Awake

Pietro felt as if he had had a dream.

In the dream, he had been born in an ordinary little town. Though the town was rather remote, it was peaceful, and outsiders rarely came to disturb their lives. Every day, the residents lived simple lives, working at sunrise and resting at sunset.

His parents had worked for the farm owner. Every day, they fed horses, chopped firewood, and herded sheep. The farm owner was an old man with a big beard. Rumor had it that he had traveled the world in his younger days. Pietro liked him very much because he could always tell him all sorts of interesting stories.

The old farm owner had never treated Pietro's family as outsiders. Every evening at dinner, he gathered everyone around one large table. The adults poured themselves fragrant wheat ale, while the children drank all kinds of fruit juice.

Once, Pietro had wanted a taste too, but the old farm owner told him that children could not drink alcohol; only adults could. Later, Pietro pestered him for a long time before the old man finally smiled and agreed, saying that when Pietro came of age, he would let him drink some vintage liquor he had kept for years.

One evening, Pietro drove the flock into the sheep pen early. He was no longer a child now, and he could help his aging parents shoulder some of the work. Accompanying him was an adult border collie.

"Grandpa, I'm back from herding the sheep!" Pietro jogged all the way back to the farm and shouted as soon as he entered.

"You're back. Have some water. Slow down, don't be so reckless." The old farm owner was wiping down a gun, an old-fashioned rifle. Pietro had often seen him take it hunting, and once, when a wild bear came down from the mountains, the old man had used it to drive the bear away.

"Never mind that, Grandpa. You promised you'd tell me a story after I finished herding the sheep today. I still remember the last story you told me—it was about a terrifying orphanage! What happened next? What happened after that?" Little Pietro dragged over a stool, sat before the old farm owner, and asked excitedly.

Seeing him like this, the farm owner could not help but smile faintly. He slowly set down the gun in his hand, carefully wrapped it in burlap, and placed it in its case. Then he got up and walked toward the storeroom.

Pietro did not interrupt the old farm owner. He knew that the old man was going to pour himself a drink before continuing the interesting story.

The farm owner's footsteps were somewhat heavy as he slowly entered the small room beside the house. This was his storeroom, filled with farming tools and miscellaneous items—and, of course, his most treasured beer.

His steps slowed. The farm owner's burly body stopped before the barrel that held the beer. Along the edge of the barrel was a line of white-painted words. Though damaged and worn with age, the original meaning could still be guessed from several letters—Stark Industries.

His gaze slowly fell upon the oak cups beside the barrel. After a pause, the farm owner reached out and picked up two cups.

Outside the door, Pietro waited eagerly. He wished the old farm owner would hurry up, faster and faster, so he would not have to wait so anxiously. But long ago, the old man had told him that sometimes, what was most exciting was not the dazzling stories, but the waiting.

No one knew how long it had been—perhaps three minutes, perhaps ten—before the old farm owner finally emerged from the little storeroom. Pietro broke into a wide smile, but then suddenly noticed that the old man's steps were stiff, like worn-out mechanical parts.

"Grandpa, what's wrong?" Pietro's gaze fell on the farm owner's legs.

"Nothing. The time is almost up." A smile tugged stiffly at the farm owner's face. He calmly looked at little Pietro before him and, step by difficult step, returned to the table and placed the two cups upon it.

Seeing Pietro's worried expression, the farm owner smiled and pushed one of the cups toward him.

"Grandpa, didn't you say children can't drink alcohol?" Pietro looked at the cup before him but did not reach for it.

"You're no longer a child, Pietro. Though in my eyes, you'll always be a child." The farm owner picked up his own cup and drank. The rich, mellow liquor flowed down his throat and into his stomach, drawing a relieved groan from him.

A brief silence fell over the farm. Only the sound of the farm owner drinking remained.

Pietro thought quietly. He turned to look at the doghouse, only to find that the border collie who had grown up with him had vanished at some point, leaving behind only a mat covered in dog hair.

After a long while, Pietro could not help but break the silence. "Grandpa, I don't actually belong here, do I?"

The farm owner set down his cup. His expression remained calm, though there was a trace of affection in it. "I'm sorry, my child, but I can't tell you the answer to that question."

"I... I remember every day I've lived here, but..."

Pietro's gaze slowly swept over the surroundings, as if he wanted to imprint every inch of this place in his mind. "But there's a voice in my heart telling me that this isn't my real life."

"Then, child, what will you choose?"

"I don't know," Pietro said in a low voice. He looked straight at the old farm owner before him. Time had left countless marks on the old man's face, turning his beard and hair white.

"Do you want to stay here?"

"Of course I do." Pietro stood up. He did not notice that he was now tall enough to look down at the farm owner sitting on the stool. "But there's always been a voice telling me that I still have important things to do."

"Then go do them, child." The farm owner's voice was soft, yet as heavy as the tolling of a bell.

Pietro's eyes widened. "I can leave this place?"

Seeing Pietro's reaction, the farm owner merely smiled. "I don't know. I've never tried leaving."

Hearing those words, Pietro froze.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end, nothing came out. Looking at the old farm owner who had raised him for so many years, Pietro lowered his head and fell silent.

Time froze at that moment. Everything on the farm came to a halt—the grass stirred by the wind, the butterflies fluttering among the flowers, and the droplets spraying from the watering can. Everything stopped where it was.

It was as though someone had pressed pause, freezing this playing film on a single frame. All things in the world were held still by this immense power, unable to move.

No one knew how long had passed before the farm owner set down the cup in his hand. Yet Pietro was already gone from before him.

Only the cup filled with beer remained on the table.

"...Ah, I should put it away. He can drink it next time."

The whole world fell silent.

Pietro only felt his thoughts drifting unconsciously. He did not know where he was, nor how much time had passed. It felt like being in a dream—murky and silent.

It took him a long time to recover his shattered consciousness and gradually piece it back together. Then, in an instant, he sensed his body calling him back.

Countless sensations returned to him, all kinds of information too difficult to distinguish. His body seemed to be sending a mass of inexplicable signals back to his brain, and the sensations and noises nearly shattered his consciousness again.

At last, his eyelids trembled and slowly opened. Pietro's consciousness took control of the body.

Before him, Zhang Ye held the steering wheel with one hand while stuffing a slice of ham pizza into his mouth with the other.

Catching sight of Pietro opening his eyes from the corner of his eye, Zhang Ye chewed his food and spoke through a mouthful of it.

"You're finally awake. Want something to eat?"