The Shepherd of Forgotten Things
The air was thick with the smell of pine and the soft whisper of falling snow as I wearily opened the creaking door of the cabin-like workshop, my heart heavy with a sense of loss I couldn’t quite name. Inside, warmth and firelight embraced me, a dramatic but welcome contrast to the frigid night. As I closed the door, the movement of the air caused the wind chimes and beaded dreamcatchers dangling from the rafters to gently sway and clink; their soft music was accompanied by the chorus of ticking clocks, the crackling of the fireplace, and a quiet symphony coming from a vintage record player. The scents of spruce wood, oil, and burning charcoal brought back childhood memories of the many afternoons I spent with my grandfather in his garage.
I looked around, marveling at the masterful craftsmanship of every item, each one seemingly handmade in a stunning variety. To my left, I saw intricate stained glass mirrors, shoes and wallets made of lustrous leather, and elaborate cuckoo and grandfather clocks; to my right, I saw knick knacks of many shapes and sizes, ornate jewelry, and landscape paintings in detailed wooden frames. Each relic held a story, a memory suspended in time, waiting for someone to reclaim it. Everything was impeccably maintained—even the shelves looked pristine. The room somehow seemed a bit brighter than the fireplace would naturally allow, and I could only describe the atmosphere as ‘whimsically ethereal,’ as if I could start floating up towards the heavens at any moment. But my daze was abruptly ended by a distinct, lilting voice calling out to me: “‘Ello there lass! What brings you into my shop this time a’night?”
The voice was a soothing melody that wrapped around me like a blanket. I looked across the room, and there was the shopkeeper, beaming at me from behind the counter; I could have sworn he wasn’t there just a second ago. He looked exactly like the locals described him: a sturdily built, red-headed, younger version of Santa Claus if he wore a flannel shirt and denim patchwork overalls instead of the iconic coat and hat. The townsfolk called him by only one name: “The Shepherd of Forgotten Things.”
“Oh! Uh, hi there!” I replied nervously, as I stepped toward the counter. “I-I’ve heard that you can help people recover memories and lost things?”
“Aye! Been doin’ it for decades now. An’ there’s somethin’ you need help rememberin’, isn’ there?”
“Y-yeah, you could say that,” I said sheepishly, privately taken aback at how he could have known why I had come.
I reached into my purse, and pulled out the small, intricately carved box that had been a source of both comfort and grief for days leading up to this meeting. It felt foreign in my hands, yet there was an undeniable pull to it. “I… I don’t remember losing this,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “But it feels important, like a piece of me that has been lost.”
“Aye, sometimes people forget even things they cherish,” the Shepherd replied, his sympathetic eyes gleaming like the starry night sky with a wisdom that transcended time and space. As I got a closer look, I started to notice an almost tangible aura about him, a subtle glow that emanated warmth and understanding. “Let’s ‘ave a look at what’s inside,” he said, extending a hand toward the box. With a gentle nod, I opened the box, revealing a collection of delicate trinkets - each one a fragment of a memory long buried. There was a faded photograph, a worn-out passport, and a rosary made of sapphire beads.
As I examined each item, the Shepherd’s voice wove through the air, guiding me like the Northern star. “This picture is a joyous memory, isn’ it? A time where you were laughin’ an’ carefree.’” I nodded, a smile starting to break through the fog of my mind. “An’ this passport,” he continued, “remin’s you of adventures you had, chances you took, dreams you chased.” Images were starting to reappear in my mind of the trips I went on with that passport. “An’ this rosary is the last piece you ‘ave of yer gran’mother - it’s a symbol of her faith an’ her fierce love for her fam’ly.”
With each revelation, I felt a warmth spreading through my chest, as if the fog of forgetfulness was slowly lifting. “But I don’t understand, why can’t I remember these things?” I asked with a hint of desperation creeping into my tone. The Shepherd paused, his gaze penetrating yet gentle. “Memory’s a fragile thing, an’ it’s often muddied by the weight of our fears. What is it you fear losin’ the most?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and profound. I closed my eyes, allowing the silence to envelop me. “I fear losing my sense of self,” I whispered, the truth spilling forth like a fragile secret. “I fear that I’m nothing without my memories.”
The Shepherd stepped back, allowing me to breathe in the weight of my own words. “Yer not defined by what you do or don’ remember,” he said softly. “Yer defined by the choices you make in the presen’. Memories are there to teach us, to guide us, but they’re only small parts of who we are.”
I looked up, a glimmer of hope igniting within me. “Thank you,” I murmured, my heart lighter than it had been in ages. The Shepherd offered a knowing smile, and we exchanged goodbyes. With a final glance at the box, I stepped back into the winter night, the weight of forgotten things replaced by a newfound clarity. I fell asleep that night knowing I wouldn’t soon forget my encounter with the Shepherd, the enigmatic guardian of the lost and the found.
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