That night, the hut felt heavier than ever.
Samye sat alone in the dim light, his back resting against the wall, staring at the empty corner where Aren used to sleep. Every small sound, every faint breeze, every shifting shadow reminded him of something—
A laugh.
A complaint.
A childish whisper calling him “brother.”
Aren had been a small spark in a world swallowed by darkness. A fragile, stubborn spark of hope—
And even that had been taken from him.
Samye closed his eyes.
The emotional wounds he thought had begun to heal now tore open even deeper. It felt like his soul itself had been scraped raw.
A knock echoed softly.
“Samye?”
It was the old man from earlier.
Samye didn’t move. He didn’t want company.
The door creaked open anyway.
The old man stepped inside, carrying a small metal plate of food—simple rice and vegetables. He held it out gently.
“Here,” he said. “Eat something.”
Samye didn’t even look at it.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, voice flat. “Give it to someone else.”
The old man didn’t leave.
He just stood there, staring at Samye quietly.
Then he spoke, voice soft but firm:
“If that boy were alive… he wouldn’t have let you sleep without eating.”
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Samye’s breath caught.
A sharp pain ran through his chest.
The old man placed the plate near him and turned to leave—
But Samye stopped him.
“…Wait.”
He opened the gate and stepped aside.
They sat down together on the floor, sharing the food silently at first. Samye ate slowly, almost mechanically, each bite tasting like nothing.
The old man finally spoke.
“You know… life has never been kind to me either.”
Samye looked up.
The old man stared at the wall, eyes distant.
“One day, government officers came hunting an ability user. The fight broke out near my home… they burned everything.”
He exhaled softly.
“And government blamed no one.”
Samye listened quietly.
“I lost my home that day. Later, my daughter took me in. Her husband was a good man… they treated me well.”
His voice trembled slightly.
“But two years ago, both of them were captured by the Breakers. Forced to work in the factories. I never saw them again.”
Samye’s hands clenched instinctively.
“And after a year…”
His voice cracked softly.
“My daughter couldn’t bear the grief. She took her own life.”
Samye’s eyes widened.
He suddenly remembered the two bodies he had seen on the day he arrived.
The brother and sister lying in the center square.
The villagers burying them quietly, almost numb.
Samye swallowed.
“So that was… them?”
The old man nodded.
“Her son and daughter. My grandchildren.”
The hut fell into silence.
Two men, from two different worlds—yet both shattered by the same cruel system.
The old man looked down at the floor.
“You and I… we are not very different, Samye.”
Samye didn’t answer.
“We both lost our world,” the old man continued. “We both carry wounds that won’t heal.”
Then he turned his head, eyes sharp despite his age.
“But listen carefully, boy.”
Samye looked up.
“We must take responsibility for our future. Not for the past. Not for the people who wronged us.”
He placed a hand on Samye’s shoulder.
“We cannot let grief blind us forever.”
Those words struck Samye harder than any blow.
Aren’s death.
His parents’ deaths.
The cruelty of the world.
The injustice he had seen.
He had been drowning in it all.
But now—
Something in him shifted.
Not healed.
Not forgiven.
But… awakened.
After they finished the last of the food, the old man stood.
“You rest,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow will be different. It always is.”
He left the hut and closed the door behind him.
Samye lay down on the rough bed, staring into the darkness.
We cannot let grief blind us forever…
The words repeated themselves in his mind, circling, echoing, digging deeper.
For the first time since Aren died—
Samye thought about something other than pain.
He thought about tomorrow.
Slowly, with exhaustion outweighing his sorrow, Samye closed his eyes.
And for the first time in months—
he fell asleep.
