Cassandra stopped short on the stairway, startled by a sensation of magic. She clutched the none-too-clean railing and caught her breath. People pushed past her, exiting the subway; it was a noisy and distracting place. That she felt the magic so strongly, despite all this, was a stunning testament to how much the world had changed.

The feeling of magic dwindled rapidly; she resumed climbing the stairs, and got out onto the sidewalk where she found an out-of-the-way spot against a building and got her bearings. The sensation of Superman was very faint, as if he were hundreds of miles away. The other source was stronger here than ever before.

Knowing that she was getting close, Cassandra wandered off into Back Bay, following her intuition with growing excitement.

⛉ s ⛉

“Hello, Clark.”

Clark hadn't realized how hard he was listening, staring across the fields. Someone hundreds of yards away had said that, presumably to someone else close by. He always had a tendency to catch his own name in distant conversations. He knew exactly how many Clarks there were in Metropolis on any given day.

“Superman.”

Discussion of the news. He was distracted; he must be picking up a random snippet again. He didn't know what he was doing here. He turned to go.

“Clark Superman Kent, get back here!”

Clark stopped short, and looked around in surprise. About two hundred yards away, an older man stood in the window of a farmhouse, holding the curtain aside and looking right at him.

“I know you can hear me. Now stop brooding and come inside. And don't break my door!”

Clark stood and stared as the man dropped the curtain and walked slowly towards the kitchen. After a few moments, the man paused. “Well? Didn't your Pa teach you respect for your elders?”

Gathering himself, Clark flew, slowly, over to the farmhouse and alit on the stones in front of the steps, then walked in self-consciously, holding his cape out of the way. The name on the door was Moore.

“In here.”

Clark made his way into the kitchen, where the man was turning off a kettle. “Sit down, son.” Clark did. “Do you want tea?”

“I don't mean to intrude, Mr. Moore.”

“The correct answer is, ‘Why, yes, Mr. Moore, I'd love a cup of your peppermint tea.’ ”

Clark felt himself smiling despite himself. “Thank you, Mr. Moore.”

“That's better. And you might as well call me Walter. What do you like to be called? Clark?”

“Clark is fine.”

“Good.” Walter Moore poured the tea, and passed one steaming cup to Clark. “I don't suppose I have to warn you that it's hot.” Slowly, he moved around the table to the other chair, and sat. Clark noticed that he limped, and there were four pieces of metal shrapnel embedded deep in his leg; one of them looked as if it might be causing him some pain.

Walter noticed the direction of his gaze. “Korea. I wasn't old enough to fight the Japanese.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Your sonic boom. I notice it wasn't too loud; that shows good sense. I happened to look out my window from curiosity, and there you were, looking like your dog just died.”

“I was two hundred yards away,” Clark protested.

“Like I need telescopic vision for that. Us feeble humans have to get by with horse sense. I take it this is Smallville, where you're from?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Getting homesick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that's understandable. How long have you been in town, so to speak?”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“About a day.”

“Think you're going to stay?”

“I may not have a choice. But if I can, I need to go home. Metropolis needs me.”

“This world needs you, too, Superman,” Walter said quietly.

“This world thinks I'm a story.”

“Yes. I thought so, too, until I saw the news last night and today. You've been busy.”

“There's a lot to do around here.”

“Yes, there is.” There was a pause. Clark tried not to fidget under Walter's gaze. “Out with it, son. What's bothering you? Loneliness?”

Clark gave in, took a breath, and answered him directly. “Partly, but that's not so bad, yet. It's not the first time I've been kidnapped, and it's not the first time I've left my universe, either. But this is different. It doesn't make any sense.”

“What's different?”

“Everybody knows who I am! They see right through my disguise, everybody I meet knows my secret identity, my history, my…my other life that I've worked so hard to protect! There are these comic books in the stores, they tell exaggerations of my life, but sometimes they're completely accurate, even to the thoughts going through my head at the time! How is that possible?

“I'm not just a legend here—I'm a fable! A fairy tale! This isn't just an alternate universe, there are people here who think they invented me! They shuffle my world around as if it were so much confetti! My city, my universe—they play with it as if it were a game, just entertainment!”

