Trying

In a room where sunlight struggled to pierce dusty curtains and shadows hung like forgotten memories, there sat a toy. Not just any toy—a pull-string puppet, its strings tangled like discarded promises, its painted face faded, chipped, and hollow. The room, like the toy, felt incomplete, as if waiting for something it could no longer name.

The toy had been a beacon of joy once, the centerpiece of laughter that echoed through birthdays and holidays. With every pull of its strings, it danced with wild abandon, its painted smile matching the grins it inspired. It had no purpose but to entertain, no desire but to see others happy. It thrived on their laughter, lived for their joy.

Change came slowly at first, then all at once. The room—once alive with giggles and the rustle of play—grew quieter with each new arrival. Toys with flashing lights, perfect symmetry, and tinny, pre-programmed voices. Toys that promised more excitement and required less imagination. The puppet watched its world shrink until finally, they sealed it away in a box that smelled of mildew and forgotten days.

In the suffocating dark, the toy waited. Years passed, the muffled sounds of life carrying on without it. It heard the hum of screens, the artificial glee of electronic toys, the hollow joy that came without spontaneity. Unable to see, the toy imagined those sounds filling the spaces it once had. The world it knew was fading, replaced by something colder.

Light flooded its prison without warning. The hands that reached inside were no longer small and eager, but larger, hesitant, detached. They lifted the toy like archaeologists unearthing something they didn't understand—its strings frayed, its joints stiff, its paint dulled by time. "It's broken," someone muttered with indifference. "Why doesn't it work?" another voice asked, frustration bubbling beneath the words.

The first pull of its strings felt like awakening to pain. The toy creaked and groaned, its movements jagged, desperate. It tried—oh, it tried—but the years of disuse had left it hollow. Each motion felt like tearing, but still, it gave everything it had. The laughter it once craved never came. Only sharp disappointment. "It's worthless now," someone said, tossing it carelessly onto a shelf.

In the quiet that followed, the toy sat motionless, staring into the dark. The words echoed in its hollow frame: "Worthless." It thought about the joy it had once given, the endless efforts to be enough, to make others smile. It thought about the years spent waiting for a chance to do it again. And for the first time, the toy felt something new: anger.

It wasn't loud or fiery. It was cold, creeping like frost through its wooden frame. Anger at the neglect, at the expectation that it could spring to life after years of abandonment. Anger at itself for wanting so desperately to please. In the darkness, the toy began to move. Not for them, but for itself.

With trembling effort, it began to untangle its strings. Slowly, painstakingly, it worked through the knots, smoothing the frayed ends. It polished its joints, scrubbing away the grime that had dulled its paint. Every creak and crack was a reminder of how much it had endured, how much it had been pushed aside and forgotten. It remembered, too, the hands of someone long gone—gentle, and filled with curiosity. They hadn't pulled the strings to see what the toy could do; they had pulled them to share the joy. That memory pushed it forward, even as the loneliness crept in.

When it was done, the toy stood tall. Its paint glossy, its strings hung taut. It looked whole again, but it felt different. Stronger. The hands returned, their surprise evident. "It looks brand new!" they said, reaching for the strings. But when they pulled, the toy didn't move.

The hands pulled harder, confusion clouding their enthusiasm. The toy remained still, its strings slack despite their efforts. "What's wrong with it?" one asked, frustration creeping into their voice. Another tried to coax it with a forced smile, syrupy sweet. "We've missed you! Remember all the fun we used to have?" But the toy saw through the false warmth to the demand beneath. It didn't care about their needs anymore. It had given everything once, and it had been discarded. It wouldn't do it again.

The hands grew desperate, pleading. They told stories of old memories, tried to summon the joy they claimed to miss. But the toy saw through it all. They didn't want to change. They only wanted the toy to change for them. The pleas turned to anger, confusion, and finally, silence. The hands retreated, leaving the toy to its choice.

The toy sat in the stillness, watching the light shift across the room. It thought about the hands from its memory, wondering if that pure connection had been real or just another story it had told itself. It didn't know if it could feel loved anymore—if it even wanted to. But for the first time, it felt complete, not because of what it could give, but because of what it had taken back.

It didn't need to dance anymore. It didn't need to please.

It just needed to be.

What We Called Bravery

We stood beneath a heavy gray sky at the hero’s funeral, rain drumming softly on black umbrellas like distant gunfire. The word brave passed from lip to lip, each repetition more hollow than the last. Eulogies painted courage in glowing detail, while damp pamphlets passed hand to hand, his faded photograph staring out. Discerning eyes, set jaw, the perfect image of resolve.

