Post by account_disabled on Dec 20, 2023 20:31:11 GMT 12
But the other did not answer and moved closer to the fire, stretching out his hands towards the heat. Then, using his jacket for protection, he grabbed the pot, placed it on the ground and began scraping the bottom with the spoon. “Anyone want some?” he asked, not expecting an answer. The voice from before moaned something that no one understood. Then silence returned, broken only by the scraping of the spoon on the metal of the pot. The faded photo hanging on the wall took him back to the days of the factory, when next to his house there was always movement and voices calling each other and noise and noises and people coming and going.
There were objects on the ground, wood chips scattered on the floor, clocks ticking and the smell of burning wood and warmth, that of the workers who loved it. Now the factory Special Data was gone, closed years ago, when he had become too old to organize the work, to remember, to travel. One by one all his assistants had left to look for work elsewhere, towards the South, where the climate was milder and they could find new employment. But he remained, tied to memories, to his usual life. To his companions, now dead and buried in front of the house, under nameless mounds. No one had come to see him anymore. His residence was immersed in the darkest silence every day.
And he was being consumed like wood in the fireplace, a fire that was dissipating his energy, no longer fueled by even the slightest hope. The days passed quickly. It was December 17th when they crossed the pass one in a row, like a procession of the dead brought back to life by a dark spell. They made light of themselves with wooden torches and fagots soaked in grease residues and their steps were silent on the soft blanket of snow. They spent the night in a fir forest. With some branches they built beds and asked the goddess Tann for forgiveness. Before sleeping they lit a fire and sat down to eat lamb soup in their askur. Then, one after the other, they went to bed.
There were objects on the ground, wood chips scattered on the floor, clocks ticking and the smell of burning wood and warmth, that of the workers who loved it. Now the factory Special Data was gone, closed years ago, when he had become too old to organize the work, to remember, to travel. One by one all his assistants had left to look for work elsewhere, towards the South, where the climate was milder and they could find new employment. But he remained, tied to memories, to his usual life. To his companions, now dead and buried in front of the house, under nameless mounds. No one had come to see him anymore. His residence was immersed in the darkest silence every day.
And he was being consumed like wood in the fireplace, a fire that was dissipating his energy, no longer fueled by even the slightest hope. The days passed quickly. It was December 17th when they crossed the pass one in a row, like a procession of the dead brought back to life by a dark spell. They made light of themselves with wooden torches and fagots soaked in grease residues and their steps were silent on the soft blanket of snow. They spent the night in a fir forest. With some branches they built beds and asked the goddess Tann for forgiveness. Before sleeping they lit a fire and sat down to eat lamb soup in their askur. Then, one after the other, they went to bed.