"This is my house, and that over there is where I wash the dead."
He spoke while pointing to a square-shaped annex attached to the house, yet it seemed separated from it all the same.
"I have a collection of coffins in various sizes, and I also wash the dead there. It's my workplace—everything I need is there. Come, let's take your mother and begin."
The touch of his mother's bare body was like ice—cold as frost. He looked at her as if he no longer recognized her. Her features were faded, frightening; the color of her skin and face had changed. Humbert noticed the lifeless stillness in the boy's eyes.
"Our bodies are like vessels. And when we die, we don't really disappear forever. We simply shed these useless containers. Our bodies are weak—prone to illness, easily hurt. What lies inside them is the true essence, our souls, which are who we really are."
He spoke in an attempt to offer the boy some comfort.
"And where does the soul go?"
"To the one who created it. He knows what to do with it."
"God?"
"Yes, God."
"And what do you think God will do with my mother?"
"We can't know that. In truth, no one can."
He looked at the boy again and paused his work for a moment. He thought that letting Artaud see his mother in such a state might be too much, considering he was still just a child.
"There's a room on the second floor. I've already made your bed. Go and rest now. I'll wake you in the evening for dinner."
Artaud nodded and left quietly. Humbert returned to his work, though his mind remained preoccupied with how he would deal with the boy's shattered heart. He saw the break in his empty eyes, the silent plea that his mother might wake up at any moment—that all of this had just been a terrible dream. But in the end, he would have to accept reality. The reality that she would never return.
That evening, Humbert had prepared dinner—bread, porridge, and some tea. He even added a few pieces of cake, thinking it might be a kind or welcoming gesture for a child, perhaps. In truth, he didn't really know how to deal with children, not from the start. But lately, he'd been thinking a lot—too much, even—about how to coexist with someone new under his roof.
Artaud had already woken up and bathed. His golden hair was now more visible, and his face looked better despite its paleness.
"Did you like your new bed?"
He asked while they ate quietly at the table. Artaud simply nodded. Humbert paused his chewing for a moment and said:
"You don't have to eat if you're not hungry. But a little porridge would be good for your health."
The boy didn't respond. He stared at the plate blankly, then finally spoke:
"Can I tell you something? I don't think I can keep it inside anymore. I haven't had the courage to say anything for weeks. I've had enough."
Humbert stopped eating and focused on the boy's face.
"And what is it?"
"I think... I think my father killed my mother."
Artaud lifted his dull eyes and stared directly into Humbert's.
"She didn't die from a fever..."
The wrinkled mouth stopped moving, and Humbert's brows furrowed in surprise. He then asked:
"And how can you be so sure?"
"My parents fought a lot lately. But my mother had been fine during that time. Then suddenly, she got sick. I think my father put something in her food that day."
"What you're saying is just an accusation. You can't prove something like that with suspicions and theories alone. There have to be witnesses—or at least a solid lead, something that could take us to real proof. And arguments between married couples are normal. They rarely escalate into murder."
Artaud fell silent for a moment, then said, eyes fixed on Humbert's:
"So… it's possible he did it?"
Humbert sighed and replied:
"It's not impossible. But like I said, there needs to be a witness, or a tangible trace pointing to murder."
"Well… the important thing is I finally got it off my chest."
Suddenly, he grabbed a piece of bread and began tearing it apart and stuffing it into his mouth angrily. Humbert looked into his teary eyes. Maybe he was trying to distract himself with food—trying not to cry. After finishing the bread, he devoured all the cake and drank his tea, leaving nothing behind. It was as if the confession had been stuck in his throat all this time, keeping him from eating—or even crying. Yet Humbert noticed that he hadn't touched the soup, not a single sip.
Artaud interrupted his thoughts:
"Are we burying my mother tomorrow? Should I wake up early?"
"Yes. I found a suitable place. I want you to wake up at seven. The road will be long."
"Alright. Thanks for dinner mister. I'll go to my room now."
Artaud got up quickly and headed to his room. And when Humbert was left alone once more, the only sound was the crackling of the fire consuming the logs. He sat there, pondering the little boy's confession throughout the night.