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The moment Artan took his first breath, he was drawn to the rhythm of running. It wasn't something anyone taught him—it was as if the earth beneath his feet whispered secrets only he could hear, urging him to move, to chase, to fly. He was just a child when he first saw the Olympics on a flickering TV screen, his wide eyes reflecting the glory of athletes whose names he couldn’t yet pronounce. But he understood something deeper than words; he understood the power of dreams.
Artan's small village nestled in the hills was far removed from the grand stadiums he saw on television. His family was modest, their lives simple. His father worked the fields, his mother baked bread and kept the house warm with stories of old. But none of that mattered when Artan ran. Barefoot, he would race against the wind, the dirt paths of his home becoming his first tracks. His legs would burn, his lungs would scream, but his heart—oh, his heart—was always light, soaring ahead of him, beyond the horizon.
Artan had made a promise to himself, by the time he was ten, a promise as solid as the mountains that surrounded his village. He would become an Olympic champion. The people in the village would laugh, ruffle his hair, and tell him to be realistic. But his mother saw something in his eyes, a determination that she had seen only once before—in her husband when he vowed to build their house with his own two hands.
Years passed, and Artan's legs grew stronger, faster. Every morning before dawn, he would rise, slipping out of bed with the stealth of a shadow. He would run, not just for the sake of running, but because each step was a step closer to his dream. He would race the sun, imagining the golden medal around his neck, its weight a promise yet to be fulfilled.
Artan left his village at his 18, carrying nothing but a small bag and a heart full of hope. He entered a world that was larger and more daunting than he had ever imagined. He trained with the best, competing in regional and national competitions. The path was never easy. There were injuries, losses that cut deeper than any physical pain, and moments of doubt that threatened to smother his spirit. But Artan held on to the dream he had nurtured for so long. He was relentless, his heart ever chasing that elusive horizon.
And then, today—August 10, the day he turned 21—it all came to fruition. The Olympic stadium buzzed with electricity. Artan stood at the starting line, he felt alive, every cell in his body thrumming with energy.
The gunshot rang out, and Artan surged forward, his body a blur of speed and grace. The world around him faded, the cheers of the crowd distant echoes in his ears. It was just him and the track, just him and his dream. The final stretch loomed, and Artan pushed harder, summoning every ounce of strength he had left.
And then—he crossed the finish line.
The world snapped back into focus, the deafening roar of the crowd washing over him like a tidal wave. Artan stumbled to a stop, his chest heaving, and looked up at the scoreboard. His name flashed across it, bold and brilliant—first place. The gold was his.
As the Golden Dream medal was placed around his neck, the weight of it was unlike anything he had imagined. It was heavy, yes, but it was the kind of weight that lifted him, filling him with a sense of fulfillment that was almost too much to bear.
Tears welled in his eyes as the anthem played, and he thought of his village, of the dirt paths he had raced on, of the whispers of the earth that had first urged him to run. He thought of his parents, their faces lined with pride, and of the promise he had made all those years ago.
Artan had dreamed of gold since he was a child. Today, that dream had come true. And as he stood on that podium, the world at his feet, he knew that this was just the beginning of the story he had yet to write.
By Elira Bregu
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