The tavern is dimly lit, a haze of smoke hanging low in the air, blending with the smell of old wood and spilled ale. The chatter of patrons is a low hum in the background, a constant murmur that Nevaeh barely registers. She sits alone at the far end of the bar, a half-empty tankard in front of her, fingers idly tracing the rim.

Her eyes are fixed on the dark liquid in her tankard, the flickering candlelight casting shifting patterns across its surface. She doesn't drink often—not like this, anyway—but today, she needs something to numb the restlessness, to quiet the thoughts that have been gnawing at her ever since Clark left. The tavern is a refuge of sorts, a place where she can disappear, blend into the background, and lose herself in the noise and the drink. Here, she doesn't have to think about what she's lost, what she's running from. Here, she can just be.

The tavern owner, a grizzled man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, moves around the bar, muttering to himself as he wipes down the counter. He's a creature of habit, always switching the channels on the old television mounted on the wall whenever he gets bored. The TV is ancient, the picture fuzzy, the sound crackling with static more often than not. But it's a source of entertainment for the regulars, a distraction from their otherwise mundane lives.

Nevaeh barely notices when the channels start flipping, the images on the screen blurring together as the owner cycles through them. She takes another sip of her drink, the bitterness burning a path down her throat, but it does little to dull the edge of her emotions. She tells herself she doesn't care, that she doesn't feel anything at all. But deep down, she knows that's a lie.

The image on the TV suddenly catches her attention. It's not the usual fare—no grainy soap opera or game show this time. Instead, the screen shows something different, something that makes her freeze, the tankard halfway to her lips. The picture is fuzzy, the sound distorted, but she can make out the unmistakable chaos unfolding on the screen.

Buildings crumble, fire and smoke billow into the sky, and the camera shakes as it struggles to capture the scene. The words "Metropolis Under Siege" flash across the bottom of the screen, and Nevaeh's heart skips a beat. Her grip on the tankard tightens, her knuckles white as she watches, unable to tear her eyes away.

The tankard slips from Nevaeh's hand, clattering onto the bar. The sound draws a few glances, but she doesn't notice. Her pulse quickens as the camera pans over the destruction, the devastation unlike anything she's seen in a long time. But it's not the destruction that holds her attention—it's the figure that suddenly appears on the screen.

A man, flying through the sky with a red cape billowing behind him, his eyes blazing with determination as he confronts the invaders. The picture is grainy, the details hard to make out, but Nevaeh doesn't need to see his face to know who it is. Her heart lurches in her chest, a mix of emotions crashing over her all at once.

Clark.

Her breath catches in her throat, and for a moment, she can't move, can't think. It's him. The realization hits her like a punch to the gut, a rush of conflicting emotions that she can't sort through fast enough. She feels a flash of anger, a sting of betrayal that he left her behind to chase this—this madness, this danger. But there's something else, too. Something she's not sure she's ready to acknowledge.

The camera cuts to another angle, showing Clark—no, Superman—fighting off one of the invaders with a ferocity that surprises her. The strength, the speed, the sheer power he displays is awe-inspiring, almost otherworldly. But she knew that about him. She knew what he was capable of, even if he didn't fully understand it himself. She can't help but feel a flicker of pride, a warmth that spreads through her chest despite the anger that simmers just beneath the surface.

This is what he wanted, isn't it? To be a hero. To save people, to make a difference. And he's doing it. He's becoming the man he always wanted to be, the man he was always meant to be. There's a part of her that's happy for him, proud of him, even as the bitterness creeps in, reminding her that he chose this path without her. That he left her behind, alone, to figure out her own place in this world.

But then the sadness comes, creeping in like a shadow, darkening the edges of her thoughts. She watches as Clark takes a hit, the force of it sending him crashing into a building, the impact shaking the camera. Her heart lurches, a surge of fear catching her off guard. She knows he's strong, knows he can take it, but that doesn't stop the worry from gnawing at her insides. What if he doesn't make it? What if this is the end for him?

The thought is unbearable, and she quickly pushes it away, but the sadness lingers. She doesn't want to care, doesn't want to feel anything for him after what he did, but she does. She can't help it. He's the first person who made her feel something in a long time, the first person who made her believe that maybe—just maybe—she could be more than the broken shell she's become.

