It had been twenty-three years since the last dragon I slew, though if you ask my back, it claims the event happened last Thursday and that I still owe it an apology; that's the sort of relationship a middle-aged adventurer has with his own spine—more foe than comrade, yet somehow still sharing the same campfire—and as I trudged up the moss-eaten hill toward the ruins of the old fortress where we once made our stand, I realized that the world, in its annoyingly persistent way, had kept moving even when we had not. The trees were taller now, their roots fat with gossip and time, the air smelled of rain and forgotten prayers, and somewhere far below the valley, the town we saved three times and accidentally destroyed twice was bustling again, rebuilt by descendants who probably thought "the Age of Heroes" was just a chapter heading in a textbook, not a mess of hangovers, tears, and unpaid bar tabs. I carried no sword—just a walking stick that had once been a spear, a few coins that jingled like laughter in a tin cup, and a memory or two that refused to die politely. Funny thing about memory: it ages like wine if you're lucky, vinegar if you're honest. Mine tasted like both, depending on the day and the weather. The fortress loomed, half-collapsed, half-stubborn, like an old drunk who refuses to leave the tavern even when the roof's caved in. I stopped at the archway, ran my fingers over the cracked stone where, once, she carved our initials—hers and mine, and his and theirs—because we thought forever was a measurable distance, something you could reach if you just kept walking. We were idiots, obviously, but the endearing kind. I could almost hear our laughter echoing, that youthful chorus of arrogance and friendship that made the world feel conquerable. There was her voice, scolding me for stealing the last rations and calling it "strategic hunger management." His booming laugh, the one that could scare a wyvern into reconsidering its dietary preferences. The quiet one's sigh, like a blade slipping cleanly from its sheath, sharp and tired of our antics. And me, the loudmouth leader who gave the speeches no one asked for, the one who pretended not to care because caring got people killed—but cared anyway. The fortress was a carcass of what once was our legend, but the ghosts inside were lively, chattering like they'd been waiting all this time for me to show up late, as usual. I told them they hadn't aged a day. The wind answered with a laugh that wasn't quite theirs, wasn't quite mine. I sat on a half-buried stone and pulled out the flask I swore I'd stop carrying five years ago. It still smelled of that cursed plum wine she loved, the one that could set fire to your regrets and leave your soul sticky with sweetness. I poured some on the ground, the way old adventurers do when they're trying to look poetic but mostly just don't want to drink alone. "To surviving," I said aloud. The wind, again, was unamused. I sipped anyway. The taste was awful, and perfect.
From up here, I could see the line of mountains we once crossed during the Third War of Somebody-Else's-Stupid-Idea, the marsh where we met that talking frog who tried to sell us prophecies at a discount, the village where we accidentally invented the world's most efficient hangover cure (a mix of holy water and chili paste, not recommended), and even the crater where I accidentally blew up my own tent trying to make coffee during a siege. The past was everywhere, like mold—it crept in cracks you thought were sealed, and before you knew it, the whole house of your heart smelled faintly of nostalgia and poor decisions. I found myself laughing, that dry kind of laugh that sounds like paper tearing, and I wondered if that's what growing old meant: finding amusement in your own obsolescence. My armor was long gone—sold to pay for a doctor's bill or maybe a gambling debt; the details blurred—but I still felt its phantom weight. Every adventurer carries that: the ghost of the armor, the imagined clank of glory long retired. They never tell you that the hardest monster to fight is the one wearing your face in the mirror, grinning like it knows the ending. I pulled my cloak tighter; it smelled faintly of smoke, rain, and the faint perfume of a campfire twenty years cold. She used to say I looked mysterious when I wore it; I probably just looked drafty. The sarcasm was a shield, same as always, forged from the uncomfortable alloy of guilt and pride.
I wandered through the ruins, past the old mess hall where we once threw that legendary feast after defeating the Lich Queen—ah yes, a night of song, fire, and me accidentally setting the drapes ablaze while trying to toast to our immortality. The hall now was just dust and the faint trace of ash on the stones, like the building itself remembered my incompetence fondly. I found the table, or what was left of it: a splintered plank leaning against rubble. I ran a hand over it, half-expecting to feel the grooves we carved, those stupid little marks that said we were here. I could almost hear their voices again: the strategist complaining about the noise, the berserker demanding more ale, the healer muttering about irresponsible sword injuries. And her—always her—rolling her eyes with affection disguised as irritation. "You'll get us killed," she said more times than I can count. She wasn't wrong. But she followed anyway, because that's what fools in love do: follow someone into fire and then complain about the heat. I laughed again, softer this time, like the ruins might wake if I made too much noise.
