Sorrow in Tradition

I broke down in tears, sobbing with my every breath.

I had refused to believe she was dead since carrying her here.

I had been deceiving myself. I didn’t even get to see her one last time.

Was there anything compelling me to stay when she had already left?

I succumbed to the pain, clenching the stone until my hands began to bleed. I couldn’t accept the idea that her smile was now gone forever.

I bawled there for countless minutes while the elderly man waited beside me, comforting me with pats on my back the whole time. After I calmed down, he helped me stand up and put my right arm over his left shoulder, wanting me to put less strain on my injured leg.

We trudged down the hill as my eyes continued to water a little.

Passing through the market again, I noticed a change in people’s stares. This time, a hint of compassion glinted in their eyes.

They bowed forward ever so slightly, greeting the old man and telling him quick words. However, the old man stayed silent, just nodding along. This went on all the way.

Was he mute?

He didn’t answer the villagers when they addressed him back there.

He took me back to the house I had woken up in, the imposing silence welcoming us back.

The house was his.

He sat me down on the sheet on the floor and removed the cloth around my leg.

Smiling gently at me, he went behind the interior wall and picked up an empty bucket. Gesturing for me to wait, he opened the door and left, letting in the village’s noises briefly.

I wanted to disappear.

I was yet to recover from the news I received, engulfed by grief.

Sorrow filled the house, making the atmosphere feel heavier. I shivered in fear. This was retribution for all I had done.

Being amid the unknown, incapable of communication, felt more unsettling than living alone in the forest.

How long had I been asleep? Why did they bury my only hope?

I lay down holding my knees. Blood stained the sheet beneath me. I quietly awaited the old man’s return while rummaging through my thoughts.

“Just like that,” I muttered with a heartbroken expression. “One’s life really disappears in an instant. Even if you want it back, it won't return…” I finished gasping.

Speaking aloud, tears came unbidden. I felt so weak. It seemed pretentious even to think of growing stronger only when something happened to someone I cared for.

“It should’ve… It should’ve been me!” I lamented, failing to stop crying.

I jolted upright at the sudden touch on my shoulder. The elderly man had come back.

Absorbed in self-loathing and my own helplessness, I didn’t hear the door open.

He came back holding a bucket of water, a few rags, and a small glass bottle of green cream.

He didn’t appear to be able to use water spells either, since he had to go fetch water outside. Were the villagers only capable of using earth spells?

Grabbing one of the rags and dipping it in the water, he cleansed the blood dribbling from my wound. Then, opening the bottle, he applied the green ointment over the injury and wrapped the second rag tightly around my leg.

He got up, smiling tenderly at me, and poured the rest of the water inside the metal cauldron.

Mentally fatigued, I turned away and lay down again, unsure if I was avoiding him or simply trying to ignore the situation.

I felt useless.

Why did someone like him exist for me now but not when Yrish needed it? Why me and not her?

It wasn’t fair.

Why did she need to suffer while I managed to survive after letting her die?

The man opened the two house windows. After the sharp clack of stones and soft, whistle-like blows, the scent of smoke slowly filled the room.

After a few minutes, the smell of food reached my nose. It was already dark outside, and the old man was probably cooking dinner.

Minutes later, he gently touched my back, signalling it was time to eat.

He really didn't seem to be able to speak. I hadn’t heard him say anything until now. Did it also mean he couldn't use magic?

When I turned around, looking over to the fireplace, the man had prepared what seemed like soup and set out four bowls. He sat down in front of one of them, the same way Yrish used to when we first met.

This was a cultural thing, as I had assumed.

I didn’t feel hungry at all. My hunger had vanished after visiting the graveyard, but I forced myself to eat with the gentleman.

I sat down in front of one of them.

The man grabbed a ladle and served me. He then served the two other bowls before serving himself, even though we were the only ones here.

He pulled a fifth bowl from behind him and extended it to me. I took the bowl from his hand, and he proceeded to fill it too.

When I put the bowl down next to me and looked over at him, he simply smiled and pointed upward.

What he was doing finally sank down on me, tears welling yet again.

The extra bowl he gave me was meant for Yrish. The other two were likely for those he visited at the graveyard earlier.

He began sipping on the freshly made soup, and I followed soon after. The broth was entirely made out of vegetables, but I wasn’t able to decipher which ones. The flavour wasn’t bad at all.

Compared to what I had been eating for the past few weeks, this was way more intricate than anything I could have made.

I still lacked information about what happened after I collapsed, but I didn’t know how to ask the old man for answers.

“How long did I sleep for?” I questioned him, doing my best to gesture sleeping.

After a few attempts, the old man seemed to understand and lifted his closed right hand. He counted, from right to left, the number three on his knuckles instead of raising three fingers.

With a confused look on my face, I raised three fingers with my right hand and pointed at them with my left, attempting to ask him if I was correct.

He gave me a strange look, then smiled in agreement and made the same gesture.

I couldn’t tell if he counted today as one of those three days, but if so, it had already been exactly four weeks since my death and reincarnation in this world.

The last few weeks flew by incredibly fast. I wished they would last much longer.

The feelings of my parents after I died never even crossed my mind until now. I would assume a month would have passed in the real world too. Could they be feeling the same as I felt with Yrish’s passing?

Was it even comparable?

I wasn’t her family… Yet I still felt disgusting, victimising myself.

As I grabbed my empty bowl and attempted to stand up, the old man stopped me. He put his hand on my shoulder and shook his head.

He didn’t seem to want me to stand up, likely due to my injury. So I let him take care of the cleaning and went to lie down on the sheet.

After storing everything, the old man crouched beside the hearth. He reached for his near corner, where the ash had cooled, and began scooping it by hand onto the glowing embers.

The fire crackled softly under the grey blanket. When only a faint orange breath remained, he smoothed the ash with his palm, spreading it evenly back to the corner.

Darkness crept back into the room as the flames went silent.

He then closed the two windows. I could hear his footsteps approaching the bed to my left, the wooden frame creaking under his weight.

I covered myself with the blanket and lay face up. Struggling to sleep, I kept my eyes open, focusing on the indistinguishable details of the ceiling.

After a few minutes, I heard snoring as he fell asleep.

A strange thought crossed my mind. I had never wondered whether people who couldn’t speak could snore. But of course they could. It just felt like a stupid question. But it was still a curious thought nonetheless.

I was still unable to stop the tears from flowing, but I felt slightly calmer now.

As weariness pulled me under, my mind relaxed until I eventually dozed off. But an unsettling sensation clung to me, pressing into my frozen body.