This is a continuation to the Unnamed Short Story.
This part is told in the POV of a narrator.
The man was just living his everyday life as a normal farmer would: tilling the fields, tending to the crops, harvesting, planting, doing nothing more. He wouldn’t accept any change; no he couldn’t. The man was already in denial. One might think that everything were fine. Even he himself tried his hardest to believe so, but it wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Everytime he took a peek at his fields, all that would be reflected in his pupils were some razed grounds. His house would reflect the foundations; the walls and furniture having been burnt to the ground. every night he slept on the slept on the stub of a foundation that was still there, forcing himself to recognize it as a bed. But his parents, he still couldn’t forget. He couldn’t move on. Actually, he himself knew, the piles of bones on the ground weren’t his parents, they were just lifeless skeletons, never to move again. The bones were even burnt, but what was there that he could do? If he were to look towards his neighbours, he would just see more burnt land, but what is it that he could do? He was nothing more than a child, some might even call him a baby, being no more than seven. What could he do?
What should he do?
None of this was clear, but just one thing was. He couldn’t continue like this. It would never work. Living a repeat of the same days over and over again, he had been seven for more than a hundred years already. This couldn’t go on. But the one who had cursed him wouldn’t allow it.
The boy had stirred awake from his slumber, standing to continue his steady stream of work. His time had stopped, so there was no point in doing anything, but he pushed himself out of habit. His only fear was that it was starting to take less and less time before he would finish his work, allowing more thinking time. This, to him was unacceptable, so he had quickly decided on what to do after finishing his work. He had seen other boys doing this training in the village before. He picked up anything he could find, and swung it around until the sun had set, then he would go back to sleep, and once again, his cycle started, with another element having been added to it.
These days continued, forever and ever, never-ending, as the spell was still in place, the boy would never be truly free. He was still seven, and had been seven for a long, long time. Even he himself couldn’t remember what his parents were like. All he had now, was the farm, and his training. He had nothing else. Nothing.
It wasn’t as if he had amnesia. Oh no. He remembered. But he didn’t recall. The memories were too painful for him. So, he emptied himself. And like this, time continued to pass. Endlessly, Pointlessly, Aimlessly. The clock continued ticking for the boy. But for the rest for the rest of the world, time had stopped. Or had it? No one knew. Nobody knew if time had stopped for the Boy or the World. Maybe both.
