He opened his eyes, got out of bed, and walked toward the window...


    Just kidding. That’s not how I’m going to tell you my life story.


    The morning was like any other, gloomy, oppressive, soaked in grayness and the leftover weight of the day before. And so it went, day after day after day after day. Endlessly. I felt like I was stuck in some never-ending loop with no way out. Every morning looked the same, I''d wake up exhausted, force my body through another backbreaking day in the fields, and come evening, with dirt still caked under my fingernails, I''d drag myself straight to the tavern. Then hit repeat. The boredom was everywhere, it seeped into every breath, every movement, like a sticky fog that crawls under your skin and reeks of old dust. You can’t wash it off. You can’t forget it.


    The only thing that ever brought even a flicker of life to that monotony were the bards. They changed from time to time, arriving out of nowhere like a sudden gust of fresh wind, bringing with them stories from another world. A world that, to me, felt as real as the moon hanging in the night sky. They spun their tales, sometimes with wild gestures, other times in a hushed voice, as if their very words carried secrets. Stories of heroes and monsters, of beautiful princesses and forgotten kingdoms, of dragons and blood spilled in battles that supposedly happened somewhere far away, beyond this run-down little place I’d known all my life.


    Listening to them was the only color in my grayscale existence. Even if most of those tales were complete nonsense, and the rest blown so far out of proportion it was laughable, there was something about them—something that stirred a strange, unsettling longing in me. For something greater. Something different. Something I couldn’t quite name. When a bard plucked the first notes from their lute, the tavern would fall silent. Even the most jaded drunks stared at him like they were under a spell. The stories carried us to places we’d never see and let us pretend, for just a moment, that we were living someone else’s life—one with purpose, with choices, with adventure.


    And me? I just sat there, staring into the flickering candle flames, imagining that maybe… just maybe… one day someone would tell stories about me, the way I now hung on to theirs.


    <hr>


    Once, a group of adventurers passed through our dump of a village, or rather, by it. At first glance, they looked like your average travelers, cloaks, muddy boots, horses more exhausted than their riders. Just another bunch who got lost, or thought they could cut through our mess to save time.


    But if you looked a little closer, it became clear they weren’t just wandering vagrants. You could spot swords, daggers, and other... adventuring accessories peeking out from under their cloaks. Only, they wore them like it was their first time strapping that stuff on. They weren’t skilled enough to hide what they probably should’ve. But what do I know.


    I was standing behind the barn at the time, pretending to fix a bucket, empty, of course, since I’d already dumped the water back at the well. Which was just as well, because my hands were free, and I could lean against the wall and stare like some village idiot, mouth open, teeth full of dust.


    One of them had a helmet with horns. Horns. Like we were in some bloody stage play. Another one wore a cloak so bright red that even the pigs in the pen stopped chewing and stared after him with a look that said, “who the hell is that?” The third guy looked like a wizard, or was at least trying to look like one, carrying a staff. Wooden. Crooked. And he leaned on it like his back was killing him. A real hero, I swear.


    They passed through the village like it was nothing, not even sparing us a glance. I think they were convinced we were just background noise, a gray smudge on the map they had to trudge through before the real adventure could begin. Only, something told me this wasn’t much of an adventure for them either. They didn’t look like they were going anywhere. More like they were running. Or lost.


    They stopped in front of the tavern. One of them, the one in the red cloak, went inside, looking around like some fairytale prince lowering himself to mingle with the common folk. The rest stayed outside, whispering things I couldn’t hear, but I could guess: “There’s nothing here. Let’s move on.”


    And me? Like an idiot, I just stood there, like someone had nailed me to the wall. And I don’t know why, but for a moment... I envied them.


    Not their courage. Not their gear. Not the damn horns on that helmet.


    I envied the fact that they could go. Just get up and go. Toward any old sunset. Even if they had no idea where they were headed.


    <hr>


    A few days later, I still couldn’t get them out of my head.


    No idea why. It’s not like they did anything extraordinary. They rode through, looked down on us, one of them had a beer and probably said it tasted like horse piss. Then they left. End of story.


    Only it wasn’t. Not for me.


    Since that day, something started buzzing inside me. Not a voice, not a vision, not some goddamn call to adventure, more like an itch under the skin that you just can’t fucking scratch. I worked like always. Morning in the fields, then shovel, then hay, then back pain, then tavern, then bed. But everything was just… more. More empty. More infuriating. More fucking unbearable.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    I’d watch my father patch the same damn fence for the hundredth time. My brother smashing rocks because the cow escaped the pen again. The neighbor spent an hour digging a hole, only to realize it was the wrong spot. And suddenly everything looked like a puppet show. And me? I was one of them. Some carved wooden asshole playing his role until the string snaps.


    Even the tavern felt off. The bards didn’t cast the same spell anymore. Their stories sounded like reruns, different names, same shit. Different dragons, sure, but always the same wings. Different kingdoms, but the same fate. I realized I knew the endings before the even opened their mouths.