The tavern owner grumbles as the TV flickers, the image distorting with static before clearing again.

She wishes she could be there with him, fighting by his side, lending him her strength. But more than that, she wishes she could tell him that he's not alone, that he doesn't have to carry this burden by himself. She wishes she could tell him that she's proud of him, that she believes in him, even if she doesn't always show it. But she can't. She's here, miles away, watching him fight for his life on a grainy, old television screen, and there's nothing she can do to help him.

The pride she feels is bittersweet, a reminder of what she's lost, what she's left behind. But it's there, undeniable, a small flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—he'll make it through this, that he'll survive and become the hero he's always wanted to be. And maybe, just maybe, there's still a chance for her, too. A chance to find her own path, to figure out who she is without the weight of her past dragging her down.

The tavern around her fades into the background as she watches the battle unfold on the screen, her emotions a tangled mess of anger, sadness, and pride. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, barely even breathes as she watches, her heart in her throat. She doesn't know how long she sits there, staring at the screen, but time seems to stretch and blur, the minutes bleeding into each other until all she knows is the fight playing out before her.

When the screen finally goes dark, the tavern owner cursing under his breath as the signal cuts out, Nevaeh is left with a hollow feeling in her chest, a gnawing emptiness that she doesn't know how to fill. She stares at the blank screen for a long moment, her mind racing, her emotions swirling, before she finally looks away, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over.

She stands up slowly, her legs unsteady beneath her, and tosses a few coins onto the bar. The tavern owner barely acknowledges her as she turns and walks out the door, the cool night air hitting her like a slap in the face. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, trying to push down the emotions that are threatening to overwhelm her.

But as she stands there, alone in the darkness, she can't shake the feeling that everything has changed. That she's lost something she can never get back. And that no matter what she does, no matter how far she runs, she'll never be able to escape the shadow of who she used to be.

As she walks away from the tavern, her steps slow and measured, she can't help but wonder if this is how it's always going to be. If she'll always be chasing after a past she can never reclaim, always haunted by the ghosts of the choices she's made.

The world feels sharper, somehow, the stars overhead like pinpricks of light against the inky black sky. The tavern's noise fades behind her, replaced by the quiet hum of the night, the distant chirp of crickets, and the soft rustling of the trees swaying in the breeze.

She's not sure where she's going, only that she needs to move, to do something—anything—to keep herself from sinking too deep into her thoughts. The images from the TV still play in her mind, the chaos in Metropolis, the look on Clark's face as he fought against impossible odds. It's a look she knows well, one she's worn herself more times than she can count. It gnaws at her, the mix of pride and anger and sadness twisting in her chest until she feels like she might burst.

She shoves her hands into her pockets, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of her trousers as she walks down the empty road. The night is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel beneath her boots and the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees lining the road. She doesn't mind the solitude—it's better this way. No one to ask questions, no one to pry into her thoughts, no one to see the turmoil she's trying so hard to keep hidden.

Up ahead, a faint glimmer of light catches her eye. A car is pulled over to the side of the road, its hazard lights blinking in the darkness. As she gets closer, she sees a woman standing beside the vehicle, her breath puffing out in little clouds as she paces back and forth. Nevaeh's first instinct is to ignore her, to keep walking, but something—perhaps the lingering effects of the alcohol—makes her pause.

The woman notices her approach and waves her down, her voice carrying through the night as she calls out in Norwegian.

Nevaeh stops a few feet away from the car, eyeing the woman warily. She's middle-aged, with graying hair pulled back into a messy bun and a face lined with worry. She's bundled up in a thick coat, her hands tucked under her arms for warmth. The car, an old, beat-up Volvo, is leaning slightly to one side, the rear tire completely flat.

"Jeg har fått en punktering," The woman explains, gesturing to the flat tire, "Kan du hjelpe meg?" (I have a flat tire. Can you help me?)

Nevaeh's immediate reaction is to brush her off, to mutter something about not having the time or the tools, but the words catch in her throat. She doesn't owe this woman anything, and yet... there's something about the way the woman looks at her, a mix of hope and desperation, that tugs at something deep inside her.

