Eugene sat cross-legged on the floor, listening to Rin clearly.
"The story is one of the Hundred Tales."
Eugene remained silent for a moment, then tilted his head slightly to the left.
"Isn't this the same collection of stories that includes the tale of Prince Ramani?"
Rin nodded yes.
"Ah…" Eugene sighed, then threw himself back onto the ground again.
"What's wrong?" Rin asked, confused. A few moments ago he had been excited.
"They're children's stories. How did they affect you to that degree?"
His tone carried disappointment mixed with sarcasm.
Rin felt a brief sadness inside, then said in a loud voice,
"They are not children's stories."
Eugene looked at him from the corner of his eye. "Yes, they are. Our mother used to tell them to us before sleep all the time."
Rin's brows knit together.
"Not all of them are children's stories. Some are deep and philosophical stories that changed the lives of millions."
Eugene, uninterested, began playing with a lock of his hair.
"Like what?"
Rin said with an eager tone, "Like the story I read during that period, which I still keep now. The name of that story was:
Seed of Life."
The title almost caught Eugene's attention; he raised an eyebrow and looked at Rin.
"And what is this story about?"
"I'll tell it to you instead of summarizing it," Rin began preparing his voice.
While Eugene said in a calm tone leaning toward warning,
"Rin, I asked you to summarize it for me, not to narr—"
"Shhh. This kind of story—summarizing it is an insult. Listen, you won't lose anything."
Rin said in a calm, heavy voice:
…
Under the wing of a new day, amid the air of the mountain peaks, between rivers and waterfalls that played with the sound of water, the wooden cabin stood alone, as if time had forgotten it on the edge.
It was somewhat spacious, its walls cracked, its curtains faded red, and its floor brown wood. The scent of old incense filled it, clinging to the corners like a memory that refused to leave, covered with a layer of dirt and dust, while spider webs adorned its edges like ghosts of a bygone time. A heavy silence filled the place.
On a wooden rocking chair near a window overlooking waters that pierced the white clouds, the old man sat. His white hair shone in the morning light, his nose was straight, and deep wrinkles carved by long years of silence and pain marked his face. His features were slack, filled with an empty calm, like a body without a soul. But inside him, like a room whose lights had been turned off long ago, there was a faint heart beating with distant old memories.
To his left, on an old wooden table, clean and carefully arranged, stood a gray frame holding a picture of a woman. Her hair was brown, her eyes golden, her face clear, and her smile bright like the sun. She was holding a white cat and looking at the camera with quiet confidence.
The old man extended his thin, trembling hand. The frame's surface was smooth and cold, a coldness that awakened something small in his chest. The moment he held it, he gripped it with a strength he had never possessed before. His eyes filled with tears that did not fall, tears that had grown used to staying imprisoned.
He returned the picture slowly, as if afraid to awaken the memory more than necessary. He stood, his knees barely able to carry him, and moved deeper into the house with quiet, barefoot steps. The breeze brushed his cold feet like gentle touches from the past. He grasped the golden door handle, a faint creak spread through the place, then he closed the door and disappeared.
---
The next morning, he returned to his chair. Sunlight entered without permission, spreading a light warmth across the floor. He sat still and calm, looking at the distant horizon like someone waiting for something whose name he did not know, while yesterday's memories slipped toward him like a light breeze.
After an hour, he placed his hand on the chair, trying to stand.
"Ouch."
He raised his finger — a small thorn had entered his flesh. His face frowned. He tried to remove it, but his weak fingers did not help.
A breeze blew, his dirty blue robe fluttered, as if the air itself were consoling him. At that same moment, his gaze fell on his pocket. He remembered a moment days ago, when he had placed a needle there.
He inserted his hand and felt something small and round, soft yet sharp at the edges.
He raised an eyebrow in surprise and whispered, "What is this?"
When he pulled it out, it was a seed.
He frowned again and almost threw it away.
But the memory opened suddenly, like a window struck by wind.
