The wooden basin creaked as the boy poured warm water over his grandfather's back. The old man hissed softly but managed a chuckle. His bones felt brittle beneath the boy's careful touch, but his eyes still glimmered with that strange brightness—like lanterns in fog.
Grandfather (rasping): "Careful, lad. You'll wash the skin clean off me if you keep scrubbing so hard."
Boy (laughing): "Then you'll be all new, Grandpa. No more aches."
Grandfather's chuckle turned into a cough. When it settled, he leaned back, closing his eyes. The candlelight caught the deep grooves of his face, each line etched with years of hardship.
Grandfather: "Do you remember the riddle I told you last week?"
Boy (nodding eagerly): "The one about the man with no shadow?"
Grandfather smiled.
Grandfather: "Yes. Tell it back to me."
The boy's brow furrowed in concentration.
Boy: "He walked under the sun, but no shadow followed him. He stood in moonlight, but no shape stretched at his feet. When asked who he was, he said, "I am the echo of men greater than me."
The grandfather opened his eyes, watching the boy carefully.
Grandfather: "And what do you think it means?"
Boy (innocently): "That he was a ghost?"
Grandfather: "Maybe. Or maybe it means there are some who walk in this world unseen. Men whose faces you'll never know, but whose whispers decide who rules and who falls. They leave no shadow… because they are the shadow."
The boy tilted his head, not fully understanding, but the words lodged in his heart.
Later, as he helped his grandfather dry off, the old man spoke again, his tone darker.
Grandfather: "Here's another. A tale, not a riddle."
He leaned forward, voice dropping as though the night itself were listening.
Grandfather: "Once, there were ten men. Each bore a chain of iron, each link hammered in blood. They called themselves nothing, but the world called them kings of the unseen. Wherever they walked, kingdoms shivered, and whenever they spoke, lords obeyed. But they never raised banners, never claimed thrones. Why should they? A throne is heavy, boy. A whisper is lighter, and it can topple any king."
The boy's eyes widened.
Boy: "Are they still out there?"
The grandfather smiled faintly, though it was tired, almost bitter.
Grandfather: "Maybe. Maybe not. But remember this: power doesn't always come from the sword or the crown. Sometimes it comes from the shadows you never notice… until they've already strangled the light."
The boy felt a chill run down his spine, though the water in the basin was still warm.
As weeks passed, more riddles and tales followed. Some were simple and playful, but others—always spoken when the candle burned low and the world was hushed—were darker.
Grandfather: "What is born of silence, feeds on secrets, and dies when spoken aloud?"
Boy (thinking hard): "A… lie?"
Grandfather: "Close. A name. The wrong name, boy, spoken too soon, can kill a man faster than steel."
Another night—
Grandfather: "Tell me, lad, who rules the world? The king with his gold crown, or the thief who holds the knife at his throat in the dark?"
Boy (hesitating): "…The thief?"
Grandfather: "Clever boy. Never forget it."
The boy never realized these stories weren't just bedtime tales. They were pieces of memory, fragments of a past his grandfather would never admit to outright. Each one planted a seed—seeds that would grow alongside the bruises on his father's body and the hunger in their bellies.
One night, the boy whispered as his grandfather drifted into sleep:
Boy: "If shadows can rule the world, Grandpa… maybe one day I'll be their king."
The old man stirred, a faint, unreadable smile crossing his lips.
Grandfather (whispering, half-dreaming): "Careful what you wish for, boy. Shadows always demand their price."
The candle sputtered, and the room fell to silence—only the boy was left awake, staring into the dark.
The next day…
The boy ran barefoot through muddy streets, clutching a small satchel of bread crusts he had begged from the baker's wife. Evening bells tolled in the distance.
and the alleys filled with smoke from hearths. He thought of his father—how he'd promised to be home early, how they'd eat together, how maybe tonight he'd even juggle for him.
But the crowd stopped him cold.
A ring of villagers huddled near the cobblestone square. Their whispers hissed like snakes. Some pointed. Others looked away.
The boy pushed through with the stubbornness of the hungry. And there he saw him.
His father.
Lying face-down in the dirt, motley torn, bells silent. His painted grin smeared by blood and bootprints. His chest no longer rose.
The boy dropped the satchel. His knees hit stone.
Boy (screaming): "Papa! Papa!"
He shook him, over and over, but the body was limp. Lifeless.
Villager (murmuring): "The nobles had enough of his jokes."
Another (spitting): "Should've known better. A fool's place is to be beaten."
The boy's cries tore through the night. Louder than the bells, louder than the jeers. But news always traveled faster than grief. By the time his tears soaked into the cobbles, the story had already begun to spread like fire: The fool is dead. The jester is gone.
He stumbled home, the world spinning, his chest raw from sobs. His only thought was to tell his grandfather. The old man would know what to do. He always had riddles and always had wisdom.
The door creaked open.
The candle was still burning.
And his grandfather hung from the beam.
The rope creaked gently, swaying. His cane lay discarded on the floor.
The boy dropped to the ground, screaming again—no words, just sound. Pain so unbearable it felt like the world itself had caved in.
He clutched his head, pulled his hair, and gasped until his throat was raw. His eyes darted between the hanging body and the empty mat where his father used to sit. His family—his laughter—his wisdom—gone. All in a single night.
The boy fell to his knees beneath his grandfather's shadow, rocking back and forth.
Boy (hoarse, breaking): "Don't leave me… please don't leave me…"
But there was no answer.
Only silence.
That night, the seed his grandfather had planted—the seed of shadows, of whispers, of unseen rulers—split open inside him. But what grew from it wasn't wisdom. It was madness.
For the first time, the boy understood his grandfather's last riddle:
What rules the world? The king? The thief? No… It is the shadow that takes them both.
And the shadow had taken everything from him.