There was once a boy who never missed the target. In the quiet fields behind his village, arrow after arrow split the center.
When the day of the big competition arrived, the villagers filled the square. On a wooden table at the front, a tall, golden trophy gleamed. The boy’s eyes fixed on it. He imagined lifting it high, the applause, the pride on his parents’ faces.
The boy’s turn came, and the whistle blew. He drew his bow, released… and missed. The next arrow — another miss. And another.
At the edge of the square, an old coach whispered to a friend, “When he practiced, his eyes were on the target. Today, they’re on the trophy.”