Shattered Glass

When we got back, it was already noon. We ended up staying at the cemetery longer than I expected.

The man leaned down and picked up the bowl I had left by the fireplace this morning. After putting it away, he approached the door and looked back at me with a smile.

He gestured for me to wait and quickly left once again.

We still had a great amount of soup left from today’s breakfast. Was he not going to eat right now? Did he have work to do at this hour? Perhaps he just went to grab something to add to the dish.

He wouldn’t have told me to wait only to disappear.

As I waited, I went to sit down on my bed.

Reminiscing on my time in the village, I couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone else at the graveyard. The Old Man seemed the only one keeping what I thought was a village custom.

He seemed to take the morning off to go pray every Thursday, but had he been doing this for a while?

If people only visited graves for a short time after someone’s death, I would understand the absence. But the Old Man’s family grave didn’t look recent.

The stone had already turned green with moss, and grass had spread over the dirt above.

He must have been doing this for years.

He was special, after all.

He was the only person in this corrupted town that wasn’t a decaying husk of rotten flesh. He reigned above this ant nest, this swarm of pests.

I chuckled.

I was no better than anyone else.

Never had I ever gone to visit the graves of family members before. Perhaps when I was younger, but I didn’t even remember it well enough.

I knew it.

He was better.

He was the only one.

There had to be a reason he didn’t help Yrish. There had to be.

Please…

I needed there to be one.

Focusing back on my current situation, since the Old Man was yet to return, I decided to meditate for a bit.

I still hadn’t trained mana control today, but I wanted to focus on all my senses while doing so.

Without closing my eyes, I began interacting with the mana around me.

I tried having a constant grasp on my surroundings, taking in all kinds of stimuli as I interacted with the energy.

The wind carried the diluted aroma of the soup. It slipped into my sleeves and cloak, brushing against my skin.

Even the mana leaving my body followed the same path.

I noticed the flicker of the shadows on the wall as the droplets of water raced down and the faint conversations next door, along with the creaks of drying wooden roof tiles.

It was easier than when I had tried it walking but harder than regular meditation. There was more to focus on, making mana awkward to handle.

What usually felt completely organic now flowed robotically. The gears still turned, but with an awkward, jarring rhythm.

I noticed the crunch of footsteps approaching outside. It was probably the Old Man coming back.

As I stopped my training, the door opened.

The Old Man came back holding a bunch of vegetables in his hands.

Without cutting them, he peeled layer after layer and dropped them inside the metal pan, adding more vegetables to the soup.

Rekindling the fire, the pot began heating up once more.

The fire crackled and flickered, embers swaying beneath the cauldron. Bubbles popped from the mixture as he stirred it with a metal rod.

I quietly sat there, enjoying the delicious scents oozing out from the dish.

It was always a pleasure to watch him cook. It felt therapeutic to some degree.

He left the food to marinate for a bit and got up to get something from the storage area.

As I expected, he came back holding five bowls in his hand. He only set out extra bowls on graveyard days.

Those were probably his offerings to the deceased. As if the ones we had lost returned to eat with us once every week.

It left a smile on my face.

Just like last time, he filled four bowls before preparing his own. He served me mine and Yrish’s, setting the last two beside him.

My mouth paused mid-chew as a thought crossed my mind.

Looking back on everything the man had cooked this past week, none of the dishes had any mushrooms.

I had grown used to eating them before reaching Tristte, so this struck me as strange. After all, the village was nestled in the middle of a huge forest.

Had they already been picked clean in the surrounding area? Weren’t they able to grow mushrooms here in town?

I now got why Yrish’s parents reacted like that, and it enraged me.

If there really were no mushrooms close by, they could only be picked up deep into the forest. That area was without a doubt dangerous, meaning that their value would become higher.

I despised them.

Hatred spread deep through my core.

They really did send the young girl to die just to gather mushrooms for them.

I let out a short, bitter laugh and paused.

Nothing was going through my mind. Or maybe everything was. I just didn’t notice.

Life wasn’t fair.

I hated them. More than I knew how to say.

A drop hit the soup, silencing the noise in my head.

A single tear sent ripples across the surface, breaking against the bowl’s edge.

The food grew colder.

The Old Man turned to face me with a smile as I started sipping the soup. The crunch of the vegetables added another layer to the food I had eaten in the morning. It felt completely different.

Then, a loud metallic bang quaked the whole structure.

It startled me, making me almost spill my food.

I paused and put the bowl down.

I hadn’t heard anything like that since coming to the village.

The deafening sound came from behind us, most likely the town square.

Was it the huge bell I had seen?

Had the never-rung bell finally tolled?

Seconds later, a second bang echoed once more through the village. It seemed like an alarm of some sort.

Screams pierced my ears.

A huge commotion swelled outside, cries and shouts overbearing.

People screamed “Fankor!” with all their might. “Fankor!”

Looking through the window, I saw several people desperately running towards the central plaza. Terror printed in their expressions.

What was happening to the town?

My heart rate shot up.

I instantly sought out the Old Man.

His soup formed a puddle on the ground.

With the overwhelming atmosphere around us, I hadn’t even noticed the sound of his bowl dropping to the floor.

The palm of his right hand faced me directly, quivering violently.

His face was drained of colour, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Panic seeped into every uneven breath, each hoarse and shuddering.

His legs and shoulders twitched, seized by dread.

I had never seen the Old Man wear such an expression.

He was frozen in terror.

“Are you okay?” I quietly asked while stepping closer and gently taking his outstretched arm.

He swiftly turned to face me and let his hand fall.

Tears overflowed his eyes.

He breathed deeply for a few seconds, trying to regain his breath, and pointed at my things in the corner of the room. Gesturing for me to put my backpack on, he told me to pack everything I had.

I complied, running to the corner and grabbing all my belongings.

I heard a sharp clatter coming from the storage area.

The Old Man had shut the trapdoor.

He rummaged some more through the items and took out a stashed fabric sack from underneath the large pile of garments.

Muted chinks and jingles spilled from the small pouch as the Old Man marched towards me.

He looked into my eyes with a sorrowful, alarmed expression and slowly unfastened the strings to open the sack.

Inside, there were close to one hundred small coins.

Most looked like dulled silver, some copper, but one or two caught the light with a sharper glint. The coins had reeded edges and a crest imprinted in the middle, but I couldn’t see the details clearly.

The man forced a smile through the tears and pushed the sack against my chest.

“I-I can’t take this!” I nervously stammered.

I tried refusing the money, but the man didn’t give up and continued forcing it into my hands.

Pressed for time, I simply accepted his gift, shoving the pouch inside my backpack.

When I got the bag sorted out, he grabbed me by my hand and pulled me along towards the door.

I could feel him trembling harder, squeezing my hand tighter.

His eyes were red from crying.

He seemed so frail.

What was happening?

My eyes began to water.

The Old Man gripped the doorknob. Then, glancing at me, he inhaled deeply and held his breath to gesture. He started counting with his head, as if telling me we were going to run the moment the door was open.

I prepared myself, breathing calmly.

Breathing in.

And out.

In.

And out.

He nodded slowly, counting each beat.

As he reached the fifth subtle nod, we took a deep breath, and he opened the door.