John Avery…?

In the carriage, I sat sandwiched between my father and mother, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the road seemed to become a symphony whenever I remembered the silence of the capital that only I experienced.

My father's weathered face wore a solemn expression, his eyes scanning the buildings and cheering crowds with a mix of pride and apprehension. Beside him, my mother's hand clasped mine tightly, her fingers a reassuring anchor.

Time stretched on, filled with intermittent conversation and long stretches of silence. Through the carriage window, I watched as the builders rebuilt the damaged places and the people cheered my name whenever our carriage passed.

I felt like a hero, though I didn't find it real.