Capítulo 47: The lonely old man
The old man's frail figure appeared even more fragile in the sunlight, with his hunched shoulders and bent back, as if the years of hard labor had pressed his body lower and lower.
His face was etched with deep wrinkles, resembling dried bark, evidence of the countless hardships he had endured.
In front of him lay a freshly hunted deer, its blood not yet fully dried, and the faint scent of blood lingered in the air.
He picked up an old dagger, a tool that had accompanied him for a long time.
Although the old man's wrist seemed thin, the moment he grasped the dagger, his fingers tightened around the handle with firm precision.
His movements were swift, deliberate, and accurate.
His hands were calloused, and the veins on his forearms stood out, revealing the hidden strength beneath his skin.
In his hands, the dagger was like an artist's tool, swiftly cutting through the deer's hide with fluid movements, leaving no room for hesitation.
Each stroke was executed with perfect accuracy, wasting no energy or time.
The old man worked with remarkable speed, the blade flashing in the sunlight as it glided effortlessly between the hide and the meat.
His technique was both ruthless and steady, with the knife tracing the edge of the flesh, cleanly separating the hide without hesitation.
The worn blade seemed to come alive in his hands, as sharp as ever, flawlessly cutting through every connection between skin and muscle.
Despite his frail appearance, the old man's actions were surprisingly powerful and controlled. Each cut was made to the perfect depth—no more, no less.
Focused and silent, his wrist remained steady, his movements methodical, as though he had performed this task countless times.
Time may have taken his health and strength, but it had not diminished the skill in his hands.
He worked with the precision of a master, ensuring the deer's hide remained intact while preserving the valuable meat.
At last, the old man finished separating the hide, lifting it in one complete piece, like a prized work of craftsmanship.
The old man looked at the deerskin in his hands and let out a soft sigh, feeling the familiar ache in his lower back.
As he slowly stood up, supporting his waist with one hand, the wrinkles on his face deepened with the effort.
"Getting old... not what I used to be," he muttered to himself, with a tone of both resignation and self-mockery.
His gaze fell on the dagger in his hand.
The once sharp blade no longer gleamed as brightly as it had, dulled slightly by years of use.
The old man shook his head lightly and murmured, "Time to sharpen it again."
With the back of his hand, he wiped away the remaining blood from the blade and carefully put the dagger away, treating it as though it were his most treasured possession.
He bent over and gently folded the deerskin, preparing to hang it on the roof to dry.
His movements were slow but steady, spreading the skin out carefully to ensure the wind wouldn't blow it away.
After completing this task, he turned back to the deer's carcass, pausing for a moment in thought to decide what to do next.
He planned to cut the meat carefully, keeping the best portions for curing into jerky and trading the less desirable parts with the villagers for essential goods.
That jerky was a vital part of his livelihood, as selling it provided him with a meager income to sustain his simple life.
Once again, the old man gripped the dagger tightly and began slicing the meat into evenly sized pieces, separating the best cuts for curing.
Focused and intent, he worked with the same precision he had when skinning the deer.
As he busied himself, a passing villager noticed him and walked up to the garden fence.
"Middleton, you're so old now.
Why do you still do all this work?" the villager asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
The old man didn't look up, continuing his task with steady hands as the dagger skillfully sliced through the sinews.
His voice was calm and low, as though he had grown used to this question over the years.
"To save up for my grandson's wedding," he answered quietly.
The villager paused, momentarily taken aback by the old man's reason.
"Is your grandson's wedding really that important?
Do you really have to work so hard to save up?"
"Yes," the old man replied with a gentle smile, his wrinkled face folding even further as the lines deepened with the expression.
"His parents are gone. I'm all he has left."
"But your grandson hasn't come back yet, right?
He's still in the army, isn't he?" the villager asked, puzzled, continuing to chat casually.
"Just preparing ahead of time," the old man answered calmly, his eyes never leaving the deer meat, his knife continuing its precise work.
"But you don't even know when he'll return," the villager scratched his head, pressing on.
"What if something changes in the army? You might be preparing too early."
The old man paused briefly and then turned to look at the villager.
His voice was steady as he replied, "If I wait until he returns, it'll be too late.
The battlefield is a dangerous place.
Who knows if he'll make it back safely?
I'm old, and I can't wait forever.
I'll do what I can now.
At the very least, I'll have the money saved up for his wedding—or leave him something behind."
His tone carried a sense of acceptance, as though he had long made peace with life's harsh realities.
His grandson's fate was uncertain, with the army's dangers looming.
"My grandson may not be here now, but one day he'll return.
Whenever that day comes, I want him to have a complete home.
I won't let him feel alone."
The villager watched the old man in silence for a moment, unable to argue further.
With a shake of his head, he turned and walked away.
Once the heavy tasks of the day were finally done, the old man allowed himself a moment of rest.
He walked to a large stone near the front of his house and slowly sat down, his movements stiff, likely from a day's hard labor that left his body sore and aching.
The late afternoon sun slanted across his shoulders, and the air around him was filled with the fresh scent of leaves, the tang of freshly skinned deer hide, and the faint aroma of sweat.
Despite everything, a faint smile appeared on the old man's face.
He reached into the worn pocket of his coat and pulled out a pipe, polished smooth from years of use.
The movements were familiar and natural, as if the pipe had been a steadfast companion through countless lonely days.
With his fingers, he gently grasped the pipe's stem, feeling the marks of time etched into the wood.
From his chest pocket, he retrieved a small cloth bundle filled with tobacco.
He carefully opened it and pinched a bit of the tobacco between his fingers, packing it into the bowl of the pipe.
Every movement was slow and deliberate, a routine repeated countless times, yet it never felt tedious to him.
Lowering his head slightly, he struck a flint to light the tobacco.
A brief spark ignited, and the fragrant smoke began to rise, carried gently by the breeze.
The old man took a deep drag, letting the rich flavor of the tobacco fill his mouth, bringing with it a sense of long-lost calm.
His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the distance, his thoughts drifting along with the rising smoke.
The smoke curled and danced in the sunlight, adding to the serene atmosphere of the moment.
"Nothing beats this old pipe," he murmured to himself, a look of quiet relaxation crossing his face.
Every puff seemed to lift the burdens of his life, allowing him to momentarily forget the weight of his struggles and enjoy a rare moment of leisure.
Sitting on the stone, one hand holding the pipe, the other lightly tapping the stone beside him, he seemed to be reminiscing about the days of his youth.
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