She sighs, the sound almost lost in the night.

The woman's eyes widen in surprise, then fill with gratitude. She points down the road, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips.

Nevaeh nods curtly and steps around to the back of the car. She plants her hands on the trunk, feeling the cool metal under her fingers, and with a slight push, the car begins to move. It's effortless for her, the weight of the vehicle hardly registering as she starts to push it down the road. The woman hurries to the driver's seat, steering the car as Nevaeh pushes it along.

The road is dark and quiet, the only sound the soft crunch of gravel under the tires and the occasional creak of the car's suspension. Nevaeh focuses on the rhythm of her steps, the steady movement forward, using the task to clear her mind. Despite the length of the journey, she doesn't break a sweat, her muscles barely straining under the effort. She's strong—inhumanly strong—and this is nothing for her. But the simplicity of it, the act of helping someone, is oddly calming.

They move in silence for the most part, the woman glancing back occasionally to make sure Nevaeh is still there, her face filled with a mix of awe and relief. Nevaeh catches her looking a few times but says nothing, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The walk is slow, the night stretching on as they make their way to the woman's house, a small, cozy cottage nestled among the trees.

When they finally reach the house, the woman pulls the car into the driveway, the front porch light flickering on as she steps out. She turns to Nevaeh, her face glowing with gratitude.

But the woman isn't done. She hurries into the house, leaving Nevaeh standing awkwardly by the car, unsure of what to do next. A few moments later, the woman returns, holding a small object in her hands. She approaches Nevaeh with a shy smile and holds it out to her.

"Jeg vil gjerne gi deg noe," She says softly. (I'd like to give you something.)

Nevaeh looks down at the object—a small wooden carving, intricately detailed. It's a figure of Odin, the Allfather, the wise and powerful god of Norse mythology. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the wood smooth and polished, every detail lovingly carved.

Nevaeh hesitates for a moment, then takes the carving from the woman's hands. It's warm from being inside the house, the wood smooth against her skin. She stares down at it, feeling a strange sense of connection, of...gratitude? It's a foreign emotion, one she's not used to, but it's there, undeniable.

The woman watches her, a soft smile on her lips.

"Jeg lager treutskjæringer som en hobby,"She explains, "Jeg håper du liker det." (I make wood carvings as a hobby I hope you like it.)

Nevaeh nods, unable to find the words to express what she's feeling. She looks up at the woman, and for the first time in a long while, she allows herself to smile—a small, almost imperceptible curve of her lips, but it's genuine.

"Takk," she says, her voice rough with emotion, "Det er vakkert." (Thank you. It's beautiful)

The woman beams, her face lighting up with joy.

Nevaeh glances down at the carving again, running her thumb over the intricate details. There's something comforting about it, something that speaks to her in a way she can't quite put into words. It feels good to have done something good, to have helped someone—even if it's something as small as pushing a car.

She looks back at the woman, who is watching her with a mix of gratitude and curiosity. Nevaeh doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to explain what's going on inside her. But maybe she doesn't need to. Maybe, for once, it's enough to just...be.

The woman smiles, giving her a small wave as Nevaeh walks away, the night closing in around her once more. She feels the weight of the carving in her pocket, a small but significant reminder of what she's just done. It's not much, in the grand scheme of things, but it's something.

And for the first time in a long time, she feels a glimmer of hope, a small spark of warmth that she thought she'd lost forever.

The morning air is crisp, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting a soft, golden light over the small village. Nevaeh walks through the narrow streets, her boots crunching on the gravel road. The village is still waking up, a few early risers moving about their morning routines—opening shop doors, fetching water, tending to livestock. It's quiet, peaceful, the kind of stillness that comes with a new day full of potential.

Nevaeh's hands are tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her breath puffing out in small clouds in the cool air. She walks with no particular destination in mind, simply moving through the village as she does most mornings, taking in the sights and sounds. It's become a sort of ritual for her, a way to clear her mind and prepare for the day ahead, though she isn't sure what each day will bring.

She rounds a corner and spots an elderly woman struggling to carry a heavy sack of grain. The woman's back is bent with age, her movements slow and labored as she drags the sack along the ground. The sight stirs something in Nevaeh, a pang of empathy that surprises her. She pauses, watching the woman for a moment, and then, almost without thinking, she steps forward.

