Chapter 104: THE OLD WOMAN IN THE OLD HOUSE

The bus stopped at the side of the road with a screeching brake sound—kreeeek—like groaning metal, and its door opened with a hiss—wusssh—releasing hot air that immediately stung the face of anyone standing nearby. Lydia stood up from the fourth seat on the left side—with a folded newspaper in her right hand, with a small bag on her left shoulder, with a long black dress that fell to her ankles. Her gloves—black leather gloves covering up to the wrist, with neat stitching on the back of the hand—and black boots worn at the tips, with several fine scratches on the leather surface. Her hair—long black hair flowing down her back—not tied, not pinned up, just left to fall like a curtain, with a few strands clinging to her temples from sweat. The other passengers—an old man with a yellowing straw hat, a young woman with a baby on her lap who occasionally cried—uhuk, uhuk—two students with wrinkled school uniforms, and a thin man in a plaid shirt reading a newspaper—all turned. Some stared at her with raised eyebrows. Some with narrowed eyes. A small child—maybe five years old—pointed at her and whispered to his mother. Lydia paid them no mind. She stepped down from the bus—slowly, carefully, with a hand reaching for the cold door handle—and she stood at the side of the road. The bus drove away—vroom—and its smoke billowed softly into the air, black and thick, then disappeared.

The sun was at its hottest. The sky was pale blue—without clouds, without wind—and the asphalt beneath her feet felt hot even through the soles of her shoes. Lydia opened her umbrella—creeeak—a wide black umbrella, with a wooden handle smoothed from frequent use, with fabric slightly faded in places—and she walked along the sidewalk. The village—a small village on the outskirts of the city, with old houses lined along the road, with shops already closed, with several shady trees growing along the sidewalk—looked quiet. Only a few people passed by—a mother with a shopping basket full of vegetables, a child with a creaking bicycle—kreek, kreek—an old man with a newspaper in hand walking slowly while occasionally stopping to read—and they all stared at her. Lydia didn’t care. She walked with measured steps—not fast, not slow—and she enjoyed that calm. A calm she hadn’t felt in a long time. A calm that—for a moment—made her forget about what she had to do.

She walked past several closed shops—with padlocked iron doors, with dark windows, with faded signs—and she turned onto a narrower road. That road wasn’t paved—just packed earth, with several stones on its surface, with several puddles already filled with rainwater—and on both sides, there were old houses no longer inhabited. Their paint was peeling. Their roofs had collapsed in places. Their windows were shattered. And at the end of the road—at the end of the road was a house older than the others.

That house—that house was made of wood. Old teak wood—with a dark brown color faded from age, with grain clearly visible on its surface, with several parts already rotting at the corners. Its walls were uneven—some planks jutting out, others curving inward—and in some places, there were gaps wide enough to see inside. Its roof was made of clay tiles—with some tiles already broken, some missing, some overgrown with green moss—and on top of it, there were several wild plants growing between the tiles, with leaves hanging down like hair. Its windows—wooden windows with blurred glass, with rotting frames, with some glass already cracked—were tightly shut. And in front of the house—in front of the house was a small garden no longer maintained. Its grass was tall—knee-high, with several wildflowers growing among it, with several stones already covered in moss—and in the center of that garden—in the center of that garden was an old tree that had died. Its branches were dry. Its leaves were gone. Only the trunk stood upright—like a memorial, like a marker that something had once lived here, and now did not.

Lydia walked to the door—a wooden door with a rusted iron handle, with worn hinges, with several scratches on its surface—and she opened it. Kreeeek. That door creaked—loudly, like the sound of someone groaning—and Lydia stepped inside. She removed her shoes—slowly, carefully, with a hand reaching for the heel—and she placed them on the shoe rack beside the door. That rack—that rack was old, with wood rotting in places, with several other shoes already dusty—and Lydia placed her shoes beside those shoes. She hung her umbrella on the hook on the wall—with a wooden handle already smooth, with fabric still damp from sweat—and she walked inside.

That house—that house was dark. Not dark because there was no light. But dark because—silent. Its floor was made of wood—with several planks already worn, with several creaking every time she stepped—kreek... kreek...—and on the walls, there were several yellowing photos. Old photos—with faces she could no longer recognize, with dusty frames, with blurred glass. In the corner of the room—in the corner of the room was a wooden table with a worn chair—and on it, there were several dusty books, with yellowing pages, with writing no longer legible. Lydia passed all of it. She walked to the family room—at the end of the hallway, with a half-open door—and she stopped at the threshold.

"Lydia."

