❄️

[GRANDPA'S POV]

The windows complain like manner-less children once Grandpa shoves them open and lets the cool morning air slither into the cottage.

As the snow-coated trees wave weakly at him, a mourning smile crawls to his lips. In his mind, a heap of jars is being crushed under an unseen weight, letting out a thin smoke that lessens the weight off his head.

He clasps his bent fingers together and sighs. His age must be taking a toll on him, stealing his memories slowly each day. The scenes in his head constantly disappear, like the fluid movements in each of Rozell's paintgraphs.

Hopefully, the happy memories he had shared with Serenade, his other family members—especially Rozell, his old companions, and the beer barrels inside the drinking huts at Avoridge remain in one of the complete jars.

And hopefully, the thief will soon steal the jar that contains his view of Rozell's torment from last night.

As he heads to the storage box and gathers the ingredients for the deer sandwiches, his mind won't switch off the questions in his head. His fingers shiver as they tighten around the deer meat, causing the gooey juice to burst out and taint his skin in bright red.

Rozell said it was just a nightmare.

A formless weight stays in Grandpa's chest, causing his body to bend over the counter where his cooking stones are.

But what kind of nightmare could do that to my grandson? Why did he growl in his sleep? How could it turn to tears, then a cry, and more pleas to bring himself back alive? He has never died. Why would he beg someone to give him a second chance?

The sixty-eight-year-old man seals his lips, biting his tongue so it won't lash out his silent questions in real life. Grandpa unwraps the deer meat while also grabbing a few stale bread loaves lying on the counter. His stomach imitates Rozell's beastly growl once he slips the leaves and herbs into the loaves.

Did it have something to do with that dead hunter he had mentioned the other day?

Grandpa's sigh weighs heavier with each passing moment. The local legend, told by Serenade on their twentieth wedding anniversary, now rings loud and clear in his ears, as if she's whispering it next to him.

"The inhabitants of this mountain believe that the gods—or Death itself—will resurrect every dead soul in another form," his wife had said. "Can you imagine that, Amberth? It'll be our second time getting together. If one of us dies first, they get to be the tree. And the one following after shall be the mushroom on the trunk. Or a squirrel in their nest." She had cackled, treating the subject no heavier than a small talk.

Grandpa had silently shoved a plate of honey pies to his wife's lap, knowing once she ranted about the villagers' superstitions, not even a blizzard could shut her up.

Has she become a tree already, now that she died before I do?

Grandpa longs for his wife to be here with him. She would've known how to tend for Rozell and reach down the roots of his problems.

But there must be a reason why the gods took her first. Maybe they hope that he can stand on both his feet. After all, in their nearly three decades of marriage, Serenade had always been the one steering his life path. Never the opposite, even when society's popular belief is that men should have the upper hand in every condition, knowing that women tend to decide with their feelings rather than experience and brain.

That isn't true. Serenade was what I should've been as a man, and I am still what she should've been as a woman.

Shrugging his memories away, Grandpa stares at the plain wall ahead of him and steers his mind back to his oddly-behaving grandson.

Was it a spontaneous statement that wasn't supposed to mean anything?

Unaware of the raw smell now staining his fingers, Grandpa scratches his cheek as he muses.

Anything can happen in a nightmare; it's not like dying is impossible there.

The shy sun has barely cast its light over the slender trees when Grandpa already finishes stacking two heavy sandwiches on the tray. Reining back his appetite, Grandpa washes the bloody scent off his hands and slowly heads to Rozell's room.

Poking his head over the unlocked door, the uneasiness in Grandpa's chest grows as Rozell still tosses and turns on his bed, with his shivering fingers intertwined like he's praying.

With his fingers shaking against the wooden frame, Grandpa closes the door with barely a creak. Questions rush forth to the front of his head, like those impatient hunters whenever they knock on the cottage's door and ask for his help.

A sour smile curves his lips as he treads into his bedroom, next to Rozell's. One of those hunters—a young man who had introduced himself as Tesfaye—politely told him that the forest's most sought beast had visited his cottage two days earlier. The hunters had tried to paralyze it, but the hunt ended up with one of them dying from a severe injury.

Grandpa gently lies down on his bed, but the soft mattress barely soothes the aches on his lower back. Not even the swan feathers within his pillow can lull him back to sleep, though his eyes are now too heavy to remain open.

What bothers him more than Rozell's nightmare is that the boy also hasn't mentioned anything about the snooping beast.

The thought intensifies his headache. When he tosses to Serenade's side of the bed, a tear wets the pillow's sheet. He buries his face to the soft plush to muffle his distressed gurgles. Curling himself into the shape of a yarn, Grandpa pours his emotions out like an unleashed storm.Everything is wrong: from Serenade's absence, his grandson's weird and secretive behaviors, his drinking companions' jeers from the past until his recent visit to Avoridge, his son's demanding yet low-paid job as a building planner—his job as a handyman, too—and the small number of inherited fortune he has left.

