*Content Warning: This chapter contains mature themes, violence, blood, and morally dark actions. Reader discretion advised.*
***
Leon stared at the old man sweeping the porch, confusion creasing his brow.
"Hm… what is an old man doing here? And on top of that… why the hell is he so deep in the forest?"
He glanced at the towering trees surrounding the house — ancient, silent, their branches weaving a canopy that swallowed most of the light.
"For some reason the forest has gone ridiculously silent. Why is that?"
The old man finally lifted his head. His sharp eyes met Leon's — calm, knowing, almost amused. He stopped sweeping, leaned the broom against the porch rail, and smiled — kind, weathered, the smile of someone who had long since stopped being surprised by strangers.
"Huh… who might you be, young man? And what are you doing here, this deep in the forest?"
Leon scratched the back of his head, expression half-baffled, half-wary.
"That's the question I should be asking you, old man. What are you even doing this deep in the forest?"
The old man chuckled — soft, dry, like leaves rustling. He turned, picked up two small clay cups from a low table on the porch, and dipped them into a wooden bucket of clear water. He carried them back, slow and steady.
"My bad, my bad," he said, voice warm and cracked with age. "I thought you looked exhausted, young man.I Figured you needed water first — that's why I didn't have time to answer properly."
He held out one cup.
Leon stared at it for a moment, then took it. The water was cold, clean, tasting faintly of moss and stone.
Leon lowered the cup, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips as he looked at the old man.
"Is that so? Well… that's okay, old man. Thanks for bringing the water anyway. May I ask your name?"
The old man tilted his head slightly lower, eyes drifting to his own feet for a moment — as if the question had brushed against something long buried. Then he lifted his gaze again, that same gentle, weathered smile returning, soft around the edges but carrying a quiet weight.
"Sorry to disappoint you, young man… but I have no name." His voice was low, almost apologetic, yet peaceful. "So you may just call me an old man who loves to live in peace."
He paused, studying Leon with calm curiosity.
"But can you tell me your name?"
Leon didn't answer right away. His smile faded just a fraction. He glanced around — the forest beyond the open door had grown colder, wind whispering faster through the branches, carrying a chill that settled deep in his bones.
"Hm… he doesn't have a name?" he thought. "How could that be?"
The silence stretched — not uncomfortable, but heavy, like the forest itself was listening.
Then Leon looked back at the old man, smile returning — small, genuine, carrying the ghost of something precious.
"Well… I have a name. A name someone precious gave me. My name is Leon. Just Leon."
The old man's smile widened — gentle, almost proud.
"Leon… a good name. Strong. Simple. Come inside, Leon. You look like you've walked through hell. Let me give you something warm."
Leon hesitated — then nodded.
The old man led him through the door.
Inside the house was simple, warm — wooden beams, a low fire crackling in the hearth, shelves lined with jars of dried herbs, a small table set with two bowls. The old man gestured to a stool.
"Sit. Drink. I'll bring food."
Leon sat. The stool creaked under him. He watched the old man move — slow, deliberate, ladling stew from a black iron pot into a wooden bowl. The smell hit him like a wave — rich broth, root vegetables, herbs, a hint of smoked meat.
The old man set the bowl in front of him, then sat across the table, folding his hands.
"Eat, Leon. You look half-starved."
Leon ate — slow at first, then faster. The warmth spread through his chest, chasing away the cold that had settled in his bones.
The old man watched him with that same gentle smile.
"Hey, tell me, young man."
Leon paused mid-bite, glancing up.
"Hm? Yeah, what is it?"
The old man leaned forward slightly, eyes kind yet piercing.
"The look in your eyes… it's quite sorrowful. And at the same time — without emotion. As if you don't have any reason to feel anything anymore."
Leon froze.
Then — he laughed.
A low, rough sound that started small and grew.
"Hahahahaha… what are you even talking about, old man? I don't know. Let me eat."
The old man didn't laugh back. He just watched — patient, unblinking.
"You don't have to put up an act in front of me, young man. You can tell me whatever you want. Who knows… you might feel better by letting it out. All the anger. All the sorrow."
Leon lowered the spoon. His smile faded.
"Hey, old man… you may be much older than me. You may have more life experience than I'll ever see. But believe me — you cannot understand what I've been through."
The old man tilted his head slightly.
"Maybe not. But I've lived long enough to know one thing."
He leaned back, eyes reflecting firelight.
"Pain doesn't care how old you are. And sometimes… the only way to carry it is to share even a small piece."
Leon stared at the bowl. Steam curled upward like ghosts.
The forest outside had gone completely silent.
No birds. No wind. No leaves.
Just the crackle of the fire.
And the weight of two men sitting across from each other — one ancient, one broken — both waiting for the other to speak first.