in certain lights or moments of calm.
As they walk deeper into the woods, Goldie speaks in soft, melodic tones only Riven can hear. Their conversation drifts between quiet humor and deeper reflections—on the stillness of nature, on hidden truths, and on things Riven doesn't say aloud to anyone else. Goldie offers cryptic wisdom, sometimes teasing, sometimes warm, as if she knows more than she lets on. Riven listens, half-smiling, the bond between them growing stronger with each step into the forest's quiet mystery.
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As the forest path narrowed beneath the gentle canopy of leaves, Goldie padded beside Riven, her small shimmering form flickering like sunlight through glass. Though she appeared yellow, her pink essence pulsed subtly beneath the surface—seen only when her spirit softened.
She glanced up at Riven, her tail curling like a question mark.
"So, what did you learn in school before you left society?" she asked, her voice airy and curious, as if the question was part play, part probe.
Riven scoffed, his breath misting slightly in the cool northern air. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his black jacket, the rim of his blue wooly cap pulled low over his brow.
"Nothing," he muttered. "Not a damn thing that mattered."
Goldie blinked slowly, waiting for more. Riven continued, his tone dry but laced with quiet irritation.
"They taught long division like I'd be solving it in the woods. Geometry—great, I can calculate triangles while freezing in a cave. The water cycle, the rock cycle, plant cells... all of it. Useless. No one taught us how to live. Just facts they wanted us to memorize and forget."
The forest was silent for a moment, only the crunch of their footsteps against the leaf-strewn path filling the space.
Goldie let out a soft hum, somewhere between a purr and a sigh.
"Maybe they were teaching you the shapes of the world... but not the shape you would take in it."
Riven didn't respond at first. He just kept walking, shoulders hunched, eyes distant. But Goldie noticed the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth—a flicker of thought, or maybe, amusement.
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Goldie's First-Person View
I've walked with many souls through forests like this, but Riven is different.
There's a weight in his silence, like someone who's already lived through too many disappointments for someone his age. His steps are steady, but I can feel the burn behind each one—a quiet rebellion, not just against the world, but against the system that tried to shape him into something unrecognizable.
I've seen the change. It's not just Riven. The numbers keep growing—eight thousand students, gone. Walked away. Disconnected from the system not out of apathy, but out of refusal. The school system is crumbling, outdated and blind to what life has become. It clings to meaningless lessons: long division, cell diagrams, state-mandated cycles of water and rock. Things that sound useful in theory, but fall apart when you're faced with survival or truth.
They're not teaching how to grow food. Not how to handle solitude. Not how to build a shelter, confront injustice, or navigate a world where owning a home is a myth and wages shrink while hours stretch from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. until your spirit breaks.
Riven didn't leave because he's lazy. He left because the alternative was dying in slow motion.
Now, like the others, he walks into the wild, not because it's easier, but because it's real. Out here, the forest may be unkind, but it doesn't lie to you. It doesn't ask you to smile while starving.
I stay with him not because he needs me, but because he deserves to be seen. Because someone has to witness this quiet exodus—this generation shedding a world that no longer makes room for them.
And maybe, just maybe... help them build a new one.