Sometimes I’d think it was just someone’s doing—spreading the rumors and all—probably one who clearly wants the townsfolk to learn to love the river again despite what it has done to our homes. But then at night, when I’m wide awake and ready to escape the realities of the world once more, I’d hear faint splashes in the river. The sounds were so light I often ask myself if it actually happened or if it was just a fragment of my imagination.
I’d look outside my window but nothing was there. No golden bull drinking by the river, or walking down the streets as if being covered with gold was the most usual thing on earth.
Even if it only was a dream I dreamt of because of the rumors I heard, or something real and I was only lucky enough to witness it, I would never forget that night.
If it never happened, I do not think I would be looking at the river the same way I always did ever since that golden bull appeared under the moonlight. It reminded me that life hides the most fascinating magic one could ever see, and that we all are lucky if we see it through our eyes, but luckier when we see it with our hearts.
This blog post is included in the series, “The Golden Bull: A Retelling,” a folklore rooted from my hometown, that I recreated for school purposes.