The gun may fade, but the courage never will.

The morning sunlight quietly climbed onto the windowsill and softly fell on the figure in the corner of the room—that’s my AWM water gun. It stood there quietly, like a retired soldier; its dark green casing had been weathered by time until it turned pale, and the stock bore several slight scratches, as if telling the stories of silent battles. It’s about ninety centimeters long and feels quite heavy in my hands. When I pull the trigger, a crisp “click” sounds, like the rhythm of a heartbeat. Although it doesn’t eject shells, every time a water pellet is fired, the gun body shakes slightly, as if there really was a recoil pushing me forward. The scratches on the barrel are of varying depths; I don’t see them as scars, but rather as shining medals, documenting every day we’ve “charged into battle” together.

This water gun was given to me by my sister on my birthday. She held it in her hands with such seriousness, as if handing over a real weapon: “I give this to you, hoping you’ll learn to be brave.” At that moment, my heart raced, and as I gently touched the trigger, it felt like I was not just taking over a toy, but also an important mission.
Since then, every day after school, the first thing I do is to pick it up and head downstairs to “fight” with little Mao. We hide behind trees or by flower beds, chasing each other while the sound of gunshots echoes through the entire neighborhood like the sound of victory. Once, I rushed out to save a teammate and accidentally fell, causing the deepest scratch on the gun. But I wasn’t upset; instead, I laughed—because that was proof of my bravery.
Later, I got only 89 points on an exam. When I got home, I lay on the bed and cried. Tears fell onto the pillow when I suddenly saw the water gun by my side. It stood there quietly, as if saying, “Don’t be afraid; even warriors can fall, but they always get up again.” I was stunned, and images of the Red Army crossing snowy mountains from movies came to mind. Indeed, if they didn’t give up despite the difficulties, how could I? I wiped away my tears and picked up my books once more.
Now, the gun’s body is getting older and its color is fading, but in my heart, it shines even brighter. Some things may fade, but the courage in my heart will never do so. This gun is not just a toy; it’s also my most loyal “comrade” on my journey of growth.