    And maybe that was the worst of it, that even other people’s adventures started to bore me.


    One night, with a candle half melted and the bard droning on in the background, I just stared out the window. At the road. The same one they had taken. The rain had long since wiped away their tracks, but I could still fucking see them. And I don’t know if it was the beer, the exhaustion, or that fucking crooked wizard’s staff that kept showing up in my dreams… but for the first time, I seriously thought:


    “What if I just left? No goodbyes. No goal. No fucking reason.”


    Then, of course, I shrugged, downed the rest of my beer, and told myself—like always:


    “Don’t talk shit, man.”


    <hr>


    A few more days passed, but everything was already different. Even though it looked the same.


    The sky still had that same shade of faded filth, the wind still smelled of pickled straw and old leather, and the dogs still barked at nothing, because nothing was a daily guest here.


    But something had shifted in me.


    Not suddenly. Not like a broken dam. More like that moment when an old rope starts to fray, it still holds, but you know it’s just a matter of time.


    I caught myself being late to work more and more often. Standing by the well longer than needed. Staring at the horizon, even though there was nothing there. Not even trees dared to grow out there.


    People noticed. They don’t say it out loud, because around here no one says anything out loud, but they look at me differently. My father once muttered that my head was in the clouds. My brother laughed that maybe I finally fell in love, which in his dictionary meant: “stop being fucking useless.” And my mother… my mother just looked. And that look was the worst.


    She knew. Not how, not why. Just did. Mothers have that fucking gift.


    Sometimes I caught myself walking toward the road in the evening, the same one they came through. Supposedly without purpose, supposedly just for firewood, supposedly just because. But I always stopped a bit before the edge of the village, like there was something there, something invisible that grabbed me by the collar and whispered in my ear: “Not yet.”


    And I listened. Because it felt safer that way.


    Until one morning, which started like any other, cold, gray, and hopeless, except this time… I didn’t go to the field.


    I stood in the doorway for a while, looking at the road. Then I went back inside, sat down at the table and… just sat. Watched my mother slice bread. My father tie his belt. My brother look for something under the bench and curse under his breath. Watched the world keep going without me, like nothing happened.


    And then, for the first time, I thought: maybe that’s the whole point. That if I’m gone, the world will keep going anyway.


    And maybe I don’t need to be here at all.


    <hr>


    The evening was warm, for this time of year. The tavern was full, but weary, as if even the conversations were dragging their feet. That evening, a bard showed up. Older, with hair like dusty cobwebs and a face that had seen more than it cared to remember. No one was waiting for him. No applause. He just sat down and started speaking. Quietly. No fanfare.


    – I’ll tell you about a valley that’s no longer on any map – he said. – They used to say everything there was just a little different. Days felt longer, the water colder, and the wind carried a whisper that sounded like laughter or prayer, depending on who was listening.


    A few people looked over, curious. Someone chuckled. Just another tale.


    – In that valley, people lived in peace. They didn’t go beyond the hills, because there was no need. Everything they needed was there. Bread, the shade of trees, the river, herbs, dreams. Rarely did anyone ask for more.


    He paused, as if checking whether anyone was still listening. No one said a word, so he went on.


    – They say one day, a man came from the outside. He didn’t knock, didn’t introduce himself. He walked through the valley, looked at it, and asked only: “Why do you stay?” But no one answered him. Because no one knew the answer.


    Silence again. Only the fire cracked somewhere in the hearth.


    – He left. And in time, the valley disappeared. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe not. No one knows what happened to it. Maybe it still exists, only people stopped speaking its name. Or maybe… they simply stayed in one place for too long.


    After that, he said nothing more. Put away his lute. Didn’t even play. Just fell silent and stared ahead, as if waiting for the quiet to become full.


    And I, like everyone else, pretended it was just a story. But something inside me wouldn’t stop listening, even after it had already ended.


    That night, I couldn’t sleep.


    Not because of pain. Not because of noise. Not because of dreams. I just lay there, feeling like something was off. Like one stone under my back suddenly reminded me that I didn’t belong to this land.


    I tossed and turned. I heard my father snoring, my mother shifting on the straw mattress, the wind tugging at the roof. Everything was as usual. And yet… not.


    I closed my eyes. Tried to remember exactly what that bard had said. But I couldn’t. Not the words. Just… the feeling. Like the echo of something I hadn’t heard today, but long ago. Maybe in childhood. Maybe in a dream. Or maybe not at all.


    “Why do you stay?” – that might’ve been it. But did he really say that? Or did I just add that in myself?


    I rolled onto my stomach. Then back onto my back. I stared at the ceiling, even though I couldn’t see it. The darkness was like a lid, not letting a single thought escape. Every one I tried to throw out came back faster, like it had just been waiting for me to be alone with myself.


    I closed my eyes again. Harder this time. With everything I had, like that would somehow change something. Like not looking would make nothing happen.


    But deep down, I already knew that story wasn’t just a story.


    And that tomorrow, I’d wake up the same. Just with something new under my skin. Like a splinter. Small. But already inside.