Nothing but an ancient symbol

t was the cranky old man who told him to go into the volcano and stick his hand
 in that stream of lava. In retrospect it seemed like a stupid thing to do, but his
 judgment was probably skewed by some pretty serious PTSD. After all, a flying
 castle had just dropped down and massacred everyone he ever knew or loved.
    He was supposed to find some powerful weapon, but all he came back with were third-degree burns and a five-pointed star made of plastic. There were some rubies embedded in it. He was pretty sure they were fake. Honestly, it looked like some cheap movie prop, and it said “Made in Hong Kong” on the back, but the old man said it was magic. If he threw it, back it would come. Like a boomerang. He would have rather just found a sword.
    The old man told him he wasn’t allowed to use it until the time was right. This happened to be about an hour and twenty minutes later. Then he threw it and waited. It didn’t come back.
    Thirty years on, he was still waiting. Divorced. His kids were off ruling their own kingdoms. They never had time for him. Even his friends stopped coming over to play poker. They all landed bigger gigs and had their own fire mares now. Nothing came back to him that he threw away. Maybe he should have held on to the things that mattered.

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