The relatives in the courtyard all stood up when they saw the old woman come in.
"Auntie, what brings you here?"
The old woman looked at no one. She walked straight up to the little boy and slowly crouched down.
She reached out with hands as rough as old tree bark, gently cupped the boy's face, and used the backs of her hands to wipe away his tears and snot, little by little.
Her hands trembled, but her touch was gentle, as though she was afraid of hurting her grandson.
"Sweetheart, you haven't eaten yet, have you?"
Her voice sounded perfectly normal. She had hidden all her grief away.
The little boy looked up and saw her. His mouth crumpled, and tears welled up again.
"Grandma."
At that cry of "Grandma," the boy threw himself into the old woman's arms and finally sobbed aloud.
He cried even harder than he had before the memorial altar, as though all the hurt he had bottled up that day had finally found a way out.
The old woman held him and patted his back, crying herself.
They clung to each other at the foot of the wall, their thin, small bodies trembling in the night wind.
The old woman spoke. Her voice was quiet, but it carried weight.
"This is my grandson. I'll raise him myself."
Several relatives exchanged looks. One woman opened her mouth as if to say something, but the man beside her tugged at her sleeve, and she swallowed her words.
"But, Auntie, at your age, raising a child..."
Someone ventured to speak.
The old woman raised her eyes and looked at the person who had spoken.
"His father was my son, and he's my grandson. As long as I can still move, he won't go hungry."
She added another