The old man set down his cup and gazed at Jerin. Jerin's eyes were rimmed with red, and his lips trembled.
"Mother..."
Jerin began to speak, but his voice cracked.
"Mother left us too soon, too suddenly..."
Jerin slowly clenched and unclenched his hands upon his knees. The veins on the backs of his hands stood out starkly as strength flowed into his fingers.
"It was an illness. The coughing would not cease, and in the end, she brought up blood. I gathered fine herbs, but they did nothing for her. We had no coin to call a healer."
Jerin's gaze drifted slowly to the floor.
"On her last day, Mother took my hand. She had scarcely any strength left, yet she clasped mine with all that remained. Holding my hand thus, she spoke: Take care of your siblings..."
Jerin drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His breathing wavered unevenly.
"Father... after Mother passed, he could no longer keep the tavern they had run together."
He steadied his breath deeply and continued.
"Coin was needed... so he went to the mines. It was the mining village of Teunt, a short way from Froikton, for he had to feed the family that remained."
Jerin lifted his head to look at the old man. His eyes quivered with unease.
"A support beam gave way. The shaft collapsed in an instant, and Father was within. Folk dug and dug, but in the end, they brought out only a body."
Jerin's voice began to tremble more and more.
"When they found Father's form... it was not whole. He had been crushed beneath heavy stones, his face unrecognizable. It was by his garb alone that we knew him—the brown work tunic, with a patch sewn on the left sleeve... that garment told us it was Father."
The old man rose quietly from his seat and walked toward the table. He lifted the kettle to check the water, but it had grown cold. He drew fresh water and filled the kettle anew, placing it back upon the hearth. Tending the embers, he added another log, and the flames stirred slowly to life.
Meanwhile, Jerin continued his tale.
"And... my younger brother... after Father passed, I sought to keep him from the mines at all costs. Yet he heeded me not and went there all the same."
Jerin's hands shook, and he clenched them tightly. His nails dug deep into his palms.
"My brother was too young to delve within the shafts for ore. Instead, he sorted through the heaps of rock brought forth, picking out the worthy stones. In doing so, his hands were soon scraped raw, his nails broken, his fingertips split and bleeding."
Jerin closed his eyes. His eyelids quivered faintly.
"That was not all. He carried water and victuals into the shafts for the miners, and tools as well—pickaxes, shovels, iron hammers, heavy burdens all. Several times a day, he traversed the tunnels, bearing those weighty loads."
Jerin opened his eyes slowly. They glistened with moisture.
"He... even so, he always smiled... Brother, I wish to help, he would say... to be of aid to the family. His hands were ever scarred, yet he beamed brightly and spoke thus."
Jerin's voice cracked further and further.
"It was for our sister. He knew well that she was gravely ill, that her care demanded much coin. Thus he began the labor. A lad of scarcely fourteen, amid grown men, from dawn till dusk, toiling without cease all the day long..."
Jerin covered his face with trembling hands. His voice leaked through his fingers.
"He endured thus, going to and fro in the mines each day. One day he began to cough, lightly at first, but in a few days it worsened. Then came the day he coughed up blood—black blood."
Jerin's shoulders trembled faintly.
"Each breath came with a wheezing rasp; every cough wracked his body like a spasm. I hastened to call a healer and procured herbs, but... but it was too late."
The old man lifted the kettle. The water boiled, steam rising. He carefully removed it from the fire and poured the hot water slowly into the teacup. Floating a few leaves of Lacoë that Jerin had brought, a gentle fragrance spread through the room.
He carried the steaming cup to Jerin and placed it quietly upon the small table beside him. Without a word, he returned to his own seat.
Jerin lowered his trembling hands slowly and looked at the old man. His eyes were sorely bloodshot, and clear tracks of tears marked his cheeks.
"On the night before he died, my brother asked me: Brother, was I of help? Did I aid the family even a little? He asked thus."
Jerin's lips quivered fiercely.
"I told him yes. That he had been a great strength, that without him we could not have endured. Hearing this, he smiled radiantly. A face of true joy. And the next morning, that smiling face remained only in my memory."
Jerin gazed at the teacup upon the table. With a trembling hand, he reached out and lifted it, bringing it to his lips for a small sip. The hot tea slid down his throat slowly. He set the cup back down.
"My sister..."
Jerin began, then halted. A long silence fell, and his breathing grew ragged.
"My sister... was frail from birth. She could not walk... ever abed."
Jerin's voice grew fainter.
"When Mother was with us, it was... better. But after Mother passed... I had to go out to labor... and she was alone."
Jerin clutched his face with both hands. His fingers trembled finely.
"She lay alone all the day long. At times my work kept me till after sundown, in the dark, and then she waited for me, forsaken in the gloom."
Jerin's voice began to shake.
"She needed Rishuradil. An herb that grows not at all in the Esteta kingdom, found only in the distant eastern grasslands of Kisha. Its cost was so dear... I gathered coin desperately to obtain it, yet ever it fell short. No matter how I scrimped, how I saved, it was always lacking."
Jerin's shoulders shook faintly.
"She told me: Brother, it is well, I am not in pain. But that was a falsehood. She suffered sorely. Nightly she moaned in agony, slept ill... yet before me she strove to smile. To spare me worry, to ease my burden, she smiled thus."
Jerin's hands shook fiercely.
