Morning arrived with a different silence.
Fredon was standing at the edge of the cliff dressed in a black suit his grandfather had never seen on him, hands crossed in front, face tilted downward. Before him, the simple wooden coffin rested on stones covered in flowers. The same place where they had sat two days before counting stars.
The entire village had climbed the mountain.
They came one by one, in silence, leaving a flower beside the coffin and standing still for a few seconds, like someone settling accounts with something larger. Some touched Fredon's shoulder as they passed. Others simply nodded. Nobody said the words that are always said in those moments because everyone knew they served no purpose.
The Patrieco stood beside the coffin, a tall man with a grey beard and deep-set eyes, dressed in a dark blue mantle embroidered with symbols whose meaning Fredon had never thought to ask. He held a twisted wooden staff with its tip wrapped in white cloth. He didn't speak. He simply watched the people pass, one by one, leaving their flowers.
Fredon wasn't crying anymore. He had cried everything he had during the night, alone in his room, staring at the ceiling while the ocean beat below. Now he simply stood there, still, like a tree that has lost its leaves and doesn't yet know if they'll grow back.
That was when he saw Zelma.
She came slowly down the dirt path, her brown hair tied back with a simple ribbon, dressed in a grey dress that seemed too large for her. Her eyes were swollen, red at the edges. She approached him without saying anything, stopped beside him, stood quietly for a few seconds looking at the coffin.
Then, with great effort, she slowly raised her hand to Fredon's shoulder.
He didn't move.
Zelma drew his head to her shoulder with a care that made it seem he might break at the touch, and began stroking his hair with her other hand, slowly, without hurry.
Fredon stayed there, his head resting against her, completely desolate, saying nothing.
— We all loved Mr. Zell. — She said, her voice low but steady. — He'll be greatly missed. Especially me... I'm going to miss the stories he used to tell when I came to your house.
Fredon didn't answer. He only wept in silence, the tears falling without sound.
Zelma continued, her voice a little more unsteady now.
— We're all going to miss him. But he's in a better place now. He's waiting for us. And one day we'll be together again.
Fredon wiped his face with his sleeve, managed a small, weak smile, and looked at her.
— Thank you, Zelma. I'm glad you're here.
She went red. Completely red. She started talking all flustered, the words tumbling over each other.
— I-it was nothing, we're friends and that's what friends do, it's normal for me to touch your hair, it's normal for me to put your head on my shoulder, that's just what—
Fredon frowned, confused.
— Are you alright?
— Yes! — She said, too loudly. — I just remembered something, I have to go home, yes, I have something important to do—
She turned to leave but Fredon took her hand before she could take a second step.
— Please, Zelma. — He said, his voice low, tired. — Stay with me now. I need a friend. Sorry for being selfish with you.
He kept looking at the coffin while he held her hand.
Zelma stopped. She stood there with her hand held, her face red, her head full of thoughts she didn't want to have. *What's wrong with me? I'm just thinking nonsense.*
She turned her head back, saw Fredon still holding her hand, his eyes fixed on his grandfather's coffin.
She breathed deeply.
— Alright, Fredon. I'll stay.
They stood there together, side by side, hand in hand, while the rest of the village finished leaving their flowers. The Patrieco raised his staff, struck the ground three times with its tip, and everyone fell silent.
— The cycle continues. — He said with a voice that echoed more than it should. — And Mr. Zell Andurin follows the path we shall all follow. May the light accompany him to the end of the horizon.
He struck the staff once more, and silence returned.
It was then that Doctor Olsen approached Fredon, hands in his pockets, expression serious.
— Fredon. I need you to come with me. Your grandfather left some things for you.
Fredon looked at him, still half-lost.
— So we're going to the village?
— Yes. That's where the things he left are kept.
Then Fredon began to walk toward the coffin, took hold of it with one hand, bowed his head, and began to pray.
Zelma then asked Olsen if he was doing the Patrico.
Olsen, with his serious expression, simply said yes.
Then Fredon finished the Patrico, said goodbye to his grandfather, and walked to where Olsen was standing.
Before walking away, Fredon looked back at Zelma, and she gave him a small smile.
— It's alright, Fredon. We'll see each other later. I know you have to go and collect those things.