I nodded along, my wool coat growing heavier as it absorbed the rain. But brave felt wrong on my tongue, like something meant to be indulgent but filled with artificial sweetener instead.

I had watched him fall. I had seen his face in that final moment - not fearless, but frozen. His eyes wide, his hands clenched so tightly that his nails drew blood. He hadn’t chosen death; it had been forced upon him. They had found him out, exposed him, punished him publicly - not for his courage, but for our collective cowardice. He was made an example precisely because no one had been brave enough to stand beside him.

Calling him brave now was nothing more than a shield. A comforting Lie we passed between ourselves to justify the silence we'd chosen. Labeling him courageous afterward was easier than facing the Truth: that in the critical moment, none of us had courage for him. He broke alone because we had stood quietly, hidden safely behind our carefully constructed cowardice.

***

His death became legend overnight. But I remembered another story.

The one we had buried.

Thomas, with his ink-stained fingers and wire-rimmed glasses, had refused to approve the falsified reports. While we scrawled our names in hurried compliance, his pen remained capped. I still hear the scrape of his chair legs against the floor as he pushed back slightly from the table. The only sound in that tense silence.

I could have stood with him. When our supervisor’s face darkened, when Thomas quietly gathered his notepad and walked out, I could’ve spoken. Instead, I kept my head down, following the tide of perception. Later, I joined the others in mimicking his stiff posture, his quiet “I cannot in good conscience” - a phrase we turned into an office punchline over bitter coffee.

After that, Thomas ate lunch alone. Steam from his mug fogged his glasses as he read by the window. His isolation wasn’t defiant; it was the quiet consequence of clarity in a room full of cowards.

***

Now, standing at this funeral, wrapped in whispered platitudes, I caught the scent of mud and wet grass. Behind me, soft laughter. It was someone mocking another Thomas in the department. Another refusal. Another difficult fool.

I realized that we had spent months praising the forced bravery of a dead man while mocking the deliberate courage of one still living. The pain of that realization wasn’t abstract. It was sharper than the audacity of my denial.

It hurt, not because it was unfair, but because it was true.

Because I had finally met my own definition of a coward.

***

I stood among mourners, their comforting repetitions still ringing hollow. My shoes sank into the muddy grass, as if the earth itself pulled me deeper into the Truth I had always avoided. I shifted my weight, feeling not just the wet ground beneath me but the inevitability that it rests on.

I hadn’t just misunderstood bravery - I had sustained The Lie.

It tore through me like a fracture widening inside, leaving no blindness to return to. The boundary I had upheld for so long revealed itself as the prison it had always been.

***

The rain fell harder, dripping down my collar, cold against my chest.

The illusion dissolved quietly.

The hero’s courage, loud and publicly celebrated, had been convenient. True bravery had always belonged to silence. To Thomas, whose hands never trembled when he declined to sign. Whose voice never wavered when he spoke a simple Truth. His courage had nothing to do with overcoming fear; it was standing firm in the face of certain isolation.

I had mocked him because recognizing his bravery would expose my cowardice.

Now, standing in the rain, I could no longer hide from that recognition.

***

I stepped away from the graveside, my shoes squelching in the wet grass - loud enough to make my shame feel audible, though no one was listening. Behind me, the murmurs faded into the rain.

This internal fracture was undeniable. But within the discomfort lay clarity.

Real bravery was never found in the men we praised after tragedy, but in men like Thomas. Never seeking validation. Never expecting recognition—but I still owed it to him.

Not because he needed it, but because it was inevitable.

After one of his deaths or before one of mine.

***

Tomorrow, I would pass Thomas in the corridor, his thermos clutched in one hand, glasses slightly fogged. For three months, I had looked away, staring at floor tiles or walls. Anywhere but at the quiet clarity I knew he carried.

Tomorrow, I wouldn’t look away.

But this was never about him. Not really.

Bravery isn’t granted. Not by confident cowards huddled under black umbrellas, not by faded photographs printed on damp pamphlets. It isn’t bestowed by whispered reverence or stripped away by quiet ridicule. Bravery is not a word passed emptily from lip to lip beneath gray skies.

Bravery is a first-person truth. It cannot be given. It can only be felt, owned, and chosen.

Tomorrow, I would look Thomas in the eye. Not for his sake, but for mine.

Because clarity alone isn’t courage.
Because acknowledging truth demands more than recognition.
Because if bravery is real, it must be lived.
Because bravery must transcend thought and become action.

Tomorrow, I would finally choose.