Grandpa's Twelve Cracked Jars

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[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.

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