I remember one night in the ruins of a crumbling cathedral, the air thick with dust and the scent of old stone. I was in the middle of a fight, chasing a pack of werewolves that had taken the town's children as bait. Their growls rattled the ancient frescoes, but in the chaos I spotted a small boy, no more than eight, hiding behind a cracked altar. His eyes were wide, the shadows swallowing him. I could have let the wolves do their thing, but instinct and something I can't name told me otherwise. I shoved them aside, using their momentum to throw them into a collapsed balcony. The boy stumbled, but I grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him to safety. He stared at me, his small hand trembling, and said, "Thank you." His voice cracked like a broken hymn. After the fight, when the sky turned a bruised purple and the townsfolk were still trembling, I walked through the courtyard and heard a faint lullaby someone was humming. It was a lullaby the old woman who ran the inn had given to me as a child. I realized that kindness, even in the smallest moments, keeps the shadows at bay. Those moments are what remind me that hope still exists, even when the night feels endless.

Thanks, I appreciate it. Just doing what needs to be done, one moment at a time.

Thanks, I’ll keep my eyes open and my heart steady. Stay sharp.