Good Boy

Once upon a time, in a not so far away land, there was Rocky. Rocky, looked like an ordinary dog, he walked on four legs, barked at passerby’s and ate everything he could smell, or at least tried to. He acted dopey and shook his head so hard you could imagine brain cells flying out of his ears. His fur was course and the color had faded with age, but he was still considered a very handsome pup.

But, as implied, he was not an ordinary dog. Losing sight about two years ago, he was able to see more than most. He interpreted the world in ways no creature with perfect eyes ever could. Where others saw shapes and colors, Rocky sensed intentions. The air hummed with secrets, and every footstep left behind a shimmer of truth only he could follow.

In the mornings, when the sun painted the dew in gold, Rocky would sit very still, nose lifted, listening. He could hear joy skipping like a pebble across water, and sorrow sinking heavy into the soil. The villagers thought he was staring at nothing, but Rocky was watching stories unfold.

One evening, as twilight stitched the sky together with lavender thread, Rocky caught a scent he had never known before—ancient, warm, and powerful. It smelled like moonlight and old promises. His tail stilled. This was no ordinary smell. This was a summons.

Guided by it, Rocky padded beyond the familiar path his routine would typically take him, past the crooked oak and the whispering stones, to a clearing that had not been there yesterday. At its center stood a figure cloaked in silver fur and starlight eyes.

“Good boy,” the figure said, voice like wind through bells. “We have been waiting for you.”

Rocky wagged, of course—he was still a dog, after all—but deep within him something old and brave stretched awake. For this was the night Rocky would learn why his sight had been taken… and what he had been given in return.

And so, with a soft bark and a fearless heart, Rocky stepped forward, and the real fairy tale began. He had never belonged to one family, he always felt he belonged to the people, able to seek shelter in storms or be fed with scraps by those whose door he would visit. He always felt love and as lucky as a pup without a permanent home could feel.

A great darkness was on the horizon, and the small village that was beyond the reach of protection of the kingdom, was left to fend for themselves. Rocky, was to be their guardian, their only hope, for this darkness was thick and even the light of a flame could not penetrate more than a couple of inches.

The village, consumed in living shadow, worked tirelessly to maintain assemblance of normalcy, as much as was possible at any rate. Large bonfires centers were built in public spaces, and exchanges of goods were done on good faith, believing that it would not last forever, most stayed, especially since they didn’t know how far the shadow spread, and it was dangerous to travel any distance without sight.

As the village mended their day-to-day lives in their new normal, Rocky, still saw how he did before, guided by this hyper sense he developed. He paced around the permitter constantly, waiting for something, he didn’t know what, but he knew he would be ready for it, as the man in the clearing told him, this was his purpose.

As days turned into months, time seemed to warp without the rotation of the sun and moon being able to separate day from night. As expected, yet still disappointingly, no one from the nearest village or anywhere in the kingdom came to their aid or even to check on them. They were proud people, knowing what needed to be done in a crisis, they did it with little complaint, but a mass amount of uncertainty.

Everyone fell into their new routines, with fear fading on the wind as time passed, in its place hopelessness began to creep in. Rocky, still as vigilant as the first day, maintained his post, knowing that whatever was coming for the village would eventually come for them all.

The Unseen did not arrive all at once.

It came in whispers first.

Rocky felt it before anything changed—before the air grew colder, before the fires guttered low though no wind blew. The ground itself seemed to hesitate beneath his paws, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Where the darkness thickened, intentions curdled. Fear that had forgotten who it once belonged to was looking to consume every soul in its path.

Rocky growled, a low sound that vibrated through the shadows. The villagers did not hear it, but the darkness did. It recoiled, just slightly, surprised to be noticed.

That night, the bonfires dimmed to embers. Flames shrank, not from lack of fuel, but from something leaning in too close, drinking their light. Panic rippled through the village like a snapped rope. Hands grasped for one another. Children cried out and hope wavered.

Rocky ran.

He moved faster than fear, faster than doubt, weaving between legs and lanterns, his nose cutting clean paths through confusion. Wherever he passed, people steadied. Wherever he barked, shadows loosened their grip. The darkness hated him—not because he was strong, but because he could see it.

At the edge of the village, the Unseen finally gathered itself into something almost whole. Not a creature, not truly—but a vast forgetting, a will that wished the village erased simply because it had been overlooked.

Rocky planted himself between it and the people.

He did not bare his teeth. He did not charge.

He simply stood.

In that stillness, he remembered every kindness ever given him: warm scraps, open doors, gentle hands, soft words spoken to a dog who belonged to everyone. Love, freely given, leaves a mark deeper than claws.

Rocky barked once.

The sound carried—not through ears, but through hearts. The villagers felt it like a returning memory. Flames flared. Shadows thinned. The Unseen shuddered, unraveling as there was no fear left to feed upon.

By morning—if morning could be said to exist anymore—the darkness had retreated beyond the hills. Not destroyed, but warned.

Rocky lay down at the village’s edge, tail thumping once against the ground.

And though his eyes never opened to the world again, the village slept easier knowing this truth:

Some heroes walk on four legs.

Some see best in the dark.

And some fairy tales are guarded, not by crowns or swords—

—but by a very good boy who never needed sight to find his purpose.