“As far as they knew, it was just entertainment,” Walter replied.

“I have an entire life. I have an entire world. How could that all be written up in comic books somewhere? Yesterday morning—I saw a penny in the street, face down, while I was walking to work. I turned it over and left it there for someone else to find.”

“For the old superstition?”

“Right, finding a penny heads up is good luck. So whoever found it next might think they were due for good luck, and be in a better mood, and have a better day and be a little nicer to other people.”

“That's clever.”

“But is it real? Did it happen? I remember it happening—I did it just yesterday. But is that little anecdote written up in a Superman story somewhere? Is that a scene in a comic book? Walter—did I…?” Clark swallowed, and forced the words out. “Did I just come into existence yesterday? Could that be possible?”

Walter looked into his eyes and didn't lie. “I don't know, Clark. I can tell you that you're real now, as real as I am, as real as this table. I'm not given to hallucinations.”

“What if…? What if I am just a story, a delusion, a…a walking figment of somebody's imagination?” Clark closed his eyes and shook his head in frustration. “This sounds insane. This whole world is insane.”

“Maybe, but we muddle through anyway. You're not one to shy away from the truth, Clark. What if it is true? What if you are a piece of fiction somehow made solid flesh? What does that change?”

Clark struggled for words. “Does anything I do matter? Am I…What if they decide to—to edit my story? Change my past? Do my memories change? What if they corrupt me? What if I turn evil? What can I do? How can I make a difference, if I could be snuffed out of existence by the whim of a writer?”

Walter regarded him for a moment. “Wait here.” He rose, and hurrying his body along, left the kitchen, returning a moment later carrying something; as he sat down, he slammed the well-worn book down forcefully on the table between them. “What is this?” Clark looked at the black cover, faded after being used in countless prayers, then back up at the man, not sure what answer he was expecting.

“It's stories, Clark. Are they true stories? Millions of people believe so. Some people don't. But everybody in the world knows about this book, and everybody knows that this book has changed the world. Stories can do that, Clark. They live in our hearts. They keep us going when nothing else can. They feed our souls, and move us to find the greatness within ourselves. They reach millions, and can be everywhere at once, and live for centuries, inspiring and changing lives.

“There are far worse things for someone to be than ‘just’ a story, Clark. What matters, is whether your life is a good story. Whether it's a story of hope, or despair, of kindness, or cruelty. We're a flexible race, Clark. We can be great, and we can be terrible. Our stories are what make the difference. Our stories are what give us hope.

“Clark, before yesterday, no one in this world had ever seen you. Whatever you are today, you were nothing but a story to us before. And I tell you now, you had already made this world a better place before you ever showed up in person. Your stories, even if they are distorted, even if they are exaggerated—your stories give us hope. You have made a difference. You've even saved lives. You've kept young soldiers going when they might have given up and died. You've changed the world for the better, just by being who you are, by reminding us of what we can be.”

Walter leaned forward, tears in his eyes. “There are few things more precious in this world, Clark, than to have someone to live up to. You've given us a standard of nobility in a world that has very few of them. You have made a difference, Clark. Never doubt that. I think…I think that's what your father would say, if he were here.”

Clark sat up straighter, and nodded to Walter, his throat tight. “Thank you, sir.”

“No, Clark. Thank you.”

⛉ s ⛉

They spoke for a few more minutes, and Walter watched the younger man in his kitchen with awe. He fended off an offer of a lift to the hospital, and promised the hero he would tell his doctor about the shrapnel. He marveled as Superman fixed the fence he hadn't gotten around to repairing for two years, and cleaned out the old shed in a blur of action. But not until Superman had waved goodbye and lifted off into the late afternoon sky, not until he heard the sonic boom, did Walter allow himself to sink on trembling knees to his chair.

I think that may have been the most important thing I'll ever do in my entire life. Walter swallowed, feeling as if the weight of the world had eased slowly from his shoulders again. I'm not Jonathan Kent. I don't know if what I said was good enough, or right enough. But all I could do was my best. The poor man deserves it. I couldn't just leave him like that.

And Walter took a breath and resumed his day, and when he looked at a mirror later, did not notice the reflection of a human hero.