Waterow

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Waterow looked like he’d just stepped out of a sunny fair – cheery on the surface, but inside, a fire of simmering resentment and envy burned beneath. A grumpy-looking man with a bushy beard, he didn’t just resent people — he *loved* to make them feel it. And that’s what made him unforgettable.

He’d always been the loudest voice in town when injustice happened — not because he was angry, but because he *had* to be. And though he wasn’t quite as close to his neighbours as Bradleys’ siblings, there was something real in his heart — a quiet kindness so genuine it felt like sunlight through leaves. It warmed me more than any grand gesture ever could.

Last year, at the village fountain, he gave me a golden lesson. Every time a convoy passed by, carrying water from the spring, Waterow would hand over a few coins — not much, just enough to feed the hungry. Some of those poor people wore old tattered tunics and worked in the hands of the market, selling second-hand goods to keep themselves fed. And because of that, I carry a secret medal inside me — a small, invisible treasure of hope.

Others in our village would try to outshine each other with their own little kindnesses — like me, we’d quietly compete in the spirit of cheerfulness. How beautiful it all was… before the virus came.

It wasn’t just Waterow who helped — his blue tunics were the reason the village fountains finally started flowing again after years of drought. The water flowed freely because he’d insisted on opening them. A simple act, yes — but one that changed everything.

Now, there’s a strange detail I can’t ignore: Waterow didn’t just love doing things with his hands. He also had a bicycle — not the kind you’d see on a brochure, but an old, elegant thing with delicate wheels and a steering handle so stubborn it made your head buzz like lightning during a storm. And though he hated writing (he once said, “Words are for poets, not men who ride through mud”), that bike was his secret weapon — a tool of quiet rebellion, speed, and wonder.

The villagers called him a warrior — not because he fought wars, but because he stood up when others stayed silent. The liberals? They used to say they were the real heroes — until Waterow’s quiet resistance made them feel small. Now, those same warriors are returning — back into our homes, chasing the old fear and the dark days of uncertainty.

And now, people turn to gentle-hearted helpers again — not because they believe in magic or miracles, but because they remember Waterow.

He was a good uncle. He worked at the water purification plant, and I’d been given a new job — to go there and learn how the virus spread. But honestly? I didn’t want to go. Tactically speaking, when soldiers’ boots started echoing from the other end of town, I had to wear that black, invisible cloak — not for fear, but because I knew Waterow would be furious if he saw me stumble into danger.

He’d probably say: *“Well, this time it’s my turn,”* and then vanish into the wind like a whisper. And maybe one day… when the world is calm again, I’ll meet him at the fountain with a cup of tea — and we’ll both smile. Because even in silence, kindness still wins.

This story, events that happened quietly between the of everyday real and was written entirely in the character's own words.