What would you do, if you woke up one morning and the light was too beautiful—
as if the world was apologizing for all the sorrow it had already given you?
The sun was not yet proud.
It was the beginning of the day, that fragile hour when the sky still remembers the cool breath of night. The early morning sun rose slowly, shyly, as if peeking over the edge of the world to see if it was welcome. And then it touched the forest.
Oh, that forest.
It was a joyful forest—not the loud joy of a celebration, but the quiet joy of a heart that has learned to beat again after a long illness. The light spilled through the leaves in golden coins, trembling on the mossy ground. Dew hung from every pine needle like tiny glass bells waiting for a wind that never came. Birds sang not to compete, but to accompany each other. A stream somewhere nearby laughed to itself, hidden behind a curtain of ferns. The air smelled of wet earth, pine resin, and something sweet—perhaps wild strawberries, perhaps just the memory of them.
And in the middle of this gentle morning, a man lay sleeping on the ground.
Not on a bed. Not on a mat.
Just on the earth, covered by a thin sheet that had once been white but was now the color of old tea. His legs were tucked, then slowly—slowly—they stretched. His eyes opened. Not with a start. Not with the panic of someone who has forgotten where he is. He opened them the way a book opens after many years: page by page, creak by creak.
His face was neither too sad nor too happy.
It was the face of a man who had lived through so many hardships that hardship had become just another kind of weather. A man who had been loved—deeply, truly, perhaps once. A man who had loved others in return, clumsily, honestly, leaving fingerprints on their hearts that they would never wash off. A man who spoke few words, but each word was a stone you could build a house on.
His name was Yiyi.
He had dark, short hair, the kind that never lies perfectly flat, as if even his hair refused to be tamed. And his eyes—blue. Not the bright blue of a tourist postcard. A deeper blue. The blue of a winter sky just before the first star appears. Piercing. Not because they were sharp with anger, but because they looked through you. Past your words, past your smile, straight into the small, trembling thing you hide behind your ribs.
He sat up. The sheet fell from his shoulders.
For a moment, he did nothing. He simply listened to the forest breathing around him. A small bird—brave or foolish—landed three feet from his hand. It tilted its head, looked at him, then flew away without fear. Yiyi almost smiled. Almost.
He stood.
His body made small sounds: the click of a knee, the sigh of a spine stretching after a long night on hard ground. He looked at the house.
It was a wooden house.
Built by hands that had known patience. The wood was dark with age, but not rotten—held together by love more than nails. A small chimney, cold now. A single window that faced east, to catch the first light. No other house surrounded it. Just the forest, endless and green, wrapping around the cabin like a mother holding a child who has already grown up.
He lived alone.
But not completely alone.
Next to the door, almost touching the wooden step, there was a grave. A small mound of earth, already settled, already growing a few brave blades of grass. A wooden marker, carved by the same hands that built the house. No name. Just the shape of a bird, worn smooth by rain.
The grave gave a feeling.
Not of fear. Not of mystery.
The feeling of a familiar person who had simply stepped into another room and forgotten to come back. The kind of grave you talk to when you think no one is listening.
Yiyi turned to the house. He stepped inside.
The morning routine of a man who has no one to perform for:
He washed his face in a basin of cold water, and the water accepted his reflection without comment. He prepared his morning drink: not tea, not coffee, just warm water with a slice of dried apple floating in it. He drank it slowly, standing by the window, watching the forest grow brighter.
Near the bed, a bag.
Old leather, cracked in places, repaired in others with mismatched thread. Full of clothes—not many, but enough. A second shirt. A pair of worn trousers. A small knife. A book with no title on the cover. A letter folded into a triangle, never opened.
He took the bag. He put it on his back.
He stretched his arm—first the left, then the right—as if testing whether his body still remembered how to reach for something far away. He walked through the room one last time. His bare feet on the wooden floor. Then his boots, laced slowly, each knot a small promise to the day.
He crossed the front door.
Outside, the sun had climbed higher. The joyful forest was now singing in full voice. But Yiyi did not rush to join it. He stood on the step. He stretched his arms wide—wide—as if he was preparing to embrace the entire journey. Or as if he was preparing to let go of everything he had ever held.
It was a beautiful gesture.
A long, sad gesture.
The gesture of a man who knows that the road ahead will ask him questions he cannot answer.
Then he turned.
He walked to the grave. He stood there for a long moment. The bird on the wooden marker seemed to watch him. He did not kneel. He did not cry. He simply placed his hand on the earth—palm down, fingers slightly spread—as if feeling for a heartbeat that had long since stopped.
Then he turned his head slightly, spoke to the air, to the moss, to the memory:
"Goodbye, Grandpa."
His voice was low. Not broken. Just... tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
He straightened. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder. And he walked.
The silhouette of Yiyi moved further and further through the forest. The joyful light still touched the leaves, still made the dew glitter, still painted gold on his dark hair. But as he walked, the trees seemed to lean in, curious, protective. One step. Another. The ferns closed behind him like curtains at the end of a play.
The rays of sun tried to follow him.
But the forest was deeper than the light.
Until all that remained was the sound of footsteps fading,
then the sound of birds covering the silence,
then nothing.
Yiyi had vanished into the forest.
What would you do, if you were in his place?
What choice would you make?
And what difference—truly—would it be?