“Do you believe in death?” she whispered, tracing the grooves over his wind-beaten palms.
He thought of the war, of the vignettes that played out in hideous succession, of the fallen bodies of faces he knew from the fruit stands on the corner of the market, the weary playground standing behind the school, the multitudes of his entire life that now, everywhere he turned, seemed to be covered in blood, blood, so much blood…
But then he thought of the rain that came afterwards, the quiet gift of renewal to the havoc-destroyed world, the empty silence of bitter longing and at the same time, promised return, the sealing prospect that they would all live on, in the ripe peaches that hung on the tree in the small park, in the pastel-colored lanterns that lit the river every new year, in the bright laughter that hung untouched between the summer sunlight and lush mint leaves, in the giant cavern of priceless treasures that framed his whole being, in his heart.
He turned towards her and wiped the tear trickling down her cheek, and smiled softly.
“No, I don’t.”