Fishing Village, Back Mountain.
On that gloomy morning, a few scattered paper offerings rustled in the wind. Straw paper whirled away toward the field ridges or caught on treetops.
The crowd carried a thin wooden coffin through the fields. A rooster was tied atop the dark coffin, and the air was heavy and stifling.
Fisher Girl wore sackcloth and mourning bands, her mind dazed. After her grandfather fell asleep, he never woke again. He had suddenly passed away. From this day onward, she was the only one left at home, with no family left at all.
Fortunately, the villagers helped arrange the funeral. The girl was like a puppet, unable to do anything.
The road from home to the slope of Back Mountain was one she had walked countless times, yet it felt both familiar and strange.
At some point, the crowd stopped. The village elders busied themselves according to custom, but Fisher Girl could hear nothing. Her ears buzzed, as though everything were unreal. She watched helplessly as the coffin was lowered into the pit and fresh, damp earth was scattered over it.
The earth slowly covered the coffin, piling into a new grave mound that stood out starkly amid the green grass.
One after another, the villagers went back down the mountain to the village. Life had to go on, and farmwork was still waiting. The world of the living had no time to spare.
There was no gravestone, only a few rocks. Ash from the burned paper offerings blew everywhere in the wind. She recognized the graves around her—Grandma, Father, Mother...
All the family she missed day and night was here.
The lonely figure remained kneeling before the grave. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her tears had long run dry.
After kneeling for a long