After spending several hours wandering and collecting observations, Ace's attention was drawn to a fruit tree, its branches heavy with glistening produce. He approached and reached out to touch one of the hanging fruits. Its color was different—like a rare gem planted in nature's cradle. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. He felt a strong urge to taste it but refrained out of respect. Taking one last glance at the surrounding plants and trees, trying to pull himself out of his investigative mindset, he noticed other unfamiliar fruits as well.
As the horizon line neared disappearance, the sky gradually shifted from deep blue to a fiery orange, and the cool evening breeze picked up, carrying the whisper of swaying branches and the chirring of insects. Ace decided to return to the wooden house to share his findings with the old man.
On the way back, he noticed the small boy. His thin frame was now coated with an extra layer of dust, and his dirty face gave his features a surprising strength despite his young age. He stood beside a large basket full of fruit, his blue eyes fixed on it with pride after a long day of hard work. He turned and picked the last fruit to place it in the basket, then, driven by determination, slung the basket's straps over his small shoulders, trying to lift it off the ground, ignoring the pain gnawing at his tired muscles.
The entire scene narrated a silent story of perseverance—a child who did not know surrender, a resilience that transcended childhood. A few steps away, Ace watched him quietly, his eyes reading the details of the boy's weary body—the striking contrast between his young age and the weight he tried to carry. Ace couldn't help but approach him. Aware of the boy's potential shyness, he made his footsteps audible to avoid startling him. When he stopped beside him, he asked in a calm voice, warm despite the growing chill in the air:
"Isn't the basket too heavy for you? Let me carry it."
As he spoke, he reached out for the basket, his expression sincere. But the boy, guided by the instinctive defiance that comes from a life of struggle, raised his hand in protest. His features showed something close to indignation, as if the offer insulted his efforts—or perhaps he was simply too shy to admit needing help.
Ace did not insist. He simply watched in silence as the boy lifted the basket with difficulty and began to walk. Ace followed a few steps behind, observing the boy's labored movements, which he tried in vain to conceal. They walked in silence until they reached the wooden house, which now looked warm amidst the gathering darkness.
At the doorstep, the boy placed the basket beside the door, then bent over, breathing heavily as if he had exhausted his last ounce of strength. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of collapse, but his will prevailed, and he straightened quickly, as though the idea of giving up was not an option—especially in front of the stranger. When he opened the door, the aroma of home-cooked food wafted out—hot stew and fresh bread. The boy gathered his remaining strength to carry the basket inside, leaving the door open behind him.
Ace stood there for a few moments until the old man emerged, his shadow merging with the dimming twilight. Despite the clear fatigue in his eyes, they still glowed with a deep kindness and generosity. He raised his tired hand and gestured for the young man to come in, saying:
"Come in, son. Join us for dinner."
His words weren't mere politeness, but a genuine invitation from the heart—reflecting the rural folk's simple, unpretentious hospitality. Ace felt the warmth of the offer touch his spirit. He bowed slightly in respect and looked the man in the eyes with gratitude before replying with a sincere smile:
"Thank you, sir. I'd be honored."
Then, with hesitant steps driven by modesty, Ace crossed the threshold, stepping into another world—one of simplicity, far removed from the harshness outside. Though the house's walls appeared rough from the outside, inside they radiated warmth, as if they cradled decades of memories. The furniture was humble but lovingly made—each piece bearing the imprint of hands that had shaped it with care.
In the center of the room stood a wooden table lit by a few candles, the only source of light, while another faint glow flickered from the kitchen corner. The old man gestured for Ace to sit before walking calmly to the kitchen, where his wife, despite her age, moved with grace as she prepared dinner.
The clinking of utensils harmonized with the bubbling of the stew, its aroma filling the room with a comforting warmth. Ace realized that this simple lifestyle was the source of these people's contentment—dinner eaten early, rest after a hard day's labor, and rising with the sun for another round of toil.
Within moments, the elderly couple returned with plates of food. The old man gently placed pieces of meat atop steaming white rice, releasing a fog-like steam. The grandmother poured thick stew on the side—rich with cooked vegetables—completing a satisfying and fragrant dish that could stir hunger even in someone already full.
Though Ace hadn't felt particularly hungry, his stomach growled audibly, not just out of hunger but a deep desire to taste the warm flavors filling the room. The elderly couple exchanged a quick glance and smiled tenderly. Ace tried to hide his embarrassment behind a faint smile, but his eyes betrayed his longing.
