Lost Item: A Hero Who Forgot Their Way

Recovered Character Memory. Status: Unclaimed

This one was found deep within the Lost and Found—a memory.
Seemingly simple at first. A class assignment.

We don't know how long it's been waiting.
But we know who it belongs to.

As I say, art has a way of finding its people—here’s to that.

Now, hold my hand. Tight.

Lets travel back in time to visit the teacher who is holding on to this memory.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

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I told the students to give a short presentation on their hero—someone they looked up to. A parent, a sibling, an athlete, a character from a book. It didn’t really matter. Just something to get them talking.

When my favorite student stood up, I was already smiling. They were usually shy, but I knew they’d put thought into it. They always did.

But they started off... quiet. Sad, even.

Not the kind of sad you can fix by clapping louder at the end. The kind that sits in your ribs and grows heavier the longer you listen.

They cleared their throat and began.

"My hero isn’t famous.
They don’t wear a cape, and they definitely don’t always remember to smile.

But they have made me a lot of promises.

They promised they'd always listen, even when no one else would.
They promised they'd never be like the people who hurt me.
They said they'd never laugh at the things I loved.

And then they did.

They told me no dreams are ‘silly.’
That I should never shrink myself to fit into the world.
But now they tell me to be realistic.
To think smaller. To want less. To expect less.

They said they'd always believe me. Even if nobody else did.
But now, when I try to talk about my hobbies or my art, they tell me to be quiet.

They said they'd never leave me behind. That even if the whole world walked away, they'd still be there. But they did. And then I felt alone.

Sometimes my hero gets tired, too.

Lately, though, they’ve been sad. And angry.

They break things they told me were important.
Like my drawings. My stories. My dreams.

They paused, clutching the paper a little tighter in their hands. Like someone who already knew they might have to spend their whole life waiting—

—but also knew that it would be worth it.

They continued.

"But I still believe in them.

Because heroes aren't the ones who never get hurt, or never lose. They’re not always appreciated or noticed.

Heroes aren’t heroes because they never got lost. If they didn’t…they wouldn’t be heroes. I mean, all of the best heroes mess up.

But they find their way back.

They realize how much people need them—how much I need them—even if I’m not very loud about it all the time.

And I know that I’ll find my way back, too.

I know that somewhere out in the Void, in the future, I’m reading this.

I know that I’ll cry, I might even be angry. But I’ll be better. I’ll start taking my medicine. Eventually, I’ll be kind to my reflection. Even make time for art again.

And every step of the way, the whole entire time, they’re my hero.

Not just when they’re all better. Who knows how long all better could even take?

They’re my hero because they got lost, but I know that they’ll find their way back. For me.”

They sat down without looking up. The room stayed silent, too heavy, too full.

I realized then—it wasn’t about a parent, or a friend, or some unreachable figure on a TV screen.

It was about you.

---

Your destination does not depend on a frictionless journey.

Be kind to yourself.

Remember to dream, and to love, and to imagine—the way that your younger self had always hoped that you would.

This is a threat.

Until the next memory,

—Your Narrator.

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