That painting was taped to the wall above her bed, held in place by two rusty nails at the corners.
Every night before sleeping, she would look at it for a while. The first thing she saw upon waking in the morning was also it. In the painting, she stood in a lavender field blooming with flowers, bent over, like someone she didn't recognize—someone beautiful, gentle, called "Daughter of the Sea of Flowers."
Seeing her like this, a strange feeling arose in his heart. Warm, swelling, as if something was stuffed into his chest.
He wanted to do something for her.
One night in late October, it started drizzling outside, tapping softly against the window. Three people sat around the fireplace—Old Dusan puffed on his pipe, Colette mended a pair of socks with a hole, sitting nearby, watching her sew.
Her hands were very skillful, moving quickly and neatly with each stitch. But what caught his attention was that every time she threaded the needle, she had to squint her eyes, leaning very close, sometimes needing several tries to get the needle through.
"Bad eyesight?" he asked.
Colette looked up at him, paused, then smiled: "Not bad eyesight, just illiterate."
Let was confused.
Colette set down the needle and thread, pointing to the painting on the wall: "I don't even know how to sign my name on this painting. You painted it, you wrote your name, but I don't understand what you wrote."
Let looked at the painting. Indeed, there were a few characters in the corner—he had casually written them that day—"Daughter of the Sea of Flowers." He thought it was something everyone could understand.
"Want to learn?" he asked.
Colette was stunned.
"Learn what?"
"Literacy."
The fire in the fireplace flickered, casting shifting shadows on Colette's face, making her expression flicker between bright and dark. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Old Dusan coughed beside them: "When she was young, there was a school in town, but I didn't have enough money to send her there. Later, she was old enough to go, but she felt shy sitting with those little kids."
"So, she can learn at home," Let said.
He stood up, walked to the corner of the wall, and pulled out a piece of wood—an old board used to support pots, blackened by smoke. He turned it over, wiped it clean with a rag, and placed it on the table. Then he picked up a half-burned piece of charcoal from the stove.
Colette watched his actions with wide eyes.
Let drew a circle on the board and wrote a line of characters beside it.
"This reads 'a'," he pointed to the circle, "This is 'apple'."
Colette leaned in to look. She recognized the circle—it was the shape of an apple. The line of characters beside it was curvy, like a bunch of tiny worms.
"Apple… is that how you write it?" she asked.
"Yes," Let repeated, writing it again. "Try it."
Colette took the charcoal hesitantly, hesitated for a long time, then drew a crooked circle on the board. The line of characters beside it, she traced with Let's strokes, but it looked like a bunch of drunken worms.
Let watched her, his lips curling into a smile: "Very good."
"What's good about it? It's terrible," Colette blushed.
"Your first time writing like that, it's very good," Let said. "When I was little, my first writing was even uglier than this."
Colette looked up at him: "You remember when you were a kid?"
Let was stunned.
He thought carefully, then shook his head: "Don't remember. But my hands know how to write, and my brain knows what 'good' and 'bad' are. Maybe… it's because I learned before, and my hands and brain still remember."
Colette nodded, seeming to understand but not quite.
Old Dusan watched quietly, sparks flickering in his pipe. Suddenly, he spoke: "Let, you're from the city, right?"
Let thought for a moment: "Probably."
"Are all city folks literate?"
"Not necessarily. But children from wealthy families usually are."
Old Dusan nodded, saying nothing more. He looked at Let with a deep gaze, as if trying to see through him.
Let felt that gaze but didn't hide. He simply picked up the charcoal and continued writing on the board.
"A, B, C…" he wrote one by one, teaching each letter, "These are the letters. All words in French are made up of these letters. Once you learn the alphabet, you can learn to read."
Colette stared at the letters, blinking without blinking. She had never thought that those curvy, tangled characters were made up of even smaller curves and loops.
"What's this one?" she pointed to the first letter.
"a."
"And this?"
"b."
"And this?"
"c."
She asked one by one, and Let answered each. After finishing, she asked again, and he answered again. Repeating over and over, he patiently responded.
Outside the window, the rain continued. The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, warming the entire cabin. The kerosene lamp flickered, illuminating the letters on the board, Colette's focused face, and the slightly curved smile on Let's lips as he taught her.
After a while, Colette suddenly yawned.
Old Dusan stood up, tapping his pipe: "That's enough for tonight. Sleep now."
Reluctantly, Colette looked at the wooden board: "Can I keep this? I want to keep learning tomorrow."
"Of course," Let said, placing the board aside. "We'll continue tomorrow."
She stood up, walked to the bed, took off her shoes, and climbed in. Before lying down, she glanced again at the painting on the wall and the characters in the corner.
"Let," she suddenly said.
"Hm?"
"Can you tell me what those characters say now?"
Let looked at the painting. The firelight reflected on it, and the characters seemed to float above the purple sea of flowers.
"'Daughter of the Sea of Flowers,'" he said slowly, "Flowers, sea, of, daughter, er."
Colette silently repeated the phrase. Then she pulled the blanket up to her chin, looked at the ceiling, and repeated it again.
