The Watchman
The town lay quiet beneath a velvet blanket of winter, its snow-covered rooftops glistening under the pale light of a crescent moon. The hour was late, and though a few sounds of merriment escaped from the alehouse near the square—a clatter of mugs, a burst of laughter—even these seemed to be softening, like the sleepy yips of puppies settling down for the night. The cobbled streets wound through the town like frozen veins, silent and unbroken save for the occasional echo of footsteps. Night was creeping in, the kind of deep, impenetrable night that left no room for the lingering warmth of day. The cold had long since bullied the townsfolk into their homes, and chimneys puffed small clouds into the brittle air. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, its notes carried on the icy wind.
It was a quaint town, perched on the edge of forgotten time—its half-timbered houses leaning together like old friends exchanging secrets. But despite the charm, it was not without its disturbances. The occasional ale-soaked reveller stumbled through the streets, hollering some bawdy tune or proclaiming undying love for a maiden who likely wanted none of it. Such scenes were always brief, the frigid air acting as an effective chaperone, ushering them into the arms of their beds. And it was here that the watchman began his nightly patrol.
He was a tall, gaunt figure, his silhouette exaggerated by the heavy redingote that hung from his shoulders. A scarf wound tightly around his neck and a smart hat—slightly askew, though he'd never admit it—perched on his head. He carried a long staff tipped with a lantern, its flickering flame a steady companion. Though his step was deliberate and his expression stern, he exuded a quiet dignity, the kind that suggested he took his duty seriously. Even if, to the untrained eye, that duty appeared to be little more than walking in circles and muttering about curfews.
“To bed with you, good folk of the town!” he called out, his voice cutting through the stillness. “Let no man or maid disturb the peace of the night!”
The watchman had always found a certain poetry in his proclamations, though he suspected no one else did. The duty of ensuring the town’s tranquility fell to him, a fact he bore with both pride and the faintest hint of resentment. Pride, because his role was essential; resentment, because essential roles rarely came with warmth or glory. His route took him past the alehouse, where a final straggler staggered out into the cold. The man glanced at the watchman and tipped an imaginary hat. “Fine evenin’ for it, ain’t it?” slurred the merry reveller, before vanishing into the shadows with all the grace of a sack of turnips. The watchman sighed, muttering something about the follies of youth, before moving on.
The path led him to the outskirts of town, where the houses thinned and the walls rose. His lantern swung gently at his side, casting long, flickering shadows on the stones. Here, the air seemed even colder, as if the town itself held its breath, waiting for the dawn. It was his favorite part of the patrol—the solitude, the quiet, the sense that he was the lone sentinel standing between his town and the darkness beyond.
Tonight, as he approached the last stretch of his route, he paused at a lamp near the city gate. Its flame was small, almost shy, as if it, too, wanted to retreat from the cold. He reached out with his staff, ready to extinguish it, when a voice—soft and high, like a bell—stopped him in his tracks.
“Why are you killing the memories?”
The watchman froze. Slowly, he turned, his lantern’s light falling on a child standing in the snow. The boy couldn’t have been more than five, his face pale and round, framed by a mop of unruly curls. He wore a coat far too large for him, its hem dragging on the ground, and his boots looked mismatched, as though they’d been chosen in a hurry. The watchman blinked, unsure if the cold had finally begun to play tricks on him.
“Pardon?” he managed, his voice softer now, uncertain.
The boy pointed to the lamp. “When you put it out,” he said, “doesn’t it forget it ever gave light?”
Before the watchman could respond, a sudden gust of wind tore through the street, carrying with it a flurry of snow. The sharp, icy flakes stung his face, forcing him to squint. He lifted his scarf higher, his free hand shielding his eyes as the sudden blizzard seemed to materialize out of nowhere. For a moment, the world was a swirling white haze, and when he managed to peer through the flurry, he noticed the small silhouette standing firm against the storm. The boy’s curls danced in the wind, and his gaze, steady and unblinking, seemed to pierce through the snow. The watchman tightened his grip on the lantern, its flame flickering wildly in the gale.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the howling wind.
The child tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’m just someone who remembers,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the storm subsided. The air grew still, the snow settling softly onto the cobblestones. The watchman looked around, blinking against the sudden calm. The boy was gone. He stood there for a long moment, his heart pounding against his ribs. The lantern’s flame steadied, casting a warm, steady glow, but the chill in his chest remained. Shaking his head, he resumed his patrol, trying to shake off the encounter as a trick of the wind, an illusion born of fatigue and frost. But as he continued his rounds, the boy’s question lingered in his mind. Each lamp he extinguished seemed to dim not just the street but some part of his memory. Faint images flickered at the edges of his consciousness—a face he couldn’t quite place, a voice that felt familiar yet distant. By the time he reached the final lamp, his hands were trembling. He hesitated, the staff poised above the flame. Whose memories was he truly extinguishing? And what did the boy mean by, “I’m someone who remembers”? The thought burdened him, a question without an answer. He lowered the staff, staring into the flame as if it might hold the key to unraveling the mystery.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but the watchman felt anything but calm. When dawn broke, and the town began to stir, he returned to his small quarters near the gate. Yet even in the warmth of his hearth, the boy’s words haunted him. And as he drifted into a restless sleep, a single thought echoed in his mind:
What if the memories weren’t mine to forget?