The village of Rivermist rested at the foot of three sloping hills, and at the edge of its winding dirt path stood a tiny wooden house, old enough that the planks had turned the color of dusk. Moss clung to its roof like a faded green blanket, and its porch creaked softly whenever the evening breeze brushed through.
It was here, on a narrow woven mat before the porch, where the children always gathered.
The ground was warm from the day's sun, soft with wild grass that tickled their ankles when they sat cross-legged. Fireflies drifted over the field behind them, and crickets chirped like tiny storytellers of the night. The mat smelled faintly of lavender—her garden's scent carried into its fibers after years of use.
Every evening when the sun began to melt into shades of purple, the old woman took her place outside. She moved slowly, with a frail grace, her bones thin but her presence strangely steadfast. She lit her small lantern, its glass tinted green, and the light inside flickered like a gentle emerald heartbeat.
The fireflies adored it. They circled the lantern as though greeting an old friend.
As the light spread, the village grew calm. Pots fell silent in kitchens. Dogs curled up under carts. And the children—excited, breathless, always waiting—ran down the path and slid onto the mat in front of the old woman's feet.
Tonight, like always, she spoke the words that began every tale:
"Do you know… this world once held heroes?"
The children gasped softly, their eyes widening the way they always did.
Her voice was cracked with age, but it carried the weight of memory.
"Men and women of valor," she continued, "who fought to protect the weak. That is what a hero used to mean. But the meaning changed long ago. A hero… is a person who wields a Symbol. These Symbols represented what they stood for, and because of this, heroes were almost like gods."
Her wrinkled lips trembled as she spoke, and she lifted her face toward the sky.
The sky, purple and fading, reflected in her clouded eyes—eyes that no longer saw the world clearly, yet somehow still saw more than anyone else.
"When I was just a little girl…" Her thin fingers curled around the lantern's handle.
"I saw one.
I saw a hero."
The children leaned in, breath caught.
Behind them, a pair of drunken villagers stumbled past the house.
"Huh… it's that crazy old granny again," one muttered.
"Did you hear? She's talking about heroes again. Heh. Heroes. Myths. Bedtime stories to distract kids from this broken world."
They laughed and staggered away.
One child heard them clearly.
A boy with silver hair, silver eyes, and skin the warm brown of cocoa. He was small, delicate in feature, so feminine that the adults sometimes whispered about his appearance. His name was Keo, and the old woman was the closest thing he had to family.
He pouted at the drunken men. Stupid people… They don't know anything.
He raised his hand instinctively, wanting to ask a question, but the old woman, nearly blind, didn't notice.
So he spoke aloud:
"Grandma?"
Every child turned to look at him—their heads tilting in unison.
Some looked curious, others amused, and a few whispered, "Keo always asks weird questions…"
But they all scooted aside to make space for him, dust rising softly as they shifted.
The old woman's head lifted.
Her face brightened as though remembering sunlight.
"Keo…?" she asked.
"Yeah, it's me, Grandma. I—I have a question."
He hugged his knees nervously.
"How come people don't believe in heroes anymore?"
She chuckled. The sound was warm and brittle like dry leaves.
"Heroes are like demi-gods," she said softly. "They could do what ordinary folk could not. They could slay dragons."
"WAAAAO!" the kids gasped.
"And they could fly."
"WOAAA!" they echoed.
Her smile faded just a little.
"But heroes were more than power. Each represented a Symbol—a concept. Perhaps Justice. Strength. Sacrifice. Love. No more than a hundred heroes existed across the whole world."
Keo's silver eyes glimmered.
"Then… why are they all gone?"
The question stole the warmth from the air.
The old woman's smile wilted. Sadness folded her features into deep grooves.
"…I don't know," she whispered.
Her gaze wandered upward, toward the sky she could barely see.
"Maybe… maybe we did something wrong. Maybe we brought misfortune upon them."
Keo's heart thumped.
"Well then… how do I become one?" he asked.
The children exploded into laughter.
"You? Become a hero?"
"You can't!"
"No one can!"
Keo puffed his cheeks. "Yes I can!"
The old woman raised a trembling hand to quiet them.
"Heroes," she said, "are bound by a Law.
A Rule that only they can see… and only they can follow."
The fireflies swirled around the lantern as if reacting to her words.
At last, she sighed.
"It's getting late. Off you go, children. Your mothers will worry."
The children ran off in a trail of laughter, their silhouettes fading into the twilight.
But Keo stayed.
The night air grew cooler, brushing his silver hair.
He stared at his hands, small and unsure.
How do I become a hero? he wondered.
How?
The old woman paused before entering her home.
For a moment, the lantern light flickered across her troubled face.
"Keo," she murmured, voice trembling, "the time is almost here."
Then she closed the door.
The green light faded.
And the night swallowed the village whole