The rag dragged across the glass with a slow, useless rhythm. I wasn't cleaning it. Not really. Just moving it, because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering.
*
A plain desk, an empty classroom and a man sitting on the chair, his hands on the desk swirling through the pages from the plethora of documents. He wore a formal shit with a tie.
From far away, he looked like an unapproachable person due to the long and rough hair covering the top half of his face.
"Why would you not listen?" He thought to himself as he bit his lips slightly while maintaining his composure.
His head turned towards the door of the room. You could see the students hanging out in the corridor, their faces looking bright and their eyes filled with ambition.
The man sighed, "Well, whatever." and continued working on the documents he had in hand.
*
I used to sit behind a different desk. Blinding lights everywhere as if they are trying to feed the hope passively, a guidance counselor's badge stamped over my chest, and a line of kids outside the office waiting for me to approve or deny the futures they'd pinned their whole lives to with their own inexperienced hands.
I smiled lightly. What did they used to call me again? Dream crusher or something.
That sounds so rude.
Really.
It wasn't my fault. I didn't enjoy it. But when some kid with hollow eyes told me he wanted to be a pro gamer while his father was working two jobs to keep the lights on, what was I supposed to say? "Go for it"?
When a girl shaking under the weight of her parent's expectations whispered that she wanted to be an idol but couldn't even speak above a whisper in front of a crowd, should I have lied to her face? Hyped her up with blinding stories, too good to be true?
Dreams kill, just as often as they save. Nobody wants to admit that, but that's the beauty of it.
I used to tell them bluntly: That dream will bury you alive. Pick something else before you start regretting your decisions later on.
They hated me for it. Some cried. Some even cursed me. Some thanked me years later but most didn't.
And then one day, I died.
~sigh~
The details don't matter. It was sudden, unfair, stupid like most deaths. One moment I was in my office, the next, I was here.
This bar.
This place looked not much different from a room inside some building, where the shelves held bottles filled with things that weren't alcohol.
Or was it?
Well, they don't taste bad from the reviews so I don't really care.
Now I was the bartender.
What a promotion.
Here, people don't come asking about college choices or safe jobs. Here they come with aspirations, begging for someone to tell them what they were worth.
I give them the same thing I have always given: truth.
The room looked a vibe with the lighting and its accurate cloning of a chill bar.
I mean, they even have music playing in the background.
Interesting, right?
Um, ok.
The chandeliers above hissed as wax slid down and never landed on the obsidian floor. The atmosphere around felt like a vibe to immerse yourself into a solo drink. My hand kept polishing the same glass.
The bell clanked and the door creaked open.
And here is our guest of the day. Well, I don't really understand how time's working here but still, it gets exhausting from time to time.
The man who appeared didn't look like the others. Most came looking broken. Cracked. Straight laced. Whatever they were, it was visible on their face, with no shred of doubt.
But this one… he appeared shining.
He was a tall man, his shoulders looked broad under the gleaming white armor. A red cloak, as deep as blood, flowed out behind him, flickering as if caught in a wind that no one else could feel.
His hair was golden, falling in perfect soft waves. His face was carved handsome, sharp cheekbones, diamond eyes and a prideful smirk all over his face. He looked like a statue of some ancient hero brought to life.
He set one of his gauntleted hand on the counter, smiling like he had been waiting for this moment to happen for a long time.
The stool creaked.
"Ah," he said with a rich and booming voice, "So this is the Hall of Heroes."
I didn't answer and continued with the polishing.
He chuckled, deep and warm. "Silent, are you? That's fine. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Cedric of Arendale. Knight of the Crown. Slayer of the Eastern Wyrm. Defender of the helpless."
He paused, waiting with eager but confident eyes.
When I didn't react, his smile widened, as if I simply hadn't heard him properly. "Surely… you've heard of me?"
I set the glass down on the counter. Looked up, met his eyes with my own tired, dead gaze.
"No."
His mouth twitched. Just a flicker. Then the smile returned, stronger, blinding.
"Well. No matter. Soon, everyone will."
He leaned back, letting his gauntlets clink softly against the counter. His presence filled the room like perfume with an overwhelming presence as if demanding attention. He looked around, waiting for applause from shadows that never clapped.
Funnily enough.
At length, he turned back to me. "So. What happens now? How are we going to perform the ceremony? My reward?"
I reached behind me, pulled a bottle from the shelf. The liquid inside looked like water, but when it swirled it refracted light in shards, like a mirror breaking.
I looked at my face through the bottle. It's still hard to get used to this new body and its characteristics.
I poured a small amount into a glass and slid it across the wood.
"You talk," I said. "I listen."
He raised his brows in amusement. "A confession?"
I shrugged. "Call it what you like."
He picked up the glass but didn't drink yet. "Very well. I have nothing to hide. My life was… an open book." His smile deepened with a sincere expression. "A glorious one."
"Then start reading," I said.
He rested his chin on his fist, eyes softening with memory.
"I was born a noble," he began. "Our lands were not rich, but we had honor. My father taught me duty from the cradle. When war came, I answered the call. I raised my sword for the innocent, and I never faltered."
His face looked like that of a child but his tone was polished, like a bard rehearsing lines.
Each sentence carried the weight of something he'd said or been practicing countless times before.
"There was a village once," he said. "On the border. Helpless. Farmers, mothers, children. Raiders came to burn it down. But I…" his chest swelled as if reliving the moment— "I stood in the gateway alone. I did not let a single one pass. They called me savior that day. They wept tears of gratitude."
He looked at me then, waiting for awe, for recognition.
I didn't give it. I only leaned on the counter. "Sounds heavy."
"Heavy?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "No. It was an honor. A knight's duty is to protect. To give his life for others."
"And what did they give you?" I asked.
His smile flickered, then steadied. "Their prayers. Their loyalty. Their love."
"Prayers and love," I said. "Things you can't hold. Things that don't fill your stomach. Things that only sound good in fantasies."
He tilted his head, a bit puzzled. "You speak strangely for a bartender."
"I've heard a lot of dreams," I said, sliding a finger along the glass I'd been polishing. "Most of them sound like yours. Shiny. Beautiful. But dreams rot, same as anything else in existence. And when they rot, they poison."
He gave me a look halfway between amusement and irritation. Then he lifted his glass high. "To dreams that never rot," he said, and downed the liquid in one gulp.
The room didn't change.
Not for him.
Not yet.
But in the empty glass, the reflection of him that lingered an instant too long was smiling too wide, his teeth glistening, red at the corners of the mouth.
He didn't notice.
And so it began.