Later, when the wounds had closed and the days resumed their harsh rhythm, he taught me how to feed myself.
He watched me without interfering, letting my hands tremble, fail, try again — until the gesture became memory.
To no longer depend on chance or the pity of the world.
He taught me how to prepare a special kind of meat, infused with secret techniques and subtle forces, a flesh that did not rot, even with time.
Food designed to last, to survive seasons and disasters.
Each step of the process was an act of patience, a quiet ritual through which he passed down a precious knowledge: that of being self-sufficient.
Of being autonomous. Strong. Able to face the void without bending.
It wasn't just a survival lesson — it was a silent gift of independence, a legacy whispering that even without him, I could keep moving forward.
Then, one day… he left.
Without much explanation, without promises of return.
A month. A whole month without him.
