It was noon, and after lunch, people were prone to getting sleepy.
Charles sat in a lounge chair by the door, waving a large palm-leaf fan as a gentle breeze blew.
At that moment, he had not a single worry on his mind, not even a trivial concern.
Only after a lifetime of toil could someone understand how blissful such peaceful moments were, and how rare.
After coming to the island, everyone had relaxed, and Charles was no exception.
He often told his daughter Lina that days this good felt like a gift that had fallen into his lap, something he would never have dared dream of.
Perhaps this really was a dream.
A gentle breeze swept across the sea, and Charles's heavy eyelids fell shut.
At that moment, his expression was utterly serene, utterly peaceful.
His closed eyes never opened again.
Lina did not cry at the funeral.
In the culture of the Southern Region, an elderly person passing away like this in their sleep was the most enviable end of all.
Compared to those who died in pain and despair, Charles had been far more fortunate.
So Lina did not cry.
Or perhaps her tears had already run dry during the night.
With red, swollen eyes, she saw her father off on his final journey.
A breeze blew across the sea, carrying the chill of early autumn.
Charles had stayed behind in that summer.
That best of summers.
After autumn arrived, the autumn rains came without end.
Herta sat by the window, listening to the news on the radio.
Charles's death had shaken her deeply.
Because in Herta's dream, Charles had already died.
If the dream showed events that had truly happened in the past, then what was the Charles who had died now?
A piece