He saw her… her. She was holding the same seed. She opened her hand, placed it in his palm, and said in a voice warm like coffee in the middle of an icy storm:
"Keep it. This is the last flower of its kind. Only this seed remains."
The old man's hand stopped moving.
His eyes widened. He felt something frozen inside him begin to soften, like ice touched by the first threads of sunlight. He whispered in his hoarse, dry voice,
"So… this is the last thing left of you."
---
He looked at the small red and blue pot in front of him. He went down to the ground with difficulty, his body heavy, and touched the soft soil. He dug a small hole and placed the seed with great tenderness, as if it were an infant he feared the weight of the world might harm. Then he closed the hole.
He searched for water… nothing. Disappointment slipped into his heart, but the memory of her smile burned that feeling away.
His face tightened and he stood. He entered the wide kitchen and took a blue pitcher decorated with flowers… but it was empty.
He went outside. The cool, soft soil touched his feet. A shiver passed through his body, a sensation he had forgotten during years of isolation. He reached a small pond and bent down.
"Tk—ah!" A sharp pain struck his back. He almost stopped, but continued, as if moving between past and present.
He filled the pitcher. It became heavy, his hands trembling. He carried it carefully and turned back.
Before he arrived… he stumbled over a wooden chair.
Crack. He fell to the ground. The pitcher broke, and the water scattered through the small cracks.
He remained lying there. Pain spread through his body, but what broke inside him was heavier than the pitcher.
---
A cold wind rose with the sunset, and the horizon drew a dark blue line.
He placed his hand on the ground and stood with extreme difficulty. He looked at the shards of the pitcher, then at the distant pool of water.
He returned to it.
This time with his hands.
He bent, dipped his palms into the cool water that shimmered faintly, took a little, returned, poured.
Then returned.
Then returned.
Time began to melt. Slow steps, the same pain, the same path. He was not thinking of anything clear, only one small steady thought: the seed must drink.
The journey repeated many times until blood mixed with soil and water, and the smell of iron, mud, and old incense spread. His body trembled, his breathing became heavy.
When the soil finally became completely wet, he collapsed beside the pot. The air touched his face with neutral gentleness, neither cold nor warm, as if the mountain itself were patting him. He drifted into a long sleep, surrounded by memories and quiet, as if time had paused for a moment.
---
In the morning, the sun woke him.
For the first time in years, he woke with the sunrise. He remembered how she used to wake him every day, a tender feeling that had been annoying at first, then he grew used to it. His memory smiled faintly.
He stood slowly. He saw the shards, the mess, the dust, the spider webs.
He took the broom and began to clean.
Every movement was small, but steady. He swept the floor, gathered the pieces, opened the windows so light entered and air moved. He took a stick of incense, lit it, and began to scent the house. Then he wiped the traces of water, soil, and blood.
He looked around. It was as if the cabin had returned twenty years back. His lips lifted slightly, and he felt a faint happiness, barely visible.
---
He returned to water the seed. The same path.
But this time his steps were faster, his pain lighter, and in his eyes was a small glimmer.
---
At noon, he felt hunger and thirst. He opened the drawers and the refrigerator and found them empty. He remembered: more than ten days until the end of the month. Alone, and elderly.
He went outside and turned.
He saw the long gray staircase leading down the mountain toward the village where the sounds of life lived: children playing, laughter filling the air.
He remembered years ago when the villagers had knocked on his door.
On the seventh day, he opened. He saw a man carrying a basket of food, with a hesitant smile:
"Mr. Louis… this is from us. Because the district aid is not enough…"
The old man had closed the door in his face. Even so, they continued every month. He had not cared.
He returned to the present.
He smiled inwardly and headed toward the food basket that was waiting for him.
He said in his old, aching voice, which had begun to gain a faint tone of hope:
"It seems the goodness of this world… has not ended yet."
And in his chest, beneath layers of silence and pain, the small seed pulsed lightly, as if repeating the same words.
To be continued
End of chapter