Chapter 1
The Winner Writes History
"History is written by the winner. The one who wins gets to write history."
I stared at the sentence for a long moment.
Was the villain actually the villain?
Was the hero really the hero?
Or was history simply a story told from the perspective of whoever had been standing on the winning side?
I sighed and slowly flipped through the pages of the book resting in my hands.
I had never been particularly good at understanding complicated things. Give me something simple, and I could probably manage. But complicated ideas? Politics, history, philosophy—all those things that required you to look at something from ten different perspectives?
Not exactly my strength.
And yet, for some strange reason, I was surprisingly good at thinking about random things.
My mind had a habit of wandering at the most inconvenient times. I could be eating breakfast and suddenly wonder what would happen if humans could remember every single dream they had ever experienced. I could be studying and suddenly find myself thinking about whether people were actually good or bad, or whether circumstances simply pushed them into becoming one or the other.
And apparently, today, my brain had decided to question the entire concept of history.
I chuckled quietly at myself.
"Why do I even think about these things?"
I closed the book and looked at its cover once more before standing up.
The library was almost empty.
It was one of those quiet afternoons when the entire place seemed frozen in time. The faint hum of the ceiling fan mixed with the occasional rustle of pages somewhere between the shelves. Sunlight slipped through the large windows, leaving pale golden patches across the wooden floor.
I had originally come to the library just to find something interesting to read.
Somehow, I had ended up with a book about history and morality.
Typical.
I walked toward the circulation desk, holding the book against my chest.
"Hi. I would like to issue this book."
The librarian looked up at me.
She adjusted the glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose before reaching for the book.
"Do you have a library card?"
I nodded.
"Yep. Here you go."
I pulled the card from my wallet and placed it on the counter.
She picked it up and scanned it.
A small beep echoed through the otherwise silent library.
The librarian entered something into the computer, then scanned the book before carefully attaching a barcode sticker to the inside cover. She checked the screen again and finally looked back at me.
"For how long are you planning to keep it?"
"Not long," I replied, thinking for a moment. "Maybe a week?"
She nodded.
"Okay. Here you go."
She slid the book toward me.
"Just remember to bring it back on time. Otherwise, you'll be fined."
I smiled and took the book.
"I'll remember. Don't worry. I promise."
"Good."
I tucked the book carefully into my bag.
As I turned toward the exit, my eyes wandered briefly back toward the rows of books behind me.
Thousands of stories.
Thousands of lives.
Thousands of versions of the truth.
I wondered how many of those books contained stories where the person everyone called a villain believed they were the hero.
The thought made me smile.
Maybe that was the strange thing about stories.
There was never just one side.
I pushed open the library door and stepped outside.
The warm air immediately greeted me.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and began walking home.
The book felt slightly heavier than usual against my back, though perhaps that was only because my mind was still stuck on the question written on its first page.
Was the villain actually the villain?
I shook my head.
I really needed to stop thinking about random things.
But as I walked down the familiar road toward home, one thought stubbornly remained in my mind.
If the winner gets to write history...
Then what happens to the truth?
