The festival of the Empire was finally dying down.

It was evening, and you could now hear the emperor's envoy, and the shouting and excitement that accompanied it, only faintly from a distance.

Goggard was in his 80s, but if he squinted from his balcony, he could make out the emperor's carriage.

In the streets below him, you could still feel the excitement in the air. The laughter, the voices of youth recounting what just happened to others who had seen the exact same thing. The city lamps had only just begun to be lit.

Everyone was still excited and happy, enjoying the moment. Well everyone, except Goggard. At this point he didn't know why he still had hatred for the emperor. Now, in his old age he could still remember the time before the Empire and the wars that ushered it in. He could still remember his old tongue, and the hieroglyphs he once compiled for his king.

But now those were all gone. Forgotten by time and now relics of the past. Even he was now a relic of the past.

The youth nowadays didn't speak the old language anymore. They didn't write the same hieroglyphs he used to. After the wars it was just more convenient to use the Empire's new language, the Empire's new currency, the Empire's new writing system and the Empire's new mathematics... until eventually, the language that he was raised with, and became a scholar to serve his king with was now a relic, viewed as primitive.

He remembered the countless debates and protests against the Empire in his younger years. He remembered fighting to keep the old language and old writing system alive. He remembered the things he used to say:

"What happens when no one speaks our native tongue?"

"What happens when the younger generation can't remember their old heroes?"

"What happens when the empire makes us forget our culture?"

Looking back now, the answers felt anticlimactic. Back then these arguments felt very existential, very end-of-the-worldly.

But in the end, life simply went on.

Even he, had adapted the Empire's language. Even he liked the convenience of being able to buy fresh produce from far away provinces, thanks to the Empire.

There was this lump in his chest he couldn't let go of, this feeling he couldn't shake. The feeling of being wrong but wanting really bad to be right. Wanting it so bad that you push yourself to view the world with bitterness, as if it betrayed you.

But thinking about all this was just tiring. There was no reason to dwell on the past.

"Granddad, granddad!", his grandson came running toward him with a kite in his hands.

"Yes,... what is it?" Goggard asked, turning.

"Uhh... the old language... can. you teach me?" his grandson began.

"I want to know, what this is called." He pointed at the kite.

A smile crossed Goggard's face.

He was happy to answer this.

"Uhh..., a kite, uhhh..., uhhh"

the smile became a frown as Goggard pressed his lips together, trying to remember, the word.

"A kite..., uhh... a kite"

"The word... what's that word again?"

His grandson could sense granddad didn't know, and seeing how hard he was wrecking his brain for that word, he blurted out:

"It's ok if you don't know, grandad."

and run off to the next interesting thing.