There was a boy once. I do not know his name. The boy was born to a poor family in a poor house on poor land. His seven siblings, or something around that amount, loved him, hated him, and treated him like family.

He had a family.

The boy’s life was hard. Nearly everybody's was at that time, so this is not in itself notable. Yet still, it was notable for him. He could see beyond the outskirts of his life, his farmland, and see something else. Something beautiful, wonderful, and bright, bright, bright standing out there, waiting for him. It was there, unreachable, unknowable, as if it was a dream.

He had a dream. 

By day, the boy was a farmer. Or, rather, his father was a farmer, a serf, and he was a helper. But he was to be a farmer soon, upon his growing into a man. This had already happened to his eldest brother. By night, the boy dreamt of being a knight, serving the lord in ways other than a tribute of crops. He would fight for right, protecting women, restoring honor to the country, to the lord, to himself. 

He had honor. 

The boy was not strong. He was weak, even for a slight boy of ten. His father pushed him to work despite this. The boy loved his father, but he could not help but resent him for this. It is strange, the breathtaking duality of our emotions, but no matter. The boy did not realize this, or care for it regardless. But the boy still felt.

He had emotions.

The boy’s food was not good. The black bread and lentils were not suited for a growing, sickly boy such as himself. He slept on something he knew as a bed, but was more akin to a small pile of rags. He owned nothing. Actually, it was virtually nothing. In fact, he had precisely two belongings, each of which he held dear.

The first of these did not belong entirely to him. It belonged to his family, to his village. It was the church at which the priests lived, to use our modern words. To us, it may be almost inconceivable to seek solace and freedom in a church. But to the members of the village, to the boy, this was a place of pure belief. A monument to the faith of its members that life was better, that there was something watching out for them beyond the village, beyond the kingdom, beyond the world. Some did not believe entirely, but the boy did.

He had faith.

The second thing did not belong entirely to him either. It was shared, a beautiful connection between the boy and another person. This thing was love. In the boy’s case, it was a love for another boy, the boy his age that worked on the land next door. Of course, the boy did not know it was love. He was too young, and so was the other boy. They never expressed it to the other, but they were truly devoted in the way only mature lovers usually are. But he was not a mature lover, and was just a boy, so they moved on their separate paths. The boy did not know it was love. He never knew it was love. 

But he had love. 

On the eve of the boy’s eleventh birthday, he collapsed in the field. His father rushed to his side and took him back to the house. Before his father reached the house, he knew the boy was dead. His mother took the boy from his father and the father returned to his toils. They both mourned the boy as much as they could before moving on. 

He had no burial. 

There was a boy once. Once, there was a boy. I do not know his name, or how he died on the eve of his eleventh birthday. I do not know what happened to his father, or his mother, or his seven siblings, or his young lover, or his land, or his dream. All I know is his story. And yet, this makes him better off than thousands of others in his position. Our stories, the tales of our lives, are self-contained. They have a beginning, they have an ending, and life moves on after the end. Life did not pause for the boy, but it instead mourned as much as it could before returning to its everlasting toil. Our stories can be remembered. They can be told and passed down, but most are not. Most are left behind after their end, never to be told again.

This is why I have told you of this boy. There are many of these boys, most of which have been left behind. There will always be boys, there will always be stories cut short by death, stories that will not be remembered or told. And there are stories going on now. Stories that are being created, shaped, written and rewritten over and over, stories that have yet to end. You and I, and everyone else on this planet, are the members of our own private story. And so, dear reader and listener, I ask you this. 

Who will remember your story?