And I told her not to weep, for it did not matter, in truth. I told her that it was the beginning, and that it did not matter what had occurred. I suppose this was wrong to say, for it did matter, but my sole hope was to console the girl, and allow the tears to fade into narrow streams. The waterfall ceased and I swear to you, it was very beautiful, for the way she sounded was like fresh strawberries, and every ragged breath was like honey. I cannot even explain it, for there is such a way that a girl cries, that makes her more beautiful. There is a way that someone may be their loveliest, in their deepest hour of despair. And it is sad, I tell you, that one may sound and feel so pretty when they are so sad, but there is also an air of consolation after one cries, and that may be why they sound and feel so pretty. I have pondered this for many hours, and my sincere apologies if I have failed to accurately explain such a phenomenon, but I feel that it is my duty to express this, for no one may ever do so again in your lifetime.

As I was saying, she had cried for many an hour, and it seemed to me, through her raspy voice and unintelligible murmurs between sobs, that she was shedding these tears because her loved one had left her, and thrown her into despair. I am not completely sure of the details of this part of the story, but this is what I had extracted from the nonsense of it all. Nonetheless, he had left her and the child she had birthed in a sea of sadness. She told me that her soul had deteriorated, and I told her it must not be so, for souls never deteriorate as long as one may live, and even after, for that is what my mother told me. She accepted this, or I think she did, in the very least, for she stretched her crisp cheeks into a sort of smile, and chuckled a small chuckle. And with that beautiful voice of hers, she explained more. Her loved one had left her for the mountains, and swore to never return. She had looked for him, but without success. Eventually, he returned, but was not the same. He was changed, and no longer cared for the well-being of the girl or her child. But please, remember that this is only what she tells me.

He remained with her for a few months, leaving the ailing child as he slept or sat in the darkest corners of the room in which they lived. And in the night, she swears that she heard him crying, but when she would gather the courage to ask of it, he would not reply. And in the night, she would cry also, but a sadder cry, the one that makes her sound so lovely. The child would not cry, but sniffle in the dead of night, and the mother couldn’t hear him over her quiet sobs. Remember, however, that this is the dead of night, where sounds are louder than they would usually be. One day, she says, the man came forth from his corner, and spoke gently, telling her to get medicine for the child. She was hesitant to leave the child, but for the sake of his health, she left to get the medicine for the ailing child. When she returned, her one happiness was stolen—both the child and the man were gone, with the only trace of their existence the cold memories of hard sobs in the night.
He returned in a month and a day, bearing the boy, cured of sickness, but beholding a face of despair. The man kissed the woman on her stained cheeks, and fell asleep on the floor. The child cried, and cried, and cried, but did not wake the man. The woman was hateful, vengeful, and disgusted. She clasped the boy by the wrist, and yanked him to the door. They slipped through the narrow doorway, and pushed the brass doorknob, insulating the sounds of the man’s quiet snore. Then, she ran, or, rather, they ran, the boy’s bare heels toughening after the first round of jagged rocks that dug into his feet. Then, when they were a long way from home, the woman halted, fell to her knees, wept, and kissed the boy on the forehead.

And I told her not to weep, for, in truth, it did not matter. I told her all sorts of things, carefully edging towards the statement I was trying to make. Her loved one did not leave her, for she was the one who left. And she replied that he left far before she ran with the child. He had left her when he had left for the mountains, and came back changed, for he never did change back, even when he kissed her stained cheeks. And I told her that I was sorry, and that the divine spirit had something for her, because that is what my mother had told me. She opened her cracked lips and whispered in that sweet voice of hers, that I was delusional, and it wasn’t to be that way. I said that it was, and she accepted this, I think. She wept more, and more, into the night. When she finally stopped, I told her that she must not cry, for it was to be alright, and that she was too beautiful to cry. In truth, she was even more beautiful when she cried, but this is a phenomenon I cannot explain to you, and I couldn’t tell her either, for who wants to be told to cry more to sound lovely?