Hesta studied herself in the photograph with great interest. There was a mirror on the wall beside her, and she looked into it, trying to recreate the expression from the photo. Yet no matter how she adjusted herself, she could not reproduce that distinctive air.
She skimmed the article, and her expression grew somewhat strange. After closing the page, Hesta sat alone in her room in a daze for a while before suddenly getting up and heading out.
In Pakart's room, the old woman was resting. Hearing a knock at the door, she opened her eyes tiredly, then soon heard a familiar set of footsteps cross the living room and enter the bedroom.
"Were you taking a nap?" Hesta asked. It was something of a pointless question; judging from Pakart's expression and movements, she was clearly not doing well.
"...I'm feeling a little unwell." Pakart frowned and propped two pillows behind herself, letting herself sit half-upright.
Throughout the whole process, Hesta did not say a word. In that slightly unusual silence, Pakart reached for the glasses on her bedside table so she could see Hesta's face more clearly.
"What is it?" the old woman asked.
"...You're not about to tell me you've got some illness and only have three months left to live, are you?" Hesta said with a sigh.
Pakart looked at the young woman before her in bafflement. "What are you talking about?"
Hesta muttered, "Nothing," then went to the window and pulled back a corner of the curtain to look outside.
"It isn't a serious illness," Pakart said slowly. "But for an old person, death is something that can come at any time."
Hesta abruptly turned around.
"...But the good news is that, in my family history, almost none of my elders died before ninety. My