"Do you need help with that?" Nevaeh asks, her voice soft but carrying easily in the quiet morning air.

The elderly woman looks up, startled by the sudden offer. Her eyes, clouded with age but still sharp, narrow as she studies Nevaeh. For a moment, there's silence between them, the woman's expression guarded as if she's not sure whether to trust this unexpected offer of help.

Then, slowly, the woman nods, "Yes, if you wouldn't mind. This old body isn't what it used to be."

Nevaeh steps forward, taking the sack of grain from the woman's hands. It's heavy, but she lifts it with ease, her strength making the task almost effortless. The woman watches, her eyes widening slightly at the ease with which Nevaeh handles the burden. She doesn't say anything, but there's a flicker of something in her gaze—respect, perhaps, or maybe even gratitude.

"Where do you need this?" Nevaeh asks, adjusting her grip on the sack.

"Just over there," The woman replies, pointing to a small storage shed at the edge of her property, "I'm stocking up for the winter."

Nevaeh nods and starts walking toward the shed, the sack balanced easily on her shoulder. The woman shuffles along beside her, her pace slow but steady. Nevaeh matches her steps, not rushing, taking her time. There's something calming about the simple task, the quiet companionship of the old woman.

When they reach the shed, Nevaeh sets the sack down inside, stacking it neatly with the others. She dusts off her hands and turns to the woman, who's watching her with a thoughtful expression.

"Thank you, dear," The woman says, her voice warm with gratitude, "It's not often you find young people willing to help these days."

Nevaeh feels a strange warmth bloom in her chest at the woman's words, a sensation that's becoming more familiar but no less foreign. It's not the kind of warmth she's used to—the heat of battle, the burn of anger—but something gentler, softer. It's a warmth that spreads through her, easing some of the tension she always carries, like a balm on old wounds.

"It was no trouble," Nevaeh replies, her voice gruffer than she intends, as if trying to mask the unfamiliar feeling.

She's not used to this, to being thanked, to feeling...good. But as she stands there, in the quiet of the morning, she realizes that she does feel good. Not just because of the woman's gratitude, but because she did something right, something that helped someone else.

The woman smiles, a knowing look in her eyes, as if she can see through Nevaeh's rough exterior.

"You've got a good heart, young one," She says, reaching out to pat Nevaeh's arm, "Don't let it get buried too deep."

Nevaeh doesn't know how to respond to that. The words hit closer to home than she'd like to admit, stirring up memories of who she used to be, before everything went wrong. She's spent so long trying to bury that part of herself, the part that cared, that wanted to do good, that it feels almost like a distant dream. But now...now, she's not so sure.

She nods, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, and steps back.

Nevaeh turns and walks away, her steps slower than before, her mind turning over the woman's words. The warmth in her chest lingers, a strange but welcome sensation that she's starting to crave. It's a different kind of strength, this feeling—one that doesn't come from physical power, but from something deeper, something more...human.

As she walks through the village, she notices more things, small details that she might have overlooked before. A man struggling to load firewood onto a cart, a mother trying to calm a crying child, a shopkeeper sweeping the steps of his store. And for the first time in a long while, Nevaeh feels a pull, a desire to step in, to help.

She's not sure what's changing inside her, or why she's starting to care again, but she doesn't resist it. Instead, she lets herself lean into it, lets herself feel the warmth, the satisfaction that comes from doing good, from helping others. It's a small thing, a mundane task, but it makes a difference—a difference to the people she helps, and maybe even a difference to herself.

By the time she reaches the edge of the village, the sun is fully up, casting a warm glow over the landscape. Nevaeh stops and looks back, taking in the sight of the small, bustling village. It's nothing grand, nothing heroic in the way she once thought of heroism, but it's something. And as she stands there, feeling the morning sun on her face, she thinks maybe this is enough. Maybe this is the kind of heroism she can live with, the kind that makes a quiet, but meaningful difference.

She's not sure where this path will lead her, or if it will change her completely, but for now, it feels right. It feels good. And for the first time in a long while, Nevaeh allows herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she can be a hero again—one small act of kindness at a time.

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