On a gentle hill, an old man was sitting under the shade of a tree. He was silent because he has no one to tell his story. So he asked the tree if it will listen. He asked the grasses and pebbles. He asked the clouds and the sun. But there was no reply.

Once there was a villain in a sudden tragedy. A knight who dared to save a maiden from her prison—a tower covered in marble and gilded with gold. She watched him climb but never let her hair down. She was a jigsaw puzzle. Was he her missing piece?

She murmured something but it wasn’t clear. In her eyes he saw man, and it was never him. She was ill and not feeling well. She said stop, but he did not. He begged her why but her words never rhyme.

She hid inside and suddenly sang a song, as if luring an unknowing prey. He pondered, “Oh, sweet melody, but was it for me?” Then he sighed. He was already there, holding tight on the silver window pane. He looked down, he already went up so high.

In a blink-of-an-eye a dagger pierced into his flesh. His very blood blinded his eyes and was bathed all over his body. He has fallen down, he got nothing but a broken bone and a wounded heart. This wretched intruder, saved by the thorny bushes, felt sorry for his daydreams and foolishness. He was still able to get up and just find a away out of the woods.

She cried louder and louder until the town heard her cry, so she can be saved. She was taken from her prison. Then townsmen dressed her in finest clothes and asked to live in their lord’s fort. And the young man, he was hunted dead or alive, with a sack of gold as a prize.

He left empty handed, he was hated like a thief and loathed like a criminal. So he became a silent outcast never to be heard again. He’s still alive but it’s already his ghost plowing his lord’s fields under the burning sun—dead in the inside waiting for his time to end.

This was his story. The old man recited it to afternoon breeze. Then he whispered it to river from afar. He told the waves from the distant sea that he once heard a voice when he was lost in the woods.

The breeze came to an end, the river never said a word and the waves neither laughed nor cried. The old man sighed, and in a blink-of-an-eye, he was gone. And there was left, an old man’s grave and a story untold.

Photo by Levi Bare on Unsplash
© 2016-2017 Onie Maniego and The Paper Drafts Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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