Chapter 33: A Season of Farewell

The young girl didn’t know their ages, only that they were old.

From their conversation, she learned they had known each other for over seventy years. That seemed like a long time, didn’t it?

She recalled her own life, from childhood to the final day. It had been a fairly long time. Seventy years, several times that, must be even longer.

Having friends for so long must be a happy thing, she thought.

When the old men finished talking with the village head, the village head called out in a hoarse voice again. “Son… son, I’m thirsty.”

“Oh, you’ve forgotten again. The boy is not here. He went out to work,” one of the old men explained once more to the bedridden village head.

They talked a while longer, and the village head calmed down for now.

Seeing that today wasn’t going well, one of the old men nudged the young girl, signaling her to go outside.

Once outside, the old man asked her quietly.

“Did something… happen to the boy?” His voice was very low, as if he didn’t want those inside to hear.

The young girl nodded.

Seeing this, the old man sighed. He looked up at the sky for a long time. After calming down, he whispered a request to her. He hoped she wouldn’t tell anyone. Pretend nothing had happened.

The young girl tilted her head, puzzled.

The old man explained. “His time is short. He shouldn’t have to know about this.”

The young girl was still confused, but she nodded anyway.

Back inside, the village head called for his son again. The old men around him answered, explaining that the boy had gone out and wouldn’t be back until late.

The old man also introduced the young girl, saying she was the boy’s friend, entrusted to visit him.

Then the other old men left, leaving only the old man, the young girl, and the bedridden village head.

It was getting late. When the old man learned the young girl had no place to stay, he invited her to stay at the village head’s house. There was a guest room.

The young girl didn’t refuse and stayed.

She probably hadn’t expected to stay for a while.

Maybe it was the phrase “his time is short” that touched her heart. She didn’t leave the next day. She stayed.

She watched the old man care for the village head. In the morning, the old man changed the soiled bedding and wiped the village head’s body.

Every so often, the village head would call out, “Son, son.”

Each time, it was the old man who came, not the son who would never return.

The old man introduced himself again and again. The village head could never remember who he was.

But the old man never tired of it. On the first day, he said he was the friend who built snowmen with him as a child. On the second, he said he was the friend who snuck into the private school to listen to lessons. On the third, he said he was the friend who attended his wedding.

Almost every day, he could recall a different story from the past.

The young girl stayed at the house the whole time, helping to care for the village head.

She didn’t handle the truly unpleasant tasks. Those were left to the old man.

These days, she learned to make thick soup and pastries.

During the day, she would go out to observe the village, watch how the people lived.

The villagers rose early to work. They took care of something called wheat. She learned this from the old man.

Knowing she was curious, the old man asked the villagers to show her around. They explained the most ordinary things to her, one by one.

In the morning, the villagers weeded the fields and removed pests.

They tended the wheat with the same meticulous care as the old man caring for the village head.

The young girl stayed for a month.

The villagers had grown used to having an immortal among them, experiencing their life.

At first, some doubted her identity. But when they learned she could survive without eating, they believed.

Even though she didn’t need to eat, she loved food. The villagers often fed her. They called it an offering.

She felt she had become close enough to the villagers that she could accept their food without it being strange.

The villagers felt honored to have an immortal watching over them. Offering food was fun.

In that month, the young girl learned a lot. She even knew how to care for wheat.

But while she could weed the wheat, she couldn’t bring herself to remove insects. Bugs were just too… terrifying.

At night, she returned to the village head’s house and slept in the guest room.

Over the month, the village head’s health worsened. Turning over became harder, and he needed to be fed.

The old man still cared for him. The other old friends came to visit almost every day.

Every day, the village head called for his son. The old man still explained that the boy had gone out and would be back tomorrow.

He had been saying “tomorrow” for half a month now.

But the village head wouldn’t remember anyway. He forgot after half a day.

Each “tomorrow” was a new tomorrow to him.

Gradually, the weather grew hotter. Even the young girl could feel the stuffiness. Summer had come.

Before she knew it, she had been in the village for over three months. It was July.

The old man moved a bed in and placed it next to the village head. At night, he had to turn the village head over, or his body would develop patches of discoloration.

The village head kept his eyes closed most of the time. Occasionally, he would squint, trying to see what was around him.

Every time he saw the old man, he would look startled and ask who he was.

The old man would introduce himself again, claiming to be his subordinate, helping him manage the village.

The village head always believed him and then asked about his son.

The old man would tell him the boy had gone to farm and would be back in the evening.

And so it went until mid-July, when the village harvested the wheat.

The young girl went to see it. The golden fields were stunning.

The wheat swayed in the wind like gold.

The villagers’ faces were bright with joy. Just the fact that the wheat had survived until now was a cause for celebration.

Suddenly, the young girl noticed several familiar figures hobbling with canes toward the village head’s house.

She felt something too and hurried back.

The old men were all gathered.

The village head lay with his eyes half-closed, his breath faint.

The old man called him several times, but there was no response. Then the village head’s eyes snapped open, cloudy and dim.

“Son… son,” he called out.

The old man quickly answered. “The boy went to harvest wheat. He’ll be back soon.”

He patted the village head’s hand gently. The village head let out a sigh of relief, then asked, “And you… who are you?”

The old man replied, “Us? We’re your old friends.”

The village head opened his mouth wide, breathing hard through his mouth and nose. He grabbed the old man’s hand and held it.

“I’m… sorry,” the village head said, for no apparent reason. He closed his eyes, and two lines of tears slid from the corners.

“It’s nothing. We’re old friends,” the old man said, still holding his hand tightly.

The other old friends seemed to sense something too. They grabbed the village head’s other hand.

The village head held on tight. His body convulsed a few times, and then he went still. His bony hands had squeezed his friends’ hands red.

The young girl watched from the doorway. This scene reminded her of her own final moment.

People, when they die, don’t look dignified.

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