"Whew…" He first let out a long, somewhat relieved sigh, then lowered his voice as if afraid of disturbing the person in the bedroom, whispering to Sam, "My old lady, Daisley, she's been like this for a few years now. Just stares out the window all day, doesn't talk, just waiting… waiting for Jimmy to come home."
The old man paused, a bitter smile on his wrinkled face, his eyes somewhat distant. "Don't laugh, Sam, but sometimes, deep down, I really get a little jealous of my silly son. You see, my wife hardly remembers my name now, but 'Jimmy', and Jimmy's favorite pumpkin soup, she talks about them all day long. Isn't it ridiculous? Me, an old bag of bones, actually jealous of a son who's been gone for so many years." He chuckled self-deprecatingly, trying hard to appear optimistic.
Sam, unusually, wasn't infected by this forced optimism. He remained silent for a moment, looking at the old man's weary, bloodshot eyes, then asked hesitantly, "Mr. Mitt, then… do you know what's happening outside right now? Today, on the streets…"
"Know? How could I not know." Mitt sighed, pointing to a dusty, box-shaped television with two long antennas in the corner—Sam even suspected it was a black-and-white set. "At my age, my legs aren't what they used to be. Besides watching TV, there's not much else to do. Even though I have to wear my reading glasses to barely make out the subtitles, today's news… those terrifying scenes, I saw them all."
He turned his head, looking Sam over again in his stained and bloodied police uniform, a hint of understanding and sympathy in his eyes. "You're a police officer, today must have been the hardest for you. Those… 'things' outside, not easy to deal with, are they?" He shakily picked up an old ceramic teapot from the table, poured Sam a steaming cup of black tea, and then pushed an open tin of biscuits towards him. "Here, young man, sit down, rest your feet, have some hot tea and some biscuits. I don't have much else to offer."
[A couple of bottles of whiskey would be even better.] Sam thought to himself, but still did as he was told, sitting down and picking up the cup of faintly fragrant black tea. The tea was still warm, and drinking it dispelled some of the chill from his body. The biscuit tin contained an assortment of homemade biscuits, most of them dotted with a few dark red dried cranberries, looking simple but made with care.
"My daughter-in-law and grandson, they live out in the suburbs, a bit remote." Mitt also picked up a cup of tea, sipping it carefully, a gratified smile on his face. "Just now… shortly before you arrived, I got a call from them. Said they'd been picked up by the military and taken to a safe zone. They should be… they should be safe now, I suppose." After sharing this rare piece of good news, his smile quickly faded. He looked at Sam and asked softly, "Outside… is it completely out of control now?"
"Pretty much," Sam replied, picking up another biscuit, his expression unreadable. "But, you could try waiting for the military to rescue you. They should be clearing areas gradually."
"Wait?" Mitt gave a bitter smile and shook his head. "Us old folks, how much time do we have left to wait? Besides, we don't have much food left here." He gestured towards the empty-looking kitchen area. "Usually, kind-hearted community volunteers bring us groceries and supplies, sometimes even hot meals if we're lucky. With things like this today… I doubt they can even manage themselves."
"Yeah," Sam said, taking a sip of tea, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather.
"So, Sam, I wanted to… ask you for a favor." Mitt also put down his teacup. His fingers, veined like dry tree bark, trembled slightly as he picked up the cup, almost unable to hold it steady.
He looked at Sam, his eyes holding an unreadable, complex emotion, as if he had made a great resolution, before speaking slowly, "Don't worry, young man, I'm not asking you to risk your life to buy me pumpkins." He tried to force a smile, attempting to lighten the mood. "You know, Jimmy, that boy of mine, he loved barbecuing outdoors when he was alive, always said he was a barbecue master. So, on top of the cupboard in the house, there are still several large bags of charcoal he never used. I can't climb up to get them now…"
Mitt paused here, his smile gone, replaced by an almost calm, heart-stopping solemnity. He moved his trembling hand from the teacup and placed it on the table. Then he looked up, directly into Sam's eyes, and said in a tone as casual as if borrowing a screwdriver from a neighbor, word by word:
"Sam, do us a favor. Help us die. If you please."
System Mission Issued: The Old Man's Last Wish Objective: Help Mitt fulfill his wish. Reward: +100 Hope Points. Failure Penalty: None.
Sam looked with some astonishment at the mission prompt that had suddenly popped up before his eyes—could something like this even be considered a "mission"? For a moment, he didn't know how to react.
After Mitt stated his chilling request, he seemed to have unburdened himself of a great weight, calmly taking another sip of tea. The expression on his face could even be described as relaxed, as if his previous words were just an absurd illusion, or an untimely dark joke.
"This place, originally, was where my son Jimmy and his family lived." The old man's cloudy gaze drifted out the window, then seemed to pierce through it, looking towards a more distant past, as if slowly rewinding a worn but still precious videotape in his mind. "He was a firefighter, you see, the nature of his job meant he had to live in an apartment closer to downtown, for quick response."
