TL-cosmo
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In Old Age
The garbage man, the cleaner, the one for dirty jobs… and in the end, words far fouler.
It was rare to be openly reviled, but being spoken of in whispers behind his back was part of daily life.
Thanks to whom do you think you get to live such clean lives?
He had often thought in his youth.
Now, however, he was grateful; thanks to that very work, he had never wanted for employment.
No matter where he went, no matter the era or the state of the world, he had always been able to survive.
In his younger days, he had tried to change his lot.
But for one who possessed only the barest necessities and nothing more, his options were limited. And even when he did all he could, nothing ever changed.
He never lacked for food, nor for a roof over his head. So long as he could endure the faint looks of scorn, he had no trouble living. When he thought of it that way, life hadn't been so bad after all.
Other people lived their lives worried about their next meal, or about being attacked by monsters.
He, by contrast, had no worries about food, and monsters kept their distance from the foul-smelling garbage dump.
He had reached old age without serious illness, and without a family.
He might have had his regrets, but he had no worries for the future. All that remained was to live out his days in peace.
Even when a great war broke out, or when disaster struck the nation, he was a man of no great ability and was never sent to the front lines.
But nor did he ever lose his job.
Now, he lived a quiet life in the remote countryside, continuing the same work for a small wage, living simply.
There were those who complained, to be sure, but there were also those who were grateful, and he lived comfortably enough.
His once-black hair had turned completely white, but there were precious few among the poor who were able to live so long in good health.
“Well now, that’s the day’s work done.”
While he had been reading his book, the mountain of garbage tossed into the shallow pit had vanished.
And it wasn’t as if he had been reading for a very long time.
A single slime came hopping slowly up the gentle slope from the bottom of the pit.
Its streamlined body was a faint, translucent blue, its black core visible within.
It was about large enough to hold in one’s arms, and its body rippled with every bounce.
The slime approached the old man, who was sitting on a worn, wooden chair beside the pit, and leaped a little higher, landing on his lap.
There was barely a bump—just a soft, pliant sensation as the surface touching the old man’s legs changed to match their shape.
“Good work, Fios.”
The old man gently stroked the slime.
The feel of a slime—firmer than water, yet as soft as water—was a curious thing. It felt cool to the touch on a hot day, and faintly warm on a cold one.
Now that he was old, it seemed to feel warm more often than not.
When he was young, he had found it was rather pleasant to use as a pillow.
“It may be a strange thing for a man my age to say, but I am truly grateful to you.”
He spoke of his life with the slime, stroking it as one would a beloved child—or at his age, a grandchild.
He wasn’t quite sure himself what had stirred such a mood in him.
He suspected it was because it was his birthday. The old man did not know the day he was born. His parents were gone by the time he was old enough to remember, and he’d never had the luxury of celebrating a birthday.
There was no way for him to know his true birthday, and at this point, he had neither the need nor the desire to find out.
The day the old man thought of as his birthday was the day he had received his name—the day a friend had given him a precious gift, one of the most important in his life.
Suddenly, he noticed the slime’s surface was rippling.
It wasn’t from his stroking. It was moving of its own accord.
“This feeling is… Joy…”
An emotion bloomed in his chest.
It was a warm feeling, one that was not his own, and the old man couldn't help but gasp.
It was said that if you could form a bond of mutual trust, you could understand one another’s hearts.
Until this very moment, the old man had believed that slimes possessed no intelligence, no emotion.
Happy to be petted.
Such was the feeling that flowed from the slime.
A tear traced a path down the old man’s cheek.
“I see… So you had feelings too, Fios. Forgive me… for not understanding you until now.”
The joy of a true connection with the slime, the shame of his own failure to open his heart completely, the regret that he might have been ignoring the slime’s feelings all this time—these and a hundred other emotions mingled together and became tears.
The slime sensed his complex emotions.
Its feeling of joy turned to one of concern, and it snuggled closer against his chest.
“I see, I see. You’re worried about me. Thank you.”
It had no voice, no expression, yet the slime had the capacity to worry for another, he had the wisdom to draw near. He could feel its emotions—clearly, as if spoken aloud.
The old man felt a deep shame for his own shortsightedness and profoundly repented.
So as not to worry it further, he calmed his heart, wiped his tears, and gave the slime a gentle smile.
The sun had risen high, and its rays were beginning to sting.
Even if it wasn't the hottest season, being exposed to the strong sun for too long would take its toll on his old body.
Realizing he had lingered a little too long, the old man stood, still holding the slime to his chest, and began to walk slowly.
The slime itself was not very heavy, and it was warm to hold, so he had taken to walking like this quite often recently.
A feeling of joy radiated from the trembling slime in his arms, warming the old man’s heart through and through.
On the outskirts of a small village in the remote countryside stood a small house known as the “garbage shack.”
It was by no means filthy or cluttered with trash; on the contrary, the furnishings were sparse and the interior was kept tidy.
A child somewhere had started calling it the garbage shack because the man who cleared the garbage lived there, and in time, the weathered appearance of the old house had come to match its name.
The boy who had christened the house was now a fine, grown man with a wife and child of his own.
The old man placed the slime on the table, then boiled water and steeped some tea.
The “tea” was simply wild grass that grew a short way into the forest, which he had chopped and dried.
It was slightly bitter and had a unique aroma, but for an old man with little money and few amusements, it was one of his rare daily pleasures.
Two cups. One for himself, and the other he placed in front of the slime.
It wasn’t that he was giving it tea because he could now understand its feelings.
He couldn’t recall when it had started, but one day he had playfully asked if it wanted a drink, and the slime had enveloped the cup and drunk all the tea.
He had been surprised and amused. Since that day, he had always made tea for two.
The tea was free, after all—one more cup didn’t cost him a thing.
At first, it had slurped up the tea in an instant, but at some point, the slime had started matching its pace to the old man’s. Thinking back, he realized only now that this, too, had been a sign of its intelligence.
After enjoying his tea, the old man decided to lie down on his bed.
With age, his active hours had dwindled. Moving was no longer easy, and his joints ached.
It must have been nearly noon, yet the tea alone had filled his stomach.
He glanced up from the ceiling and tilted his head to see the slime nestled beside his pillow.
“If only I had understood you sooner.”
Was this what it felt like to share a heart? To feel such warmth?
When he moved his arm to stroke it, the slime shifted toward his hand.
A strange sense of endearment came over him, and his face broke into a smile.
He patted his chest, and the slime climbed on top.
“Heh… Never even held a woman’s hand. I wonder if it would’ve felt this warm.”
It was a habit he’d fallen into, muttering to no one in particular. A long life alone gives one strange habits born of loneliness.
Then again, if he thought of it as talking to the slime… maybe it wasn’t really talking to himself.
But since there was no reply, it was no different from talking to himself.
“Fios… I am tired. I think I will sleep for a while.”
Somehow, the old man’s body felt heavier than usual.
His stroking grew slower and slower, until at last, his hand slipped from the slime and fell still.
The slime quivered—full of sorrow.
And so the old man passed away as if in sleep, leaving behind the slime whose heart he had only just learned to understand.
TL-cosmo
PR-Badboy
Read at asmotoon.com
Join our disocrd:https://discord.gg/asmotoon
