Those gray-blue eyes looked at Colette, hollow and blank, like a newborn baby just entering the world.
"Who am I?"
Colette was stunned. She opened her mouth but didn't know what to say. She didn't know who he was, where he came from, who shot him, or why he fell into the river. All she knew was that he had nearly died on the riverbank, she pulled him back, and her grandfather had saved him for a night.
"You..." she struggled to speak, "You don't know who you are?"
The man's brows furrowed as if trying to recall something. After a long while, he shook his head gently, with a look of dazed helplessness.
"I can't remember," he said, his voice hoarse almost to the point of being inaudible. "I can't remember anything."
Colette turned her head to look at her grandfather. Old Dusan stood by the bed, still holding a half-bowl of cooled herbal soup, with a complicated expression on his face.
"This happens often," he said. "Serious injuries, and then spending so long in the water—your brain might be affected. Some people remember after a few days, some…"
He didn't finish.
Hearing this, the faint light in the man's eyes dimmed further. He turned his head to look out the window. Outside was the morning after the rain, the sky gray and overcast. The lavender fields in the distance had been washed by the rain, the remaining purple flower clusters swaying lightly in the wind.
He looked for a long time.
Colette followed his gaze to the fields. She had seen them since she was a child and was used to them. But the way he looked at that field—her heart felt that it was different—not curious, not strange, but something... she couldn't quite describe.
"Is it beautiful?" she asked.
The man didn't answer. After a while, he suddenly raised his hand and slowly traced on the wooden table beside the bed with his fingertips. Colette leaned over to look and saw he was writing.
He wrote a word: lumière.
Light.
Colette recognized the word. Her grandfather had taught her; the first line in the Bible is "Let there be light." But her grandfather taught her in Provençal dialect, and she didn't know how this word was pronounced by Parisians.
"Can you write?" she asked in surprise.
The man withdrew his hand and looked at his fingertips, as if surprised himself that he could write.
"I..." he frowned, trying to recall, "I don't know. My hand just moved."
Old Dusan came over, handed her the bowl of medicine, and sat beside the bed, carefully studying this stranger. He looked at him for a long time, shifting his gaze from that face to those slender hands, then back to the face.
"Your hands are very clean," he said. "Not rough from hard work."
The man lowered his head to look at his hands. They were indeed very clean, with long fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and no calluses on the fingertips—unlike Colette's hands, which were rough, cracked, with mud always stuck in the nails.
"What do I... do?" he asked.
Old Dusan shook his head. "You'll have to remember that yourself."
He stood up, walked toward the stove, then paused and looked back. "Since you can't remember, you might as well stay here with us. When your injury heals, you can think about it slowly. We're in Provence, in the small town of Lavender Blossom, not far from Marseille. I'm Dusan, and this is my granddaughter, Colette. What about you? What's your name?"
The man was stunned again.
What's his name? He couldn't remember. He desperately tried, but his mind was a blank, like a piece of paper soaked and rotted by rain, nothing clear.
"I don't know," he said, his voice even lower.
Colette looked at him, a strange feeling suddenly rising in her heart. He was so tall, so handsome, with such bright eyes, yet he sat there like a lost child.
"Then let's give you one for now," she said.
The man lifted his head, looking at her.
Colette thought for a moment, then looked outside again. The sky after the rain was still gray, but in the distance, the lavender fields had a few late-blooming flowers swaying in the wind, purple and tiny.
"Let's call you 'Rang,'" she said. "Rang Dusan. For now, just go by your grandfather's surname. When you remember your real name, you can change it back."
Hearing this, the man's lips moved slightly, and he repeated the name: "Rang... Rang Dusan."
He said it slowly, as if savoring a strange taste.
"Rang," he repeated again. This time, a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, as if he was smiling.
That was the first time Colette saw him smile. Though it was faint, almost imperceptible, she saw it. At that moment, she suddenly felt that the bruises from last night's falls and the sprain in her ankle didn't hurt as much anymore.
Old Dusan came over with two bowls of hot soup, handing one to Colette and the other to the man in bed.
"Drink it," he said. "Your body's weak; you need nourishment."
The man took the bowl, looked at the cloudy soup inside. It was made by Colette that morning, using lavender leaves picked yesterday and a handful of wheat. It had no particular taste but was warming.
He took a sip, flinched from the heat, but still held the bowl and finished drinking it in small sips.
After finishing the soup, he looked out the window again. The rain had completely stopped, and a crack appeared in the clouds. Sunlight spilled through that crack, illuminating the lavender fields, the distant hills, bathing the entire world in a golden glow.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing at the purple field.
"Lavender," Colette said. "It's everywhere here. When it blooms in summer, the mountains are covered in purple—so beautiful. Now the flowers are gone, only the leaves remain."
"Lavender..." he repeated the name, his gaze fixed on the distant fields, as if trying to imprint that purple color into his mind.
Colette stood up, limped over to the cabinet, and took out an old piece of clothing. It was her grandfather's, made of coarse gray cloth, washed white but still sturdy. She handed it to him.
"This is my grandfather's clothes. You can wear this first. Your... your coat..." she remembered the blood-soaked wool coat, "can't be worn anymore."
The man looked down at the old garment and then at the white bandage wrapped around his body, suddenly saying, "Thank you."
Colette froze for a moment.
"Thank you for what?"
"Thank you for saving me," he said, looking at her with serious eyes. "Even if I don't remember who I am, I know—you saved me."
Colette's face suddenly flushed. She turned her head away, pretending to tidy up the medicine bowls on the table.
Don't thank me," she said. "It was my grandfather who saved you. I... I just pulled you back."
The man said nothing, but Colette knew he was watching her. His gaze lingered on her back, very light, like a leaf falling on the water.
After a while, she heard him softly say behind her, "Pulling you back wasn't easy either."
Colette's hand paused.
She didn't turn around, just lowered her head and continued tidying up the dishes. But her ears turned red, burning hot.
Old Dusan sat by the fireplace, smoking his old pipe that had been used for twenty years. In the swirling smoke, he watched the two young people, with a look in his eyes that was hard to read.
The sunlight outside grew brighter, pouring into the wooden house, shining on the wooden bed, and on the face of the stranger called "Rang."
He leaned against the headboard, gazing out at the purple fields, lost in thought.
Colette finished tidying up, took out a small sachet from the cabinet, and came over, placing it in his hand.
"Here," she said. "Lavender. Put it by your pillow; it'll help you sleep well."
The man looked down at the sachet in his hand. It was small, made of purple cloth, sewn unevenly, but sturdy. He sniffed it close up—there was a faint scent, not strong, but very soothing.
"Thank you," he said again.
Colette waved her hand and limped out. "I'm going to check if the water in the fields has drained. You rest well, don't move around."
She pushed open the door, sunlight spilling in, illuminating the entire room brightly.
The man watched her figure disappear