He paused, then continued, "Later… after Jimmy had that accident, my daughter-in-law moved out with my grandson. She's a good woman, never remarried, raised the child all by herself through thick and thin. She used to bring the kid back to visit us old folks often, bringing us food and supplies…" A hint of gratification was in the old man's voice, but it was soon replaced by a deeper desolation.
"Actually, we also have an old house in the suburbs. But after Jimmy passed, my wife, Daisley… she just couldn't handle the shock, her spirit just collapsed. She always felt Jimmy would come back, so she insisted on living here, guarding this place where he had lived."
"That is…?" Sam listened to the old man's rambling narrative, his gaze idly sweeping the room. His eyes were suddenly caught by an object in a glass cabinet in the corner of the living room—it was an ancient-looking warhammer, its metal surface dark and dull, the head covered with crude rivets and some faded engravings. It looked like a weapon straight out of a medieval movie, currently propped up at an angle by a simple wooden stand.
"Oh, you mean that hammer?" Mitt followed Sam's gaze, a nostalgic smile appearing on his face. "That was something Jimmy messed around with when he was young. For a while, he was obsessed with medieval knights and all that, don't know from which flea market he dug up this old warhammer, treasured it like a gem. He even wanted to buy a full suit of plate armor, but when he asked the price, good lord, it was more expensive than his second-hand car loan, so that idea died out, haha."
After explaining the warhammer's origin, Mitt looked deeply at Sam again, his tone becoming somewhat solemn. "After us old folks… are gone, Sam, anything in this house you like, just take it. On top of the cupboard in that storage room over there, there's still a bottle of whiskey Jimmy never got around to drinking, said to be twenty years old."
"Whiskey?" Sam's eyes instantly lit up, an almost instinctive reaction.
"Yeah, heard it's a good brand, I wouldn't know, but it was Jimmy's treasure anyway." The old man nodded, then the smile faded from his face again, replaced by a very serious and pained expression. He looked at Sam and reminded him, word by word, "Speaking of which… it's truly shameful. My Jimmy, he actually… he died because he was drunk driving, lost control of the car, and crashed through the highway guardrail."
He paused for a moment, then continued, "Two days before his accident, he had rescued a little girl trapped in a big fire. It was all over the TV news, everyone called him a hero. That man of mine, always so brave, so selfless… but he just couldn't kick that bad habit. After every adventure, he always liked to have a few drinks, sometimes even drove after drinking. It's too dangerous, Sam, too dangerous. You're still young, don't you ever do what he did, don't ever."
"I agree with you, sir, drunk driving is indeed very dangerous," Sam said calmly, looking into the old man's eyes. Of course, he only said he 'agreed' with the old man's statement, making no promises.
Hearing Sam's words, the old man fell silent for a moment. He leaned back slightly, letting the back of the old armchair fully support his thin body, his gaze drifting somewhat distantly towards the gray sky outside the window. He spoke slowly, "A person's life, it's not long, not short, pretty ordinary, right? Like a drop of water falling into the great river of the world. No matter how much it tumbles, what sights it sees, in the end, it has to merge into that boundless ocean, no different from the rest."
Then, he turned his head, a gentle and wise smile appearing on his wrinkled face as he looked at Sam and continued, "But, Sam, there are always some people who are destined to achieve something extraordinary in this ordinariness. Even a tiny drop of water, before it merges into the sea, can strive to reflect a little bit of its own light, to slightly change the places it flows through. Just like you, young man, I believe you are such a drop of water."
"Me?" Sam chuckled self-deprecatingly. "What greatness can I achieve? Mr. Mitt, you're overestimating me." Honestly, perhaps when he was younger, say five or six years ago, he might have harbored some unrealistic fantasies about "responsibility" and "greatness." But now? Give him a break. He just wanted to survive; he didn't want to bear anything else.
"Yes, I believe in you." The old man, however, was unusually certain. He extended his age-spotted hand and gently pointed to the bloodstained police badge on Sam's chest. "I believe you will become a hero for ordinary people, just like Jimmy once did, lending a hand when they need it most."
"I don't buy into that 'with great power comes great responsibility' crap." Sam took a large gulp of tea; the hot liquid didn't seem to dispel the frustration in his heart. His eyes darted around, clearly wanting to avoid this heavy topic.
"Hehe, perhaps." The old man didn't press him, just picked up a cranberry biscuit, slowly took a small bite, and savored it. "This world, indeed, has many bad people, many disappointing things, just like those monsters outside, ugly and terrifying." He paused, then his tone changed, carrying a hint of warmth. "But, Sam, this world also always has some trivial, beautiful things, doesn't it? Like this biscuit, it has a sweet taste, it can make people temporarily forget some unpleasantness. This old man isn't trying to lecture you by pulling rank, I just feel…"
He looked up, his clear yet world-weary eyes looking earnestly at Sam, and said word by word, "A fine young man like you, if you're willing to do some good deeds, even very small ones, that in itself… is a very, very cool thing, isn't it?"
"Is it…" Sam didn't answer, just silently finished the last sip of black tea in his cup, his gaze once again drifting to the city outside the window, which was being consumed by darkness and chaos.