On the day when the sun seemed to be shining the most, I asked her,
"Why do people die?"
I was sitting on a chair right by the window that's why I can clearly see how lucent the sky was. But when I shifted my gaze onto her, what I saw was an eccentric place. As if she was in the duskiest corner of the room, she showed me those gloomy eyes. Her lips curved in a smile, but there was something more in it, which I had failed to decipher.
Just like what she always does, she patted my head. She then looked at the sky, which seemed to be reflecting her eyes, and spoke in a soft and calm voice.
"Why do people live, my dear?"
The very next day, she was gone.
I never understood her, until not just too long ago, I realized what she was saying. As I was sitting on my chair right by my window, I found myself asking the very same question.
That was my darkest time, my tragedy. I failed to recognize hers.