When There Is Nothing Left But Love

Nora turned to me and queried, “Scarlett, if we indeed get to go home this time around, what would you want to do most of all?”

What did I want? That question lingered in my mind as I continued trudging forward, deep in thought.

There wasn’t any food I was especially craving. After a moment’s pause, I concluded, “I want to see the person I miss most, give him a hug, and apologize to him face-to-face.”

Nora seemed taken by surprise. Then she curiously pressed, “Is it somebody you’re in love with?”

I gave her a faint smile but declined to reply.

Night had fallen when we finally reached saw signs of human life. The village we’d arrived at was located in quite a rural area of the mountains, and perhaps due to its inaccessibility, there didn’t seem to be many inhabitants around.

From the number of lamps we’d counted shining in the dark, there were probably thirty to forty households scattered throughout the village.

“Let’s find a place to hunker down for the night,” Nora suggested, already making her way towards the door of the nearest cottage.

“Woof! Woof!” A dog suddenly rushed out into the yard and began sounding the alert at our sudden intrusion.

We clung to each other, terrified. Fortunately, the dog was leashed to a rope. It strained against its tether, barking continuously.

The owner of the cottage had evidently heard the ruckus. Out stepped a middle-aged man with tan, weathered skin.

but none of us understood what he was trying to say. After a while,

we’d made, crossing peak after peak, hadn’t brought us any closer to home. We’d even gone so

the cottage seemed to further mistake our intentions. He waved his axe at us threateningly in a bid

young woman, approximately sixteen years of age, ran out of the cottage just then. She tugged

with the man for a while. He then grew noticeably calmer and lowered the

gestured. Uncomprehendingly, Tabitha made a few hesitant motions with her hands in

tell if he understood. He did,

sight and stripped down within. Its clay walls were caked with

from the ceiling, the sort that farming villages would have used decades ago. The lamp burned dimly at a bare fifty watts, probably to save

bowls and utensils in a neat stack in a corner. The roof of the cottage was, in fact, a tent stitched together out of gunny sacks. There was dust everywhere. It turned to grime at damp spots where

heaps of blackened dirt that covered the tent looked sure to

bowls from a cabinet and placed them

the man continued to gesture

the bowls in front of us. The food was steeped in chili. Nora recoiled ever so slightly, asking, “What

Tabitha exclaimed rather adventurously. She had more of

a whole day, we dug in rather gratefully. The flavor of the pickled onions, spicy with

days since we’d really tasted anything. The pickled onions thus

man and his daughter squatted in a corner. They gazed at us with curiosity and awe, mixed with a tinge of

attempts to communicate with them. Along with her hand

worked. Somehow, both father and daughter came to understand that we were here to borrow a device