I was sixteen, parentless, and known across our dirt-road village as the silly boy who could make anyone laugh. Every dawn I tumbled through doorways juggling water pots for the women, told knock-knock jokes to the children, and even convinced our stern chief to crack a smile. By dusk, every villager wore one of my grins—and that was enough to fill my heart.
Then one bright afternoon a stranger wandered in, carrying a battered satchel and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He bowed politely to the women, tossed pebbles as playful dares to the children, and let me braid flowers into his hair. For two weeks he fit right into our laughter, and I trusted him as if he’d been born among us.
Late one night I crept past the chief’s garden, searching for a quiet corner to sleep. A familiar voice stopped me cold. Peering through the hedges, I saw the stranger forcing our tied-handed chief to his knees. When the chief refused some unspoken demand, the stranger pressed a knife to his chest and scored a deep, bleeding scratch across his tunic. I wanted to rush in, but I knew he’d kill me in an instant. So I slipped away, vowing to speak up at sunrise.
At dawn I climbed the raised platform in our market square and shouted every detail. I imagined cheers. Instead, the villagers jeered, called me jealous, a liar trying to drive away our friendly guest. Even the chief—whose scar I begged him to show—browbeat me with his silence, then claimed it was “only an accident.” My heart went blank. I forced a small smile—because that’s what I’d always done—and slipped off before midday.
I ran into the forest toward a new village, not out of shame or fear, but because the only people I’d ever known had already forgotten me. And still, somewhere beyond those trees, I hoped someone would remember my smile.