Not to mention Rozell's wall mirror, which bears several abnormal cracks and fading paw prints on its surface.

Has the world ever seemed right through his eyes, though? Or has it gone worse since Serenade's disappearance?

As he knots his hands together under the pillow, an uncertain knock resounds on the door. "Grandpa?"

At Rozell's drowsy yet alerted voice, Grandpa wipes his tears away. "What is it, boy?" With shame heating Grandpa's cheeks as well, he daren't lift his face to judge his grandson's wellbeing, though he—or maybe both of them—has been through such a rough night.

"Is there something wrong?"

A part of Grandpa urges him to shout at the boy for interrupting and for being a huge reason in his emotional state, but the other part figures that it'll be unfair. "I need some rest, that's all."

Rozell brushes his hands together as if heating them back to life. "Did you not sleep well last night? I can leave you be if you need to." His bare footsteps inch farther away from his ears. "I-I think I can handle the cottage today."

Again, the familiar uneasiness resurfaces within Grandpa's chest, for Rozell's tone differs a lot from what he usually uses. He has never sounded this confident. And in their sixteen years of living together, the number of times he offers to handle the cottage can be counted by a single hand. Especially in daylight.

"You don't need to. You're always busy, aren't you?" With tears returning to his eyes, Grandpa makes his voice louder, "You're rarely home any other day. So why should you stay in today?"

The air feels stuffy and hot as the tension in the room grows.

"Today can be an exception," Rozell whispers like a child pleading for mercy. "Besides, I'm not always out every day—"

"Sixteen years!" With dried tears still staining his face, Grandpa climbs out of his bed and marches over to his grandson. He has to stretch his spine to be able to tower over Rozell, who looks down at the floor with a quavering stare. "Sixteen years of all these manners, yet I never ask anything. I've been doing all the housework until they root in my bones for sixteen years. Yet for you, it isn't every day?"

"It's not like that," Rozell stammers. "There's a reason—"

"It must be a good one to tempt you to leave me struggling alone for sixteen years," Grandpa spits, his branch-like arms flailing around him. He steps back to avoid himself from slapping his grandson, though his rage tempts him to. "Let's hear it then." Unable to stop his voice from cracking, Grandpa stifles a cry. "I've held all these emotions for sixteen years, and you still wander around like nothing is wrong. Have I been mistreating you all this time? Are you not happy here?"

"I can't tell you why yet." The firmness in Rozell's voice catches Grandpa off-guard. "It's true that there's nothing more important than you. But there's something I still have to deal with—"

"Have you been joining those hunters without asking me?" Grandpa blurts out, surprising himself as well. The thought has never crossed his considerations, but maybe it has lurked in his consciousness for a while. More so after the hunters' frequent visits during the winters. "They always hunt at daylight." Smiling sourly at how Rozell cowers farther at the corner of the room, Grandpa continues, "The thrill must be reasonable enough to leave this old man by himself. Or maybe for the share of coins you can keep to yourself."

"How could you think of that, Grandpa?" Rozell's tone rises into a squeak. "I won't keep some coins for myself and leave you working hard to earn them. If I have enough coins, I would be able to fix that wall mirror all by myself. And why do you think I'm a part of those brutal chipmunks? You do remember how they treated me, don't you?" Rozell's face contorts into a deep frown, with blatant hurt flashing from his eyes.

"Anything is possible nowadays, isn't it, child?" Grandpa hates speaking in this demeaning tone. More often than not, it steers the conversation to a darker turn. "How am I supposed to act? I've seen all your sides during these sixteen years. But I still can't understand you. And I will never if you keep all these sinister secrets going on."

Grandpa's footsteps echo like a foreign visitor in the cottage as he zooms out of his room. He grabs his coat and snatches a spare cane from a bucket in the living room. Both his heart and nostrils are burning as if someone is smoking there on purpose.

He needs fresh air. And some time to freshen his thoughts.

However, he's yet to open the door when hurried footsteps dash from his back. "Where are you going?" Rozell's tone carries both anticipation and dread, which burns Grandpa's suspicions even more.

"Out from this miserable place." The moment those words leave his tongue, his eyes land upon Serenade's knitting collection, and it worsens the dull thump in his head. His old muscles beg him to retreat to either the couch or his bed, but his brain lashes him awake. "Go ahead and do whatever you want, like you always do."

Again, Grandpa's determination recedes before he can reach the door. This time, a string of broken sobs cracks through his defense. "I'm sorry, but I can't reveal anything to you yet. You won't be ready to understand. But there will be time—"

"And by that time, one of us will have left the other." Grandpa reins his tears back as he turns around and faces his disheveled grandson. "The world will have come to an end, and Death will reap much more than it sowed."

❄️

Total Word Count: 23,425