A Jornada do Forasteiro

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“Leaving my hometown with a bag in hand... often dreaming of my beloved girl... though far away, my heart remains at home...”

The heavy rain came and went swiftly, leaving a faint earthy scent in the moist air. The cobblestone street glistened under the light drizzle of sunshine.

In front of a two-story grocery store by the roadside, a young man leaning on a broom hummed an unintelligible song lazily, watching the passersby on the street with a detached gaze.

He was about one meter eighty-three tall, his slender figure more fitting for a model than a laborer. The coarse work clothes he wore looked as if they were custom-tailored suits. His matte black hair, curling slightly at the ears, was styled with thick, outdated bangs that obscured the upper half of his face. Paired with oversized black-rimmed glasses of questionable taste, one could barely discern his features.

Having finished the nearly fruitless task of sweeping, the young man glanced back at the grocery store behind him: the faded storefront, the pitifully sparse selection of goods, the single-digit daily foot traffic, and the dilapidated wooden signboard swaying precariously. The cartoon octopus painted on the sign had faded so much it was barely recognizable.

This made him wonder just how much longer the store could last.

“Hather! Stop loafing at the door and come help with the stock!”

A husky, tobacco-rough voice came from inside the store.

The young man named Hather looked sullen, reluctantly propped the broom against the wall, brushed t