"The Lord treats us like parents treat their own children. As long as we sincerely repent, no fault is unforgivable." Dominic's voice became gentler.
He is a cautious explorer, groping in the mental labyrinth of vague and obscure words, approaching something that is just a touch away.
The moment the basket maker wavered and was about to reveal his heart, the thing showed an incomprehensible outline, and before he could think about it carefully, it disappeared from the fragmented information.
Perhaps the rise and fall of a pronunciation, like an unintentional frown, metaphorically hints that it was there.
"Give Him the burdens you feel you can't bear, because the Lord understands your struggles better than you do. He hears every word, every word."
When he came back to his senses, his palms were already on the other person's shoulders, seeming to be a calm and gentle encouragement, or pushing the person to take the first step.
"My father, he may have done something that disturbed the peace of the deceased." Saying these words seemed to consume all the strength in his body. Little John buried his face in his arms and hunched over.
Field looked around vigilantly to make sure no one was passing nearby.
"Why do you say it's possible?"
"I didn't see it with my own eyes, but he was... very weird during that time."
Unlike when a son describes his father, the emotional color in the language is changing, losing temperature at a speed that he doesn't even notice, sliding towards stranger-like alienation, and even a little fear.
A maverick family member, a talented craftsman, and a father who makes his children proud. After these labels are torn off, what is left is a strange behavior that makes the family feel unreasonable.
"I can't describe it to you. He is making up things all day long as usual, but something has changed. It is no longer a job for him, but a fascinating thing."
Little John wiped a handful on his face, raised his head again, and looked at the old but solid roof of the house, "The roof now in use was also made by his own hands."
"I'm sorry for talking too far. I just want you to know that although he is relatively lonely to begin with, he is not that kind of person."
"I understand what you mean. Even Saint Peter denied being our Lord's disciple three times. With the fragility of ordinary people, it is normal for people to be temporarily lost due to external temptations. It is nothing more than a kind soul that is temporarily dusted."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you."
The monk next to him sat with his backlit, his peaceful face immersed in the shadows along with his own. The light from behind spread along the outline of his body, outlining a soft and hazy halo.
Little John almost cried when he saw it. The pressure caused by that incident seemed to be much greater than imagined.
After repeated assurances, he was finally willing to speak to the servant of Heavenly Father, tear open a corner of his memory, and let out the dark mist that had been accumulated for a long time.
Even after several years, some details are still as clear as if they were experienced yesterday.
It was a cloudy afternoon, and my father, who had been immersed in handling branches all day long, suddenly stopped and rarely looked away from the twisting and expanding spirals for reasons other than eating and sleeping.
It had been too long since he had stood and walked around for a long time. The work of collecting raw materials and selling finished products was left to his son. He often didn't step out of the house for the whole day and was busy from morning to night. The finished products were piled up half of the house.
.
Little John once tried to persuade him, but he only received meaningless silence. Sometimes he would wake up at night and hear the slight sound of branches bending and twisting. Of course, the family would not waste candles at night. He could not imagine why and how his father did it.
Weaving.
Perhaps the back is as curved and arched as the soft branches in the hands, the shoulders and elbows are stiff, and the wrists and fingers are exceptionally flexible and flexible, which is the answer.
His bloodshot eyeballs were sunk deep into his sockets, and his pupils were dilated from working in a dark environment for too long. Sometimes they were extremely bright, with a light that was ignited after peeking into some secret. But he almost never went out to communicate with others.
The things I learned were all relayed by Little John.
They are all trivial matters in the village, such as who has given birth to a child recently, who has been lucky enough to get a job, and someone named by everyone has died.
My father just listened quietly without saying a word.
On that day, very suddenly, he left the dented homemade chair, picked out a basket from the pile, picked up the rusty shovel, and said he wanted to go out.
Little John didn't think much about it at first. It wasn't a bad thing that his father was willing to go out for a walk. It might be a sign that things were getting better.
He took the opportunity to tidy up the place where his father often sat, collected small branches and lit a fire to heat dinner bread, and sat at the door to wait.
After the autumn harvest, the barren fields were covered with sharp wheat stubble. The raindrops fell gradually, and the clouds became darker and darker. The moist and corrupt wind blew from the mountains, picked up the grass stalks, and threw them silently into the distance.
With the sour smell of fermented plant remains.
He began to feel worried, and it had turned into black and gray cumulonimbus clouds stacked up and intertwined, blurring the boundary between morning and dusk, rolling slowly under the push of high-altitude winds, reminding people of the newly built ceiling of the house: dense and dim, and you can find the invisible ones if you look closely.
Water swirly deep texture.
It is a precursor to heavy rain. Local residents are most familiar with this kind of weather. Unless they have something they cannot let go of, they will rush to find a place to take shelter.
The tumult of people returning in droves rose and died, the sparks in the hearth were extinguished, and the sky turned completely dark.
The majestic heavy rain fell like a lead sheet. He called his neighbors and friends and tried to go out to look for her. However, there was no way to light an open flame in the rain, and he could see less than two steps away. Even his calling voice was swallowed up by the sound of water, and he almost got separated.
Everyone was quickly forced back and gathered together to warm themselves by the fire and pray for a miracle to happen.
The waiting time was extremely long and torturous, and he only remembered the continuous explosions of thunder. Perhaps it was a psychological effect, but he always felt that the thunder was different from usual, lacked regularity, was more frequent and terrifying, and every time it sounded, it would cause his body to tremble subconsciously.
Finally, around midnight, when everyone gave up hope and prepared to wait until the rain stopped the next day to think about it again, my father came back.
Covered in mud and water, the soaked shoes made a dull sucking sound with every step, and were caught by the mushy ground, as if they were trying to pull you back into the rain.
This chapter is not finished yet, please click on the next page to continue reading the exciting content! On that crazy rainy night, he didn’t even have a scratch from slipping. He opened the door in full view of everyone, grabbed the rattan basket containing something, and asked
Everyone left the house, including his son.
This brought the already unfamiliar relationship between the family and those around them to a freezing point, so much so that when the stonemason accused Old John of destroying the cemetery, no one was willing to stand up and say a few good words.
There was even news from people present that he was rushing to drive everyone away just to deal with the stolen goods.
As for that basket, when Little John returned from his kind neighbor's house the next day, there was nothing in it except the solidified sludge.
"I shouldn't have left at that time. Even if my father did something wrong, I should have forced him to stay and persuade him to repent."
"In other words, even you can't be sure whether he really did something to disturb the deceased?"
"Yes, he didn't say anything. He went out on another rainy day soon and never came back. We only found the basket he left behind, and no body was found in the valley next to him." Little John grabbed his disheveled hair.
, the whole ending that was not an ending made him unable to let it go.
He still feels that if he had not escaped out of inexplicable fear that night, but had left him with persuasion, things might have turned out differently.
"Maybe he felt he couldn't bear the town's opinion, so he left?"
"He carried almost nothing except the basket on his back. Where could he go?"
The whole thing exuded a strange smell, and Dominic vaguely felt that he had caught something, just short of the last layer of paper.
"What do you remember about that night?"
"It's very dark..." Inexplicable fear was brewing, and Dominic could feel his shoulders starting to tremble under his palms, as if he had returned to that night, but even the narrator couldn't tell what he was afraid of.
The darkness is indeed scary, but it is not something that scares adults so much.
"There was thunder all night, and we didn't see a single flash of lightning."
It seemed like something invisible was roaring and swallowing.