Ang pushed open the door to his home. The house was empty, with only the wind passing through the window lattice and bringing a measure of quiet. He looked around. The furniture and decorations had barely changed from when he had left three years ago; even the loom in the corner was still in its old place. Only, there was no aroma of food on the table, and the house felt somewhat deserted. He set down his luggage and guessed that his parents had probably gone to work in the fields. By his reckoning, it was barley harvest season now, so it was perfectly normal for them to be busy.
He stepped outside and looked toward the fields beyond the village. The land shimmered gold beneath the sun, and the breeze sent waves rolling through the grain. Ang remembered that his family's fields were not far from home, so he hurried down the familiar path. Along the way, he noticed that the village seemed more run-down than it had been three years ago. There were more cracks in the stone roads, and the outer walls of many houses had begun to peel. He passed several children playing around an old oak tree. Their laughter echoed through the air, but Ang could not help frowning—these children all looked thin and wore very little, as though life had not been easy for them.
Before long, Ang reached his family's fields and saw two familiar figures working beneath the blazing sun from afar. His father was bent over, swinging a sickle. His movements were still nimble, but they looked somewhat stiff. His mother bundled the cut stalks of barley while constantly wiping sweat with her sleeve. The sun was merciless, and their clothes were already soaked through. Sweat rolled down their foreheads, yet