Awakening

Pietro felt as if he were dreaming.

In the dream, he was born in an ordinary little town. Though remote, it was peaceful—few outsiders ever disturbed their lives. The residents lived simply, rising with the sun and resting with its fall.

His parents were helpers on a farm. Their daily work was feeding horses, chopping wood, and herding sheep. The farm owner was a bearded old man, rumored to have traveled the world in his youth. Pietro liked him a lot, because he always told all kinds of fascinating stories.

The old farm owner never treated Pietro's family as outsiders. Every dinner, he'd gather everyone around a big table. The adults would pour mellow wheat ale, while the kids drank all sorts of juices.

Once, Pietro wanted a taste too, but the farm owner told him children couldn't drink—only adults could. Later, Pietro pestered him for ages until the old man laughed and promised that when he came of age, he'd let him drink a vintage he'd saved for years.

Another evening came. Pietro had driven the sheep into the pen early. He wasn't a child anymore; he could help his aging parents share the workload. With him was a fully grown Border Collie.

"Grandpa, I'm back with the sheep!" Pietro jogged all the way to the farm, bursting through the door and shouting before he could stop himself.

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

"Never mind that. Grandpa, you promised you'd tell me a story after I finished herding today. I still remember the last one—that creepy orphanage! What happened next? What came after?" Little Pietro dragged a stool over, sat in front of the farm owner, and asked excitedly.

Seeing him like this, the old man couldn't help but smile faintly. He slowly set down the gun, wrapped it carefully in burlap, placed it in its case, then stood and walked toward the storeroom.

Pietro didn't interrupt. He knew the farm owner was going to pour himself a drink and then continue telling that wonderful story.

The farm owner's steps were a little heavy. He moved slowly into the small room beside the house—his storeroom, filled with farming tools and odds and ends, and of course, his most treasured beer.

His pace slowed. His burly frame stopped in front of the beer barrel. On its rim, white paint spelled out a line of text, worn and faded, but a few letters still hinted at the original meaning—Stark Manufacturing.

His gaze drifted to the oak cup beside the barrel. He paused, then reached out and picked up two cups.

Outside the door, Pietro waited eagerly. He wished the farm owner would hurry up, just a little faster, so he wouldn't have to wait so anxiously. But long ago, the old man had told him that sometimes, the most thrilling thing wasn't the dazzling stories themselves—it was the waiting.

Who knew how long passed. Maybe three minutes, maybe ten. Finally, the farm owner emerged from the little storeroom. Pietro broke into a wide grin, but then he noticed—the old man's steps were stiff, like rusty old machinery.

"Grandpa, what's wrong?" Pietro's eyes fixed on the farm owner's legs.

"Nothing. It's just that time is almost up." The farm owner forced a stiff smile onto his face. He calmly looked at little Pietro, step by step, trudging back to the table, and set the two cups down.

Seeing Pietro's worried expression, the old man chuckled and pushed one of the cups toward him.

"Grandpa, didn't you say kids can't drink?" Pietro stared at the cup but didn't reach for it.

"You're not a child anymore, Pietro. Though in my eyes, you'll always be one." The farm owner picked up his own cup. The mellow, fragrant ale slid down his throat to his stomach, drawing a satisfied sigh from him.

Silence fell over the farm, broken only by the sound of the old man drinking.

Pietro thought quietly. He turned to look at the doghouse. The Border Collie that had grown up with him was gone, vanished without a trace. Only a mat covered in shed fur remained.

After a long while, Pietro finally broke the silence. "Grandpa... I don't really belong here, do I?"

The farm owner set down his cup. His expression stayed calm, but with a hint of tenderness. "I'm sorry, my child. 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 across his surroundings, as if trying to etch every inch of this place into his memory. "But there's a voice in my heart telling me this isn't my real life."

"So, child, what's your choice?"

"I don't know." Pietro's voice was low. He looked levelly at the aging farm owner before him. Time had carved countless lines into the old man's face, whitened his beard and hair.

"Do you want to stay here?"

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

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

Pietro's eyes went wide. "I can leave here?"

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

Hearing that, Pietro froze.

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

At that moment, time stopped. Everything on the farm froze—the grass swaying in the wind, the butterflies flitting among the flowers, the droplets spraying from the hose. All of it stood still.

It was as if someone had pressed pause, freezing this movie at a single frame. All things in the world were held motionless by that immense force.

No one knew how long passed. The farm owner set down his cup. Before him, Pietro was gone.

Only the cup filled with ale remained on the table.

"...Ah, I should put it away. Drink it another time."

The whole world fell quiet.

Pietro felt his thoughts drifting aimlessly. He didn't know where he was, or how much time had passed. It felt like being in a dream—chaotic and silent.

It took him a long time to gather his shattered consciousness and piece it back together. In an instant, he sensed his physical body calling to him.

Countless sensations flooded back—a jumble of hard-to-distinguish information. His body seemed to be sending all kinds of strange signals to his brain. The barrage of touch and noise nearly shattered his awareness again.

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

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

Catching sight of Pietro opening his eyes out of the corner of his vision, Zhang Ye chewed and spoke, his words muffled.

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