Beyond the hall lay the training grounds, where once we sparred under banners bright with color and promise. Now the banners were long gone, and the only motion was a tumbleweed that had lost its way. I drew an imaginary sword, swung once, felt my shoulder protest in fluent profanity, and decided to retire again. The ghosts clapped politely. "Still got it," I muttered, which was a lie even the ghosts didn't believe. There was a kind of comfort in returning here, though—a familiar ache, like poking an old scar just to make sure it's still part of you. We saved kingdoms, sure, but we also ruined taverns, misplaced artifacts, and probably caused more paperwork for the Royal Treasury than any warlord ever did. The bards only sing the shiny parts, never the aftermath: the quiet years when you wake up in a bed too big, in a world too peaceful for people like you.
By midday, the sky had that faded blue of an old map, and I decided to take the long route around the ruins, where the old watchtower still stood crooked, held together by stubbornness and possibly spite. Inside, the air smelled of damp stone and ancient triumphs. The spiral staircase groaned beneath my boots—complaining, but holding, like an old friend who won't let you fall even when it hurts to keep standing. At the top, I found the view I didn't know I'd been craving: the horizon, endless and indifferent, the same horizon we once chased like idiots with too much faith and not enough sense. I remembered standing here with her, both of us pretending not to be scared before the final battle. She'd asked what I'd do after it was all over, and I'd said, "Retire. Open a tavern. Complain about young heroes." She'd laughed, said she'd join me, said she'd make sure the ale was always cold and the stories were always exaggerated. I'd said, "Promise?" She'd said, "If we live." We didn't both live.
The air up here was thin, cruelly so, and my eyes stung in a way that had nothing to do with the wind. I took out the locket—yes, I still carry it, despite telling everyone it was lost in the fire. Inside, the picture's faded almost to nothing, just a blur of colors that once meant faces. Funny how even ghosts fade eventually. I wanted to say something—an apology, a thank you, anything—but words felt like tourists in this sacred ruin of memory. So I just sat. Let the silence talk for once. It was better at it than I ever was. The world below went on as if unaware that an old fool was up here, nursing his past like a broken mug. Maybe that's the point. The world doesn't care about your stories; it just keeps spinning, giving new fools new ruins to make.
Still, I talked. Told the wind about the time we fought the Sand Titan with nothing but spoons and a questionable plan. About the time I tried to confess my feelings and accidentally triggered a trapdoor. About the night she sang under the stars after our last victory, voice trembling like the first breath after fear. The wind didn't answer, but I think it listened. I think it remembered her too. By the time the sun started melting into the horizon, the ruins looked golden, like they were pretending to be beautiful for just a few minutes longer before night claimed them again. I stood, bones protesting every motion, and gave the place one last look. "We were legends once," I said to no one in particular. Then, after a pause, "We were idiots, too." Somewhere between the two, I think, lies the truth.
As I walked back down the hill, fireflies began to appear, tiny lanterns escorting me through the dusk. One landed on my hand—a small, flickering reminder that even in decay, something glows. I smiled, which felt strange and heavy, and whispered her name. The firefly blinked once, twice, and flew off, as if carrying it somewhere better. My steps were slow, careful, the kind of steps you take when you've learned that not every destination is worth rushing to. Behind me, the fortress finally gave in to gravity—a slow, distant crumble, a sigh of stone meeting earth again. The sound hit me harder than I expected. It felt like closing a book you never finished.
I kept walking. Down to the valley, where the new town's lights shimmered in the distance. I thought maybe I'd stop by the tavern there, order something cheap, and tell whatever young adventurers might be around that they're doing everything wrong. They'd roll their eyes, of course, the way we once did. They wouldn't believe half my stories, and that's fine—legends always sound like lies when told by the people who lived them. But maybe one of them would listen, just a little, and maybe one day, when they were old and stupid like me, they'd come back here too and pour a drink for the ones who didn't make it. That's how the world keeps its stories alive—not in songs, but in toasts made by shaking hands.
By the time I reached the bottom of the hill, the wind had quieted, and the stars were starting to claim the sky. I looked back once more. The fortress was gone—truly gone now, just smoke and memory—but for a heartbeat, I thought I saw them there: her, him, all of them, standing in the old courtyard, smiling, waiting. I wanted to wave. I didn't. Some things are better left unsaluted. I turned away, whispered "Goodnight," and let the silence answer for them. It did, softly. Then the fireflies dimmed, the path vanished into the dark, and I walked on—an old fool in a young world, chasing the echo of laughter long spent, toward whatever came next, carrying only the ghosts who refused to let go.