It was a dusty afternoon, the kind where the sun painted everything gold but offered no warmth. You stood alone outside your school, clutching a stack of books like a shield. They were worn, secondhand, full of underlined passages and taped spines-stories of fox spirits, of the Bakunawa devouring the moon, of shadow beasts and celestial battles passed down in whispers through generations.
You read them in secret. You believed in them.
But the other kids didn't.
They laughed when they saw the covers. "Fairy tale freak," they'd call you. Once, someone tore a page out. Another time, they threw rocks-not hard, just enough to bruise pride. Even your parents sighed when they caught you reading by candlelight.
> "Grow out of those silly stories."
"They're not real."
So you kept your head down, walking fast, hoping not to be seen.
Then you turned the corner too sharply.
Bump.
Your books exploded in the air like startled birds, flapping paper and ink. They landed in the dirt. Your heart sank with them.
> "Oh... you're reading this kind of stuff too?"
You looked up, startled.
A boy. Quiet voice. Dark hair. Eyes like still water before a storm-curious, steady, unafraid. He crouched and picked up the book about the Bakunawa. Instead of laughing, he turned it gently in his hands like it was something sacred.
> "My grandma used to tell me this one."
"She said the moon cries when it forgets the name of the sea dragon."
You blinked. No one had ever said anything like that to you.
> "Do you... believe in it?" you asked.
He hesitated, then smiled-not shyly, but like it was a secret you already shared.
> "I think stories remember us, even when we forget them."
That was the first time you met.
That was the beginning.
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