"She asked me, toiling every day as I did, if it wearied me not. I answered that it was well."
Jerin drew in a deep breath and expelled it roughly.
"But in truth, I was not well. Body and spirit were worn. Each dawn I rose early to venture into the woods, returning only at twilight."
Jerin's voice cracked more and more.
"One day, fever seized her. Her body burned hot, and she began to sweat coldly. I summoned a healer in haste, and he said more Rishuradil was needed."
Jerin clenched his trembling hand into a fist.
"I ran to the merchants' guild, hoping perchance some Rishuradil remained."
Jerin wiped his tears with a shaking hand. He rubbed his face roughly with the back of his hand.
"When I reached home, the room was silent... no breath, no cough, nothing stirred."
Jerin's voice broke utterly.
"My sister was already..."
Jerin's whole body trembled. His hands shook, his shoulders shook, his voice shook.
"I called her name, but the child opened her eyes not once... in the darkness... with none beside... I was not there."
Jerin buried his face deep in his hands. His voice seeped thinly through his fingers.
"She died alone. In deep darkness, she passed alone. None held her hand... none kept vigil at her side."
Jerin's voice rose higher.
"I... I should have been there... I should have stayed by her..."
Jerin bowed his head deeply. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. Drops fell to the floor, forming small stains.
"She was yet a child. She had never stepped beyond the house, never known a friend. Without seeing aught of the world, without tasting any experience, thus... thus."
Jerin's shoulders heaved fiercely, and his body bent forward more and more.
"Thus... all departed. Mother, Father, my brother, my sister... all. And now, in this world, one alone bears the name Hoffer."
Jerin lifted his trembling hands from his face and looked at the old man. His eyes were red and swollen, tears flowing ceaselessly down his cheeks, dripping from his jaw.
"I... am utterly alone now. No family remains. None to remember me, none to seek me. Even if I vanish from this world..."
Jerin's voice trembled with desperation.
"Thus... thus I have come to you, sir."
Jerin gazed straight at the old man, his face smeared with tears.
"Someone... at least someone must know that I existed here. Somewhere in Froikton, somewhere in this world, that a man named Jerin Hoffer lived—that must be left behind. For none remains to remember me."
Jerin's voice cracked in despair.
"I beseech you. I beg of you. Preserve this likeness of me, this living, breathing form, in a painting."
Jerin could bear it no longer and bowed his head deeply. His back curved, his body tilted far forward. He covered his face completely with both hands, and tears continued to flow between his fingers.
"I beg... I beg of you..."
Jerin's voice quivered, sobs leaking forth.
The weeping burst out. The sobs he had suppressed so long poured forth all at once. A groan rose from deep in his throat.
Jerin bent his body deeper still. He buried his face in his knees and clutched his head with both arms.
"Uh... uhh..."
A choked sound escaped his throat. The unbroken sobbing filled the room. Jerin's back heaved violently, and his whole body shook with each breath.
"Why... why only me... why only me..."
His words mingled utterly with the sobs. They were unclear, trembling, wavering.
The old man rose slowly from his seat. He approached Jerin quietly and stood beside his quaking shoulder. He reached out his hand slowly and laid it gently upon Jerin's shoulder. Without a word, he simply stood thus.
Jerin continued to weep. His voice cracked and cracked again. The sobbing grew rougher, and he could scarcely draw breath. Each inhalation caught in his throat, coughs mingling with the cries. The tears would not cease.
The old man withdrew his hand from Jerin's shoulder. He walked slowly to the cupboard, opened it, and drew forth a worn but clean cloth. Holding it, he returned to Jerin and carefully placed it into his trembling hand.
Jerin took the cloth. He wiped his face, his eyes, his nose. The cloth was soon soaked with tears.
The weeping began to subside little by little. The sobs grew smaller, though they did not cease entirely. His shoulders still trembled faintly.
The old man returned to his seat and sat down. He gazed quietly at Jerin, who still bowed his head in tears.
A long time passed. The weeping faded gradually, and Jerin wiped his face once more with care using the damp cloth. He drew a long breath and exhaled slowly, striving to steady his breathing.
"I am sorry, sir."
Jerin said in a hoarse voice.
"It is well."
The old man replied quietly.
Jerin lifted his head slowly. His eyes were sorely swollen, and his whole face flushed red.
"I know not what words might comfort you."
The old man said honestly.
Jerin made no reply.
"I am a painter. I speak to the world through pictures, not words. Thus, the solace I can offer you is a painting alone. Words cannot soothe your sorrow."
The old man continued calmly.
"I shall paint your face with utmost care. That you existed here in Froikton, that you lived and breathed in this world—I shall leave that in a painting. It is the only thing I, as a painter, can do for you."
Jerin nodded slowly. Tears flowed anew from his eyes, and he wiped them carefully with the cloth.
"Thank you. Truly, thank you."
Jerin said in a trembling voice.
The old man rose slowly from his seat and walked to the canvas. He gazed for a moment at the underdrawing, then took up his brush.
"I shall continue."
The old man said quietly.
Jerin straightened his disheveled posture slowly. He walked back to the window and sat in the chair, turning his face toward the light. The winter sunlight bathed his features softly.
The old man dipped his brush carefully in pigment. To make flesh tone, he blended white with ochre, adding a touch of red. And he began to apply color to the canvas slowly.
The painting took shape, bit by bit.