Crônicas da Vila Abandonada

Deep within the desert, great mountains stood tall, their sheer cliffs rising abruptly, while a solitary eagle circled overhead. A winding stream meandered through the mountains, its banks carpeted with a tapestry of wildflowers, splashes of color as vivid as a painting.

By the river, a young girl knelt, washing clothes, a drifting white cloud casting her graceful shadow upon the earth. In her hair, she wore a small purple blossom, its fragrance dancing gently with the breeze, lending her an otherworldly allure, like a fairy descended from the heavens.

Beside her sat a man whose face bore a scar, yet a persistent smile played across his lips. In his hand, he held a small bouquet, eager to offer it to the girl. Yet she paid him little mind, considering his attentions nothing more than a nuisance—her heart already belonged to another.

“Here, Xiaohua, take this flower. It may not be much to look at, but its scent is delightful. Would you like it?” the man asked.

“I don’t want it. Please leave. If someone sees you here, it wouldn’t look good,” Xiaohua replied.

He was a middle-aged man, the scar on his face not his only mark—he coughed incessantly, clearly suffering from some incurable illness. He knew his days were numbered and wished only to savor the company of a woman before meeting his end. So, on this afternoon, he had come to the riverbank, searching for his prey.

“Grandpa, please go. Don’t linger here any longer, or people will talk and say you’re not respectable,” the girl insisted, her cheeks flushing as she spoke.

“What is