He nodded.
— Tonight I'll make a grilled roast for us. As a treat. And so we can do the Ortakum.
Zelma flushed even more, her head full again. *Stop thinking nonsense, Zelma.*
She watched Fredon leave with Olsen along the dirt path, descending the mountain. She stood there until they disappeared between the trees.
Her expression changed.
A tear fell.
She slipped her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper, crumpled from being opened and closed so many times. She looked at the handwritten words.
*For Zelma Ashford. You are being summoned to return to your family home.*
She folded the paper slowly, put it back in her pocket, and stood there alone on the cliff looking at the empty coffin while the wind beat against her face.
---
Fredon and Olsen descended through the forest in silence, their feet striking the raised roots, the sound of the waterfall's water in the distance. Olsen went ahead with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the path.
It was he who broke the silence.
— You and Zelma... is there something between you?
Fredon looked at him with all the conviction in the world and answered in a completely normal tone.
— Yes. We have something very strong and deep.
Olsen stopped in the middle of the path. He turned around, grabbed Fredon by the shoulder with both eyes wide.
— So you two are in—
Fredon raised his arms with a cheerful smile.
— We're great friends! And now we're almost like siblings!
Olsen stood still. He looked at Fredon. He nearly toppled sideways.
— Kid... you're not quite right in the head.
Fredon looked worried, completely confused.
— Why? Did I say something wrong?
Olsen sighed deeply, shook his head, and kept walking.
— Forget it. Even if I explained it, you wouldn't understand.
— Alright...?
Olsen glanced sideways at the boy as they walked and thought, half-smiling, half-laughing at himself. *I'm absolutely certain this boy is the type of person who, even if a girl undressed in front of him, wouldn't react at all.*
He smiled wider.
*But I envy him for it. This world is already full of corrupted people.*
They descended the rest of the path in silence until they reached the village.
---
The village of Anduza was small, simple, houses of wood and stone scattered without apparent order, beaten dirt streets that turned muddy when it rained. It had a central square with a stone fountain where children usually played, and it was into that square that Fredon and Olsen entered.
As soon as they appeared, a group of children came running toward them.
— Fredon! What time is the Ortakum going to be?
— Is it happening tonight?
— Are we doing it in the square or on your cliff?
Fredon looked at them with that tired smile and simply said:
— I don't know the exact time yet. But I'll let you know soon.
The children nodded and ran back to their games. Fredon and Olsen continued to the clinic, the green door that creaked when it opened.
They went in.
The smell of dried herbs and old wood filled the air. Olsen went straight to a shelf at the back of the room, shifted some boxes, and returned with an old wooden box, dusty, with a metal latch on the front.
He set it on the table.
— He left this box. But he didn't leave a key.
Fredon looked at the latch. Narrow, small, with a thin hole in the centre. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of keys tied with a leather cord.
Olsen frowned.
— Those keys will open this box?
Fredon was staring fixedly at one specific key, the smallest in the bundle, almost invisible among the others.
And he remembered.
---
*He was ten years old.*
*He was sitting on the porch of the house with his grandfather beside him, legs dangling in the air, moonlight falling over both of them like a white blanket.*
*He had the bundle of keys in his hand, looking at them one by one.*
*— Grandpa, all these keys open the doors here in the house. But this one... this smallest one, what does it open?*
*His grandfather had smiled.*
*— It's a surprise. That key will open a box with a present inside. But only when you turn fourteen.*
*Fredon had been left with his mouth open.*
*— Fourteen? But I'm ten! I have to wait four more years? That's not fair, grandpa! I want it now!*
*His grandfather had started laughing, tickling him, chasing him around the porch pretending to be a monster, and Fredon laughed so hard he could barely breathe.*
---
In the present, Fredon let a tear fall.
— Grandpa... you never tire of surprising me.
He slipped the key into the latch. Turned it.
Click.
The box opened.
Inside was a carefully folded letter and a larger key, dark metal, with symbols engraved on its handle.
Fredon picked up the letter slowly, as if it might vanish at the touch.
Olsen stayed quiet beside him, hands crossed, watching in silence.
Fredon unfolded the letter. He looked at the first words written in his grandfather's handwriting, the one he knew so well.
And he began to read.