Then the grandmother placed a colorful platter of fresh seasonal fruits in the center of the table, as if adding the final artistic touch to a warm family painting. The colors ranged from deep red apples to dark grapes that reflected candlelight. Other fruits, new and unfamiliar to Ace, displayed gradients and patterns that piqued his curiosity.
When the couple finally sat down, they bowed their heads, closed their eyes, and joined hands in a quiet prayer. It wasn't mere murmuring, but a heartfelt expression of gratitude for the simple blessing that brought them together at the table.
Their faces, softly lit, bore traces of old memories—moments of thankfulness and emotions unspoken yet deeply felt. When they finished, the old man looked at Ace kindly and gestured toward the food, saying gently:
"Eat, son. Food has no taste if not shared."
Ace nodded gratefully but soon asked a question he couldn't ignore:
"But where is the little boy? I haven't seen him since I came in."
The grandmother touched her cheek and smiled softly, a mix of tenderness and regret in her eyes as she replied in a whisper-like voice filled with emotion:
"My dear, our boy doesn't like talking to strangers. Sharing a meal with someone unfamiliar is difficult for him, so he took his plate and went to the backyard to eat. Please forgive his behavior."
"No need to apologize, ma'am. I understand. But… isn't it cold outside?"
"It is cold, yes. But he's used to it. He often sits there by the flower garden, gazing at the starry sky—perhaps looking for the company he misses."
She paused, her eyes drifting into memories, then continued in a quieter voice tinged with longing:
"When we go to town to sell our crops, Nova walks with us to the town gate. He stops there, watching us go in, but never comes along. We've tried many times to convince him—hoping he might meet children his age—but he always refuses."
A moment of silence passed, and then the old man spoke in a gentle tone filled with emotion:
"His being out there always worries us, son. It feels like a piece of our souls floats in the air until he returns. He brings warmth and fullness to our lives. Having him with us is a blessing beyond measure—a miracle that came when we needed one most."
His voice paused briefly before the grandmother's voice quivered, memories flooding back as she said with tenderness:
"For years—and I mean decades—we dreamed of having children. But we went to sleep with silence and woke up to the same emptiness. Our modest home longed for the laughter of children, but fate never granted us that joy. Even after more than fifty years of marriage, we never heard the sound of new life breaking our home's silence."
She paused and drew a deep breath, holding back tears, then continued warmly:
"One day, as rain whispered to the earth that life goes on, we found him—small and fragile like a flower yet to bloom—wrapped in a blanket that shimmered like starlight. It barely protected him from the cold and lay on our doorstep. We brought him inside, and the blanket disappeared as if by magic. We knew then he wasn't just a baby—he was a sacred gift from the sky… perhaps for our years of patience."
Her hands trembled as she wiped away tears, but her voice deepened with love as she added:
"From that moment, Nova became part of us—of our hearts and this house. Now, even at his young age, he helps us around the farm, working tirelessly with a spirit that doesn't know fatigue."
She paused to recall a crucial point, raised her finger as if affirming something, and said firmly:
"Of course, we never force him to do anything. Nova doesn't need to be pushed. He's kindhearted and hardworking by nature—even in the smallest of tasks."
As she spoke, the old man listened quietly, nodding in agreement to every word, as though she were recounting a story etched into both their lives. When she finished, she stared into the distance, as if searching for a future yet to be written for the boy, then whispered with hopeful longing:
"We believe the day will come when he breaks through his barriers and steps beyond his fears. Until then, we'll respect his space and remain here, always waiting for him with open hearts."
After all that was said, Ace understood the depth of their bond. It was love—pure, unselfish love. Still, something about the final sentence unsettled him, a truth he couldn't quite accept. But he kept it to himself, unwilling to disturb the warmth that filled the room.
As the conversation ended, the old man reminded them to eat before the food cooled, even though steam still rose from the plates, rich with inviting aroma. Ace lifted his first spoonful—rice and stew—and the moment its flavor touched his tongue, his expression changed. Delight lit up his face, his eyes twinkled as if the taste had awakened a memory—of a meal once prepared with love long ago. He smiled and slowly nodded, expressing his admiration, though words couldn't capture the feeling that swept through him.
To the old couple, Ace's compliments were like a sweet melody, played upon the strings of their hearts. Their faces glowed with satisfaction, and they exchanged a look—one filled with joy, a silent language of shared happiness. They didn't speak, but their eyes said it all.