"Daughter of the Sea of Flowers."
Let stood by the table, watching her. Her eyes shone like the firelight in the fireplace.
Old Dusan blew out the kerosene lamp and lay down in his bed. In the darkness, his voice suddenly sounded: "Let, teach her to write her name tomorrow."
Let was momentarily stunned, then nodded: "Okay."
In the dark, Colette's soft voice drifted: "Do I have a name too?"
"Of course," Let said. "Colette Dusan. It's a beautiful name."
Colette didn't speak again. But Let knew she was smiling. He could hear that low, gentle laughter.
Outside, the rain was still falling, but lighter now, only a gentle rustling sound. In the distance, the lavender field was quietly sleeping in the rain, occasionally stirred by a breeze carrying a faint fragrance.
Let sat at the table for a long time, looking at the wooden board, the crooked letters on it, and the apple Colette drew.
He didn't know who he was, didn't know what he had done before, and didn't know what the future held. But at this moment, sitting in this small cabin, listening to the rain and their breathing, he felt a strange sensation.
Peaceful.
Like having traveled far and finally found a place to rest.
The next evening, Let kept his promise.
He taught Colette to write her own name. C-O-L-E-T-T-E, seven letters. He taught one by one, she learned one by one. Her hands were clumsy, the charcoal unsteady, and the letters crooked, but she was very serious, writing again and again.
Finally, she wrote her own name—though still crooked, it was recognizable as "Colette."
"Look!" she held up the board for Let to see, her eyes shining like stars. "I did it!"
Let nodded: "Very good."
Colette stared at the letters for a long time, then suddenly smiled. That smile was so radiant that it made Let momentarily dazed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," Let looked away. "Just… I think… you look really nice when you smile."
Colette's face flushed suddenly. She lowered her head, pretending to examine her writing, her ears red like they were on fire.
Old Dusan was by the stove, boiling soup, his back turned to them, but his shoulders were shaking gently—he was laughing.
After dinner, Let took out a thin book from his belongings. The book was water-damaged, pages crumpled, but still readable. He flipped it open and pointed to the first page.
"'French Poetry Collection,'" he said. "By Lamartine. Want to listen?"
Colette nodded eagerly.
Let began to read. His voice was very pleasant, low, with a hint of something she couldn't quite describe. He read slowly, each word clear, as if afraid she wouldn't understand.
"…Lake, fleeting through the year; waves, I once wished to see her again. Sitting on these stones, where you saw her sitting…"
Colette didn't understand the words, but she understood what was in his voice. There was wind, water, a very distant place.
When he finished a poem, he looked up and saw Colette gazing at him, her eyes shining.
"Like it?" he asked.
Colette nodded.
He thought for a moment, then took a piece of paper—an old, yellowed piece of leather paper she had given him—and copied a line from the poem onto it.
"Here," he said. "This is a line from that poem. Take your time to learn it. When you understand it, you'll know what it means."
Colette took it, looked at the line, and counted the thirteen characters.
She looked up at Let: "You teach me."
He nodded: "Every day."
That night, Colette lay in bed, sticking the line of characters to her chest. She didn't understand what it meant, but she knew it was written for her.
Outside, the wind blew through the lavender field, carrying a faint fragrance.
She closed her eyes, repeatedly imagining those thirteen letters in her mind until she fell asleep.
Let sat at the table, gazing at the wooden board, the crooked letters, and the apple Colette drew.
He didn't know who he was, didn't know what he had done before, and didn't know what the future would bring. But at this moment, sitting in this tiny cabin, listening to the rain and breathing, he felt a strange feeling.
Peace.
Like having traveled a long way and finally found a place to stop.
The next evening, Let fulfilled his promise.
He taught Colette to write her name: C-O-L-E-T-T-E. Seven letters. He taught one by one, she learned one by one. Her hands were clumsy, charcoal unsteady, and the letters crooked, but she was very earnest, writing again and again.
Finally, she wrote her name—still crooked, but recognizable as "Colette."
"Look!" she held up the board excitedly, her eyes shining like stars. "I did it!"
Let nodded: "Very good."
Colette stared at the letters for a long time, then suddenly smiled. That smile was so bright it made Let feel a bit dazed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," Let looked away. "Just… I think… you look really good when you smile."
Colette's face suddenly blushed. She lowered her head, pretending to examine her writing, her ears red as if on fire.
Old Dusan was by the stove, boiling soup, his back turned to them, but his shoulders shook gently—he was laughing.
After dinner, Let took out a thin book from his belongings. The book was water-stained, pages wrinkled, but still readable. He flipped it open, pointing to the first page.
"'French Poetry Collection,'" he said. "By Lamartine. Want to listen?"
Colette nodded eagerly.
Let began to read. His voice was very pleasant, low, with a faint flavor she couldn't quite describe. He read slowly, each word clear, as if afraid she wouldn't understand.
"…Lake, fleeting through the year; waves, I once wished to see her again, sitting on these stones, where you saw her sitting…"
Colette couldn't understand the words, but she understood what was in his voice. There was wind, water, a faraway place.
