I've sung a thousand songs, told a thousand tales, and yet, no one ever remembers me.
My name slips away like the last note of a melody carried off on the wind, and even as I stand before them, my face is a blur in their minds, my voice forgotten the moment it fades. They remember the stories, though. They always remember the stories.
The first time I noticed was when I was just a child.
It was a simple enough thing. I'd wander through the town, my wooden lute slung over my back, humming tunes I'd heard from the elders. I played for anyone who would listen, eager to share the joy that surged in my chest whenever I strummed the strings. But it wasn't long before I noticed something strange. People would smile as I played, clap their hands and cheer, but the next day, when I greeted them on the street, their eyes would slide past me as if I didn't exist.
At first, I thought it was just forgetfulness. After all, I was just a boy with an old instrument, playing for coins and scraps. But then, as the years passed, it became clear that it wasn't just forgetfulness. It was something else. No one could remember me. No one ever spoke my name.
The stories, though. Oh, the stories! They flourished like wildflowers after a rain. The tales I told around the fires, the songs I sang in crowded taverns, they spread like rumors, passed from person to person, town to town. I could hear fragments of them as I traveled, pieces of my stories reshaped by other voices, retold as if they were ancient folklore, passed down through generations.
But I—the storyteller, the bard—was always forgotten.
Even now, I can hear the children in the streets, playing at being the heroes I sang about just a night ago. "Did you hear the tale of the brave knight who slayed the dragon?" they cry. "Or the ship that sailed to the edge of the world?" The details change with each telling, but the heart of the story remains, alive and breathing in their imaginations. It's enough to make me smile, even if they no longer see me standing at the corner, the one who first spun the tale into existence.
I've been toking along for years now, wandering from place to place, sharing my stories. At first, the forgetting hurt. The weight of being erased from memory, again and again, crushed me. I tried to make people remember. I tried giving them tokens—flowers, trinkets, anything that might tie me to their minds—but even those were soon discarded or forgotten. My very existence seemed to dissolve into the air, unnoticed, unimportant.
Then there was the night with the boy.
I was passing through a small village, one I'd never been to before, and the rain had begun to fall in thick sheets. The tavern was crowded, warm, filled with the scent of roasted meats and ale. I found a corner and began to play. My fingers danced across the strings, and soon the crowd was leaning in, eager for a story. I told them the tale of a boy who wished to touch the stars. It was a story of adventure, of loss and longing, of reaching for the unattainable.
As the night wore on, I noticed a child sitting near the hearth, his eyes wide and bright. He hung on every word, his lips moving along with the lyrics, as if he already knew them, as if the story was something he had lived. His gaze never left me, even as the others in the room began to forget. He was different. He was listening—not just to the story, but to me.
When the tale was done, the crowd erupted in applause, and soon after, they moved on, forgetting my presence as they always did. But the boy stayed. He approached me, hesitant, his small fingers clutching a worn piece of cloth.
"You're him, aren't you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
I blinked. No one had ever addressed me after a performance like this. "Who do you think I am?" I asked gently.
"The one who tells the stories. The bard." His eyes searched mine, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a strange warmth in my chest. Could it be? Could he remember?
I smiled and nodded. "I suppose I am."
The boy's face lit up. "They don't remember, do they? The grown-ups. They forget you. But I remember. I won't forget."
His words caught me off guard. For so long, I had believed no one could ever hold onto the memory of me. And yet, here was this child, looking at me with such certainty, as though he saw through the veil that kept me invisible to the world.
I knelt down in front of him. "Why don't you forget like the others?" I asked, curiosity filling my voice.
He shrugged, his small face thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe because I believe in stories more than they do."
We sat together for a while, talking about the stars, about the adventures he longed to have, about the stories that made him dream. It was a moment I thought I could hold onto forever.
But the truth was, nothing lasts forever. Not even a memory.
The next day, when I saw the boy again, his eyes passed over me as though I were a stranger. He played with his friends in the street, their laughter echoing in the village square. One of them repeated a line from the story I had told the night before, and they all cheered, imagining themselves as the heroes I had spun into being.
But the boy—he—no longer remembered.
It hurt, more than I expected. For a brief moment, I had hoped that someone, anyone, might hold onto the memory of me. But that was not my fate. I was the bard, the forgotten one. My stories would live on, but I never would.
And so, I wander still, through villages, across towns and cities, playing my lute and telling my tales. I've come to accept it now. I exist in the stories I leave behind, not in the minds of those who hear them. My name may fade, my face may blur, but the stories—they remain. They grow, shift, and transform in ways I could never imagine.
I am the bard. And though you may not remember me tomorrow, you will always remember the stories I tell.
And perhaps, in the end, that is enough.