That voice—that voice was soft. Gentle. Like wind blowing through leaves, like water flowing in a small river, like—a distant song. Lydia lifted her head—and she saw her. An old woman—sitting in a wooden chair near the window. Her hair—her hair was completely white, tied back with a simple clip, with a few strands loose and falling onto her face. Her face—her face was full of wrinkles, with sagging skin, with tired eyes, with thin lips. But her eyes—her eyes were still sharp. Still clear. Still—alive. She wore a simple kebaya—light brown, with faded floral patterns, with fabric already thin in places—and in her hands, she held a pot of green tea. That pot—that pot was made of ceramic, with a pale green color, with a lid slightly cracked—and its steam billowed softly—hfff—from the pot’s mouth, carrying the scent of warm tea, soothing, filling the room.

"Please sit down," the old woman said.

Lydia stepped inside—slowly—and she sat in the chair across from the old woman. That chair—that chair was old. Its wood was worn at the backrest. But still sturdy. Lydia placed her bag on her lap—slowly—and she looked at the old woman.

The old woman poured tea into two cups—slowly, with wrinkled hands, with practiced movements, carefully so nothing spilled—and she pushed one cup toward Lydia. "Drink first," she said. "You must be tired."

Lydia took that cup—slowly—and she sipped it. Slurp. That tea—that tea was warm. Slightly bitter. But soothing. It tasted—it tasted like something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Like—home. She sipped it again—slurp—and she placed the cup on the table. The old woman also sipped her tea—slurp—and she placed it back down. They sat in silence for a moment—only the sound of wind entering through the window gap—whoosh—and the sound of the wall clock ticking—tick... tick... tick...—and the sound of their steady breathing.

Lydia reached into her bag—slowly—and she took out a letter. That letter—that letter was folded neatly, with a brown envelope slightly crumpled at the corner, with a wax seal already broken. She placed it on the table—slowly—and she pushed it toward the old woman. "I found him," she said.

The old woman took that letter—slowly, with wrinkled hands—but she didn’t open it. She just held it—with thin fingers, with uneven nails—and she looked at Lydia. "How is he?"

Lydia drew a breath—slowly. "He’s become a very different person," she said. "Very—" she paused for a moment, searching for the right word, "—hard to approach. He—" she stopped again, "—he’s not like he used to be. He’s—" she shrugged slightly, "—he’s found something that makes him want to keep living. And that—" she looked at the old woman, "—that makes it difficult to work with us."

The old woman nodded—slowly, with eyes not blinking. "I already knew," she said. "He’s regained his meaning in life. He’s—" she paused for a moment, "—he’s found something that makes him want to keep living. And that—" she smiled faintly, "—that is a good thing. For him. But not—" she looked at Lydia, "—not for us."

Lydia nodded. "Yes."

The old woman placed that letter on her lap—slowly—and she looked at Lydia. "Tell me," she said. "What did you observe while you were there?"

Lydia sipped her tea again—slurp—and she stared at the window. Outside—outside the sun was still scorching. But inside that house—inside that house it felt cool. "I observed him for several days," Lydia said. "He—" she paused for a moment, "—he lives in a small apartment on the outskirts of the city. The place is simple. Messy. But—" she stopped again, "—he doesn’t care about that place. He just—" she looked at the old woman, "—he just cares about his students."

The old woman nodded—slowly.

"Every morning," Lydia continued, "he goes to school. Teaches. Trains them. Helps them. And every night—" she paused for a moment, "—he goes to places he shouldn’t go. Dangerous places. He—" Lydia placed her cup down, "—he’s like someone atoning for something. Something I can’t understand. Something that—" she shrugged, "—something that keeps him moving. Keeps fighting. Keeps—" she stopped again, "—keeps living."

The old woman smiled faintly—a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "He’s atoning for his sins," she said. "Sins he will never be able to atone for. But he—" she paused for a moment, "—he keeps trying. That’s what makes him different. That’s what makes him—" she looked at Lydia, "—special."

Lydia nodded. "Yes."

The old woman sipped her tea again—slurp—and she placed her cup down. "Lydia," she said. "I have a new task for you."

Lydia looked at her.

"You have to get as close to him as possible," the old woman said. "Because the danger that will strike him cannot be stopped. But—" she paused for a moment, "—it can be avoided. You have to—" she looked at Lydia directly, "—you have to make sure he’s not alone. You have to make sure—" she stopped again, "—you have to make sure he doesn’t die."

Lydia nodded—slowly. "I understand."

The old woman smiled—a smile more sincere than before. "Good."

Lydia stood—slowly—and she took her bag. She walked to the door—with calm steps, with a hand still holding the empty teacup—and she stopped at the threshold. She placed that cup on the table near the door—slowly—and she turned back.

"Be careful on the road," the old woman said.

Lydia smiled faintly—a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Of course, Mother," she said—and she stepped out. Kreeeek. That door closed behind her—slowly—and Lydia stood on the porch of that house—with an umbrella in her hand, with a bag on her shoulder, with a black dress fluttering in the wind. Whoosh... The wind blew—carrying the scent of grass and earth—and Lydia stared at the still-blue sky. She opened her umbrella—creeeak—and she stepped down from the porch. She walked along the dirt road—slowly—and she didn’t look back. Not anymore.