CHAPTER 45: CHAPTER: 45 A PEACEFUL LIFE ANYONE WOULD ENVY.

On the mountainside, where nothing but endless bot trees stretched across the slopes and a thick fog blanketed the entire range, the first rays of sunrise pierced through the mist.[1]

Birds chirped from their hidden nests, their songs echoing faintly through the quiet woods.

One by one, the creatures of the forest stirred from their slumber, emerging from their dens in search of food and survival.

This mountainside was home to countless creatures, from tiny insects to massive beasts. It was no place for humans, few would ever choose to live here. Yet, at the mountain’s very peak stood a small, solitary hut.

From the state of the hut, it was clear that someone lived there.

No moss clung to its walls, and the wooden planks seemed to give off a faint, gentle warmth, a subtle sweetness that stood in soft contrast to the mountain’s cold, biting air.

Thin curls of smoke rose from the rooftop chimney, swaying gently in the cold morning breeze.

The smoke carried with it the mouthwatering fragrance of freshly baked bread, a scent so rich and comforting that even the wealthiest noble would find themselves drooling at the thought of it.

Drawn by the irresistible aroma, birds fluttered closer, and small animals, squirrels, rabbits, even deer, approached the hut with lively curiosity.

They sniffed the air eagerly, their eyes bright as they gathered near the wooden door.

Before long, the door creaked open, and the animals straightened as if this were part of their daily ritual.

Their eyes shone with the same affection and excitement children show when they see their mother.

From the half-opened door, a slender, delicate hand reached out, a hand that clearly belonged to a woman.

The moment it appeared, the animals’ expressions softened with joy, as though they had been waiting just for her.

Following the delicate hand, a graceful figure stepped out, carrying a wooden tray filled with freshly baked bread.

The woman appeared to be in her late twenties. Her long, velvety hair, still slightly damp, was wrapped in a towel, the kind often used by women after bathing.

Her eyes, soft and deep like polished velvet, shimmered faintly in the morning light.

She smiled warmly and said, "You’re all here already?" Her voice was tender and soothing, as smooth as warm milk, so gentle it could still even a monk’s breath.

The animals responded with pure joy: birds chirped melodiously, deer shook their antlers, and rabbits hopped around her feet in delight.

The woman leaned forward gently, lowering the tray as she began to feed them, her every movement filled with calm affection.

The woman watched the animals eat with a tender smile. When they finally finished, she waved them goodbye, her gentle expression never fading, and stepped back into her hut.

Inside, the soft creak of the wooden floor echoed beneath her feet as she glanced toward the wooden clock hanging on the wall.

"Look at that, it’s already seven, and those two still haven’t woken up," she muttered, her tone half amused, half exasperated.

With slightly hurried steps, she moved toward the room next to the main hall of the hut.

When she reached the room, she opened the door without bothering to knock, clearly, she had no need to.

The sight that greeted her brought an involuntary smile to her lips, one she quickly wiped away.

After all, she had to keep up her usual act of scolding them for being lazy every morning.

Though the room was small, it was beautifully decorated. Fresh flowers were placed everywhere, filling the air with a gentle fragrance.

At the center stood a simple bed, and on the wall beside it hung a large portrait, almost the size of a painting one might sell in a city market.

In the portrait, the same woman was dressed in a white wedding gown, her face glowing with happiness.

Beside her stood a man who looked a little shy, scratching his head as if unsure what to do.

The man’s face in the picture, however, was covered by a white patch. It made the whole portrait feel strange and unfinished.

But the woman’s smile was so bright and full of love that it seemed she didn’t mind it at all.

They had been married for ten years now. They were not born on this mountain; they had moved here soon after their wedding, hoping to start a quiet life together away from the world.

On the bed lay a middle-aged man, likely in his thirties.

He was sleeping face-down, and perhaps because of that, only his hair was visible, streaked with a strange patch of white, as if someone had deliberately blurred that part of him from sight.

His hidden features added an odd, almost unsettling mystery to the otherwise peaceful scene.

Beside him was a small boy, no older than six or seven. His hair was the same velvety shade as the woman’s, a clear sign that he was her son .

He had been born after they moved to the mountains, though she had already been pregnant before coming here.

Still, it was on these quiet slopes that she gave birth to her son.

Watching him sleep so peacefully brought an unconscious smile to her face. The day he was born felt as fresh in her memory as if it had happened yesterday.

Her husband had been so nervous back then, sweating and pacing around like he might faint at any moment.

But when their child was finally born, he burst into tears, laughing and crying at once, calling her his goddess.

Memories like these always managed to warm her heart, brightening even the coldest days and reminding her of how far they had come.

She kept watching as the child slept peacefully, his small arms resting on the man’s back in a gentle, innocent embrace.

Then, all at once, she remembered why she had come here in the first place.

Drawing in a deep breath, she straightened her posture and let the warmth fade from her eyes, replacing it with a calm, unreadable expression.

The woman strode forward with deliberately angry steps, though her heart overflowed with warmth and love for the two before her.

She reached out and gently slapped the boy’s cheek, trying to rouse him. "Dear, it’s already seven in the morning. Time to wake up."

At her voice, the boy’s eyelids fluttered, struggling to open. Soon, his eyes snapped open, full of drowsy protest. "Mom... I don’t want to wake up yet. And Dad isn’t waking up either, so let me sleep," he mumbled, his voice thick with lingering sleep.

"No, you cannot sleep in so late," she said, trying to scold him, though even her reprimand carried a comforting warmth. "Now wake up and wash up."

"What the— fu...!" the boy began to protest, but his words were cut off mid-sentence as she snapped angrily, "What did you just say? Who taught you that language?

The woman no longer tried to wake him gently. She jerked him upright and fixed him with a sharp gaze. "Who taught you that?" she demanded, looking him straight in the eyes.

The boy finally realized he had said something he shouldn’t have. Quickly, he tried to appear innocent and shifted the blame. "Dad taught me that," he mumbled.

Hearing this, the woman’s eyes flashed with fiery disapproval as they swept toward her husband, then back to her son. "Go wash up," she commanded firmly leaving no room for further arguments.

The boy understood that lingering any longer wouldn’t be in his favor. Quietly, he slipped out of the room and locked the door behind him.

Clasping his hands together in a small, earnest prayer, he whispered, "May God give you strength, Dad." With that, he hurried out of the hut.

Meanwhile, in the room, the woman fixed her husband with a fiery gaze and strode toward him, stooping slightly as she clenched her fingers into a fist.

Just as she was about to strike, the man’s hand shot out and caught hers.

Before she could register what was happening, he pulled her toward him, and in the next moment, she found herself lying beside him on the bed.

Now that the man’s face was visible, it became clear that the portrait hadn’t been a mistake.

His features were completely obscured by the white patch, making it impossible to discern any detail.

Yet somehow, it seemed the woman either could see his face or didn’t care. Her frown softened as she looked at him, and his lips, though partially hidden, appeared to curve into a playful smirk.

"Why are you always angry, my dear wife Eli?" he asked in a teasing, playful voice.

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[1]I don’t know the English name of the tree, since English isn’t my first language, it’s actually my third. But the tree is quite large and has red-colored fruits. It isn’t very tall, yet its branches spread so wide that they can cover almost fifty meters of land.