A gloomy morning, with a breeze carrying the salty earth scent. Under the garden’s iron frame, the greenery was dense, but the yellow roses had withered, with only a few dry petals remaining on the branches full of thorns.
“Dad doesn’t like me.”
The little boy stared at the ground, the freshly turned soil still new, repeating in a low voice: “…Dad doesn’t like me.”
The woman turned the boy around by his shoulders, her beautiful and melancholic eyes fixed on her son.
“Why, noah?”
The little boy pursed his lips, speaking softly after a long pause: “He grabbed me.”
The woman lifted her son’s hand, gently rolling up his sleeve, revealing several shocking scratch marks on his wrist, the flesh tinged with a bluish-black.
“…Dad is tired,” she finally said, “He just went to sleep… Let’s go back with mom.”
The little boy no longer resisted, holding his mother’s hand as they walked deeper into the garden.
“Mommy.”
“Hmm?”
“Why is dad sleeping in a wooden box?”
In the distance, stained glass was embedded in the church’s roof, the cross piercing the gloomy sky.
This time, the mother was silent for a very long time before stopping, bending down to kiss her son’s tender forehead: “One day, dad will leave the wooden box and return to us forever…” Her voice carried a hint of sadness, but remained soft, saying: “That day won’t be too far away.”
