Eternal

Lucas Grayson lived with a strange anxiety, a shadow with which he had been plagued since childhood: the fear of being forgotten. Not the end itself, but the quiet erasing that followed bothered him—not death itself. His name seemed to vanish into thin air, unheard, forgotten, and the idea tormented him, a gradual anguish he could never quite get rid of.

People in the little town Lucas grew up remembered more for their mistakes than for their achievements. You can become a legend from a bad marriage or a drunk episode at the cafe. But like smoke from a flame, those tales were ephemeral as well. Lucas had aspirations higher than that. His dream was of something substantial and enduring. He wanted his name to be murmured in schools decades from now or carved in books, ringing out through history.

Lucas was already consumed with excellence by the time he was ten. He jealous of those who looked born with a spark—gifted athletes, prodigies who could make a piano weep, pupils who aced every test without breaking a sweat. Lucas fell not among those folks. Everything he tried, he did awkwardly, his attempts finding some foggy middle ground between mediocrity and failure.

He tried music first. To chip in for the least expensive guitar he could find, he begged his parents for a mower, leaf rakes, and grass. His chamber hummed with his mismatched attempts to play for weeks. On stage, he pictured himself surrounded by lights flashing thousands of screaming fans his name. Still, his fingers faltered and the music never sounded right no matter how hard he worked. Playing for his mates made his buddies chuckle, and one of them said, "Maybe guitar isn't your thing, Lucas."

Painting came second. Making something eternal and a masterwork that would stand in galleries for decades delighted Lucas. He bent over canvases for hours, boldly splattering paint on them. But her gentle but wary smile said all when he exhibited his painting to his art teacher. Lucas had passion, she remarked, "but maybe you should try a different media."

Lucas's experiments with brilliance by high school were almost funny. He signed on the soccer squad, however he spent most of his time on the bench. He staggered over his words and entered speech contests. He experimented with poetry, but his works seemed hollow and as though they belonged someone else. Every setback bit his confidence, and his anxiety grew more weighty.

Lucas arrived to the city in his twenties in search of inspiration from its vitality. From barista to delivery driver to office assistant, he floated from job to job constantly looking for something that seemed like his calling. He surfed social media at night, seeing friends post about their companies, art shows, and promotions. Lucas felt behind, his days running endlessly in boredom and unrealized goals.

One especially restless night Lucas sat by himself in his flat surrounded by the ruins of his several failed businesses: a dusty guitar in the corner, a stack of half-finished canvases, a notebook full of abandoned poems. Seeking ideas, he opened his laptop and looked for biographies of historical personalities. He studied those whose names had defied time—scientists like Marie Curie and artists like Leonardo da Vinci. Their genius simply made him more hopeless. How did they know what their proper behavior was? Why had their glory seemed certain while his escaped him at every turn?

Angry and restless, Lucas left his apartment and meandered the city streets. Past midnight, the planet quieted and still. Aimlessly passing corners without thinking, he wandered till he came upon an old library. Its gently glowing arching windows called him inside. He opened the big doors out of whimsy.

The library was almost deserted, its great rows of bookcases glowing in gold. Running his fingertips over book spines, Lucas meandered along the aisles and felt history weighing down on him. He halted as he came upon The Silent Builders of History, a slender, leather-bound volume. Pulling it from the shelf and opening it intrigued him.

Stories of people whose names had been lost but whose contributions had molded the planet abound throughout the book. It chronicles the unknown stonemasons who erected churches, the farmers who fed troops, the midwives bringing future leaders into the earth. These folks had just done what was required, creating ripples across time; they had not pursued glory or distinction.

Lucas studied until the librarian called for closing. Stories stayed in his head as he made his way home. He questioned himself for the first time about if he had been viewing life the wrong way. Perhaps glory has nothing to do with memory. Perhaps it was about changing things, even though nobody recognized your name.

Lucas started to see the globe differently in the next weeks. He stopped looking for his "one true calling" and turned his attention to what he could do right now in the little areas of the planet he inhabited. Starting at a community center, he taught children to write and read. He painted over graffiti and fixed damaged seats during neighborhood clean-ups. Near his apartment, he planted trees in the park, picturing the shadow they would create for next generations.

Lucas originally felt his efforts were too little to count for anything. But he observed the results of his work over time. The children he coached started composing stories; their confidence blossomed like the trees he had grown. Families came back to the park, laughing filling the air. People began to identify him and extend friendly greetings on the street. "Hey, Lucas!" they would have said. "Thanks for straightening out the swings!" Or "My daughter loves reading now—thanks you."

Years transformed into decades. Lucas's hair became gray and his facial lines grew darker, but he no longer felt the biting weight of his former anxiety. Though it was not the kind he had dreamed of in his early years, he had created a life with direction.

Now in his sixties, Lucas sauntered around the park he had helped to restore one evening. With their soft rustling in the breeze, the towering and robust trees he had grown stood Underneath them, he observed as a bunch of kids laughed, their voices like music. Pulling at their father's sleeve, one of the children questioned, "Who made this park so nice?"

Grinning, the father added, "A man named Lucas." He gave this place great thought. concerning us.

Not noticed in the distance, Lucas grinned. His name might never appear in history books, but it had been spoken in kindness and gratitude. His legacy was not in fame, but in the lives he had touched, the laughter he had nurtured, and the trees that would outlive him.

Lucas experienced a great, unquestionable calm for the first time. He understood that, in the small, wordless ways that counted, he never would be, so he stopped fearing being forgotten.