When he finished a poem, he looked up and saw Colette gazing at him, her eyes shining.
"Like it?" he asked.
Colette nodded.
He thought for a moment, then took a piece of paper—an old, yellowed piece of leather paper she had given him—and copied a line from the poem onto it.
"Here," he said. "This is a line from that poem. Take your time to learn it. When you understand it, you'll know what it means."
Colette took it, looked at the line, and counted the thirteen characters.
She looked up at Let: "You teach me."
He nodded: "Every day."
That night, Colette lay in bed, sticking the line of characters to her chest. She didn't understand what it meant, but she knew it was written for her.
Outside, the wind blew through the lavender field, carrying a faint fragrance.
She closed her eyes, repeatedly imagining those thirteen letters in her mind until she fell asleep.
And Let sat at the table, gazing at the wooden board, the crooked letters, and the apple Colette drew.
He didn't know who he was, didn't know what he had done before, and didn't know what the future would hold. But at this moment, sitting in this small cabin, listening to the rain and their breathing, he felt a strange feeling.
Peaceful.
Like having traveled far and finally finding a place to rest.
The next evening, Let kept his promise.
He taught Colette to write her own name: C-O-L-E-T-T-E. Seven letters. He taught one by one, she learned one by one. Her hands were clumsy, charcoal unsteady, and the letters crooked, but she was very earnest, writing again and again.
Finally, she wrote her name—though still crooked, it was recognizable as "Colette."
"Look!" she said, holding up the board, her eyes shining like stars. "I did it!"
Let nodded: "Very good."
Colette stared at the letters for a long time, then suddenly smiled. That smile was so radiant that it made Let feel a little dazed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," Let looked away. "Just… I think… you look really nice when you smile."
Colette's face blushed suddenly. She lowered her head, pretending to look at her writing, her ears red as if on fire.
Old Dusan was by the stove, boiling soup, his back turned to them, but his shoulders shook gently—he was laughing.
After dinner, Let took out a thin book from his belongings. The book was water-stained, pages wrinkled, but still readable. He flipped it open and pointed to the first page.
"'French Poetry Collection,'" he said. "By Lamartine. Want to listen?"
Colette nodded eagerly.
Let began to read. His voice was very pleasant, low, with a faint flavor she couldn't quite describe. He read slowly, each word clear, as if afraid she wouldn't understand.
"…Lake, fleeting through the year; waves, I once wished to see her again. Sitting on these stones, where you saw her sitting…"
Colette couldn't understand the words, but she understood what was in his voice. There was wind, water, a faraway place.
When he finished a poem, he looked up and saw Colette gazing at him, her eyes shining.
"Like it?" he asked.
Colette nodded.
He thought for a moment, then took a piece of paper—an old, yellowed piece of leather paper she had given him—and copied a line from the poem onto it.
"Here," he said. "This is a line from that poem. Take your time to learn it. When you understand it, you'll know what it means."
Colette took it, looked at the line, and counted the thirteen characters.
She looked up at Let: "You teach me."
He nodded: "Every day."
That night, Colette lay in bed, sticking the line of characters to her chest. She didn't understand what it meant, but she knew it was written for her.
Outside, the wind blew through the lavender field, carrying a faint fragrance.
She closed her eyes, repeatedly imagining those thirteen letters in her mind until she fell asleep.
Let sat at the table, gazing at the wooden board, the crooked letters, and the apple Colette drew.
He didn't know who he was, didn't know what he had done before, and didn't know what the future would hold. But at this moment, sitting in this tiny cabin, listening to the rain and their breathing, he felt a strange feeling.
Peace.
Like having traveled far and finally finding a place to rest.
The next evening, Let kept his promise.
He taught Colette to write her own name: C-O-L-E-T-T-E. Seven letters. He taught one by one, she learned one by one. Her hands were clumsy, charcoal unsteady, and the letters crooked, but she was very earnest, writing again and again.
Finally, she wrote her name—though still crooked, it was recognizable as "Colette."
"Look!" she said, holding up the board excitedly, her eyes shining like stars. "I did it!"
Let nodded: "Very good."
Colette stared at the letters for a long time, then suddenly smiled. That smile was so bright that it made Let feel a little dazed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," Let looked away. "Just… I think… you look really good when you smile."
Colette's face suddenly blushed. She lowered her head, pretending to examine her writing, her ears red as if on fire.
Old Dusan was by the stove, boiling soup, his back turned to them, but his shoulders shook gently—he was laughing.
After dinner, Let took out a thin book from his belongings. The book was water-stained, pages wrinkled, but still readable. He flipped it open and pointed to the first page.
"'French Poetry Collection,'" he said. "By Lamartine. Want to listen?"
Colette nodded eagerly.
Let began to read. His voice was very pleasant, low, with a faint flavor she couldn't quite describe. He read slowly, each word clear, as if afraid she wouldn't understand.
"…Lake, fleeting through the year; waves, I once wished to see her again, sitting on these stones, where you saw her sitting…"
Colette couldn't understand the words, but she understood what was in his voice. There was wind, water, a faraway place.
When he finished