The book was called The Farmer. It told the story of a farmer who had to work the land, growing crops during the farming season to feed his family — it was the only thing they could afford to eat during those hard times.
He worked day and night without rest, making sure his crops wouldn't be stolen and would grow well. The farmer treated them like his little treasures, just as he treated his family. He would go days without sleeping, even starving himself to give most of the food to his family.
He had three children and a wife. One day, his wife fell sick. She began coughing blood, and moving became difficult for her. She was confined to her bed for endless days and nights. They couldn't save her — they didn't even know what disease she had, and affording a doctor was not an option in their situation. All they could do was watch as the woman groaned in pain on her deathbed.
She took her last breath on a cloudy morning. They had to bury her far from the house, because the rotting corpse would emit a foul stench. The farmer could not attend his wife's burial — he was afraid the food would be stolen. It was the children — aged sixteen, fourteen, and twelve — who had to dig the grave and bury their own mother. When they laid her body in the earth, they waved goodbye and marked the spot with a drawing.
Only four remained.
Weeks after the mother's passing, the crops began slowly dying for a reason the farmer could not understand. He stood in his field, looking down at it. In a burst of anger, he threw his hoe at the ground and blamed his children for not helping him enough.
Driven by selfishness and desperation to survive, he took half the harvest for himself and left the other half for the three children to share.
The eldest would always leave the younger ones the most of the food, sometimes giving them his own share. Four days later, the eldest collapsed at the table from hunger and was destined never to open his eyes again.
The younger ones watched in horror at their brother's lifeless body before them. They desperately tried to wake him, calling his name, but he would not budge an inch. They both knew there was no bringing him back. They had to bury him, just as they had buried their mother.
Far from the house, in the same place where their mother rested, they dug a grave for their fallen brother. They covered his body with soil and waved goodbye. Once again, the farmer could not attend his oldest son's burial — he was too consumed by the fear that his crops might be stolen in his absence. He did not realize that his own greed had killed his son. He blamed the children instead, saying they had mismanaged the food he gave them.
Only three remained.
After the eldest passed, the two younglings now had to face their father's growing anger, as he drowned in his own sorrow over the loss of his wife and eldest son. He beat them whenever he could, using the back of his hoe. The soil had already dried up; nothing could be grown anymore. He had long accepted that they were all doomed to die, yet he made no effort to change their distant fate.
He kept all the harvested crops for himself, leaving barely anything for his children, who were growing thin and frail with hunger. Their bodies were covered in bruises and marks from their father, yet they still pleaded with him. They still believed that somewhere inside him, they could bring back the father he once was, before all of this began.
One night, while the drunken farmer slept, the older brother sneaked into the storage room and stole some food for his younger brother, who was growing weaker by the day. He took just enough for both of them to eat that night.
When morning came, the farmer noticed the stolen crops and immediately blamed the children. The younger one could not move — he was far too weak — so the older brother protected him.
He was beaten again and again, leaving stick marks across his arms, legs, and torso. One night, the farmer struck his son on the head, and the boy fell to the floor, bleeding from his skull, which had been cracked open. Realizing what he had done, the farmer ran outside, screaming in horror. He had killed his own child with his bare hands. It was at that moment that he finally opened his eyes.
The younger brother dragged his fallen brother's body to the grave where his mother and eldest brother rested. There, he took the shovel and dug. It took him days, exhausted and weak as he was, but he still dug. He buried his brother's corpse and finally waved him goodbye.
Only two remained.
After a while, the youngest came back home. He saw a plate of food on the table, waiting for him. The moment he saw it, he ran to eat — and that was when his father returned. He shivered in fear, realizing it might have been his father's food, but his father did nothing. He simply watched him eat as he sat down.
His eyes were already the eyes of the dead. It was not the same father he once knew. Greed and anger had completely consumed him, carrying him to his end.
"I'm sorry."
Those were the only words he could bring himself to say. The past could not be rewritten; what was done was already set in stone. He left the house, closing the door behind him.
Curious, the child followed his father. That was when he saw his father lift a knife to his throat and strike it down upon himself. A scream of terror escaped the boy as his father turned and saw him running toward him.
He looked at him. He did not want to die. He wanted to see them — he wanted to see his family. He wanted to go back to how things were before. The good old times, when they all laughed and played together whenever they could. He wanted to see their smiles, even if only one last time. It was a pointless wish. He knew it would never take flight, yet he clung to it anyway.
"I do— wAn— to di—"
No one had stolen those moments from him. He had destroyed them himself, with his own two hands. The father embraced his son one final time before letting go of his last breath.
Surprisingly, the youngest felt no revulsion or disgust toward his father. Rather, he was glad — even if it was only in his final moment — that his father still cared for them. The boy dragged his father's body to the grave, dug one last hole, buried him, and waved goodbye.
Only one remained.
The son went back to the house. When he opened the door, he saw his family whole again — smiling and waving at him. He called out each of their names.
"Mother?... Will?... Arrie?... Father?... All of you."
He reached out his hand, wanting to hug them, but as soon as he took a step forward, the floor opened up and he plummeted. He sank into endless darkness — but he was happy. Happy that he was able to see all of them one last time.
Only memories remained.
Before Silvia closed the book, she looked around and realized the two children were already fast asleep. She shed a tear, looking at the book. She felt an indescribable connection to it. Connection to her husband. For some reason, the memories of the time they spent together and her husband's face were still blurry in her mind — but she was sure he existed. She was sure he would soon come back to them. Silvia got up, blew out the little flame, wrapped both children in her arms. Soon, she too fell into a deep slumber alongside them.
A//N: For those who have forgotten, Lorelei was still in town 4 years ago.If it wasn't clear ( I'm sure it wasn't.... My mistake...) she's 13. She spent 4 years with Clovis after she had left town (The man who took care of her) and before that, she had spent all her life in town up until the age of 9 (canto 1).