Chapter Ninety-Four: The Truth Will Never Be Revealed

Hearing the cry of a child, Grandma's attention drifted back. The bustle and the noise around her seemed to fade away; only the child in her heart remained, the one who had been missing for so many years. For a moment, her eyes were warm with tears, and she held the little one even tighter.

Life in the mountains was plain and lonely, but because of this child, and because of the young couple's company, the old house no longer felt so desolate.

Winter days were short. After lunch, the child grew sleepy and was carried inside to nap. Grandma sat by the stove, mending a pair of worn shoes, her hands moving steadily, her eyes tender.

In the evening, when the snow stopped, the courtyard was hushed and white. The child woke up, rubbed his eyes, and ran out to play in the snow, laughing until his cheeks turned red. The young wife watched from the doorway, smiling, and called him back when he ran too far.

The mountain road was blocked again the next morning, but everyone had grown used to it. The men took up their tools once more to clear the snow, while the women prepared hot tea and food to send over. The whole village seemed bound together by the cold, by hardship, and by a quiet, stubborn warmth.

By the end of the winter, the child had grown much more lively. He no longer clung to his grandmother all day, but would run around the yard with the other children, his laughter ringing through the wind.

And so the season passed.

When spring came, the snow melted from the eaves, and the distant hills slowly showed their green again. The years that had once seemed so heavy and unmovable began, little by little, to move forward.