Day-Lynx (EDITING)

The Dead's Mystery Unraveled in Nineteen

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[GRANDPA'S POV]

Ever since Mielle and her mother discovered him falling asleep on the front porch for the entire night and still survives—even with badly frozen muscles and bluish veins—a train of lectures and warnings hasn't stopped showering out of the women's mouths. They have bundled him with the warmest coats and sweaters in the cottage, poured him dozens of hot drinks, and coated his exposed skin with fragrant oils to heat him.

Their anxiety is too much for him to bear. At least he hasn't turned into a snowman. Or even an ice cube. They should've let him be.

That morning, the cottage is in fuss without Rozell's presence. As Mielle and her mother wander around and search for the missing boy in every corner they pass by, Grandpa doesn't even bother to join them. He can only try to soothe his heart, which continues to beat uncomfortably ever since his grandson left him alone at the porch last night.

Grandpa doesn't even know how to position himself as Rozell. What would he do if they switched places? He might've run away already.

Rozell's mother also hasn't stopped rambling in panic as she preps both Grandpa and Mielle to attend the funeral. For an outsider, she might look like she's preparing them for an overseas trip, for she packs a lot of condolence gifts for Tesfaye's family and double-checks them every once in a while.

While Grandpa understands her restlessness for the demise of her friend's son, he can't help but mourn in silence since she reminds him so much of Serenade. Both women are equally tactful in their daily jobs. He used to question how his wife could survive the days with that many routines and monotonous activities.

Maybe the thrill is always saved for the men. But that young Mountkirk huntress is an exception. I've never seen any women breaching through the popular jobs for us men.

Grandpa spends the entire day keeping his thoughts to himself, even when his memories continue to slip out of his head. His consciousness also comes and leaves like a confused guest, not knowing where and when to settle down in a comfortable position.

Once the entourage sets foot on Mountkirk, he only manages a neutral frown at those that greet him. His old fellow hunters—including the young ones, like Oxen and his wife—take turns in engaging him in a conversation, but barely a word gets to stick into his ear. His granddaughter repeatedly nudges his rib whenever the Chief says something important during the funeral—or maybe he's delivering a speech; the lines between the two are blurry for Grandpa—but it's difficult for him to nail his attention at the village's most respected figure.

The disturbing snippets of his conversation with Rozell last night still fill his ears like cotton, refusing to allow anything else from replacing their spots. He almost staggers off his seat several times at the discomfort in his stomach whenever he imagines his grandson as the forest's most notorious beast. Dizzying stars dance in his vision every so often, mixing up his reality and the imageries only his head can conjure.

Has he ever killed someone? And was he the one killing Tesfaye as well? Why would Death turn him into that?

"May Tesfaye Goodart's soul live among us, blessing our village and spreads the good harvesting from it. May the gods lead him to the merciful path promised to many. And may his human deeds be forgiven," the Chief shakily says, binding his hands together into prayer. The poor man looks more hunched than usual, and the wrinkles and curves on his face become clearer. "And may the gods save our village from more unfortunate events in the future. May they also forgive our sins and accept our prayers."

But no matter how hard Grandpa's heart slaps him awake to refocus on the ongoing ceremony, his brain still won't stop creating schemes and questions inside his head.