I was the eye of the storm. Then the storm passed.
Now I am the eye of the ghost of the storm, a passing breeze, a small eddy.
In my heyday we ruffled the fowl, baited the fates in their lair, and risked it all for the wise old man of the mountain.
But that is all gone now.
I’m now just a whisper on the wind. A stir of fading memory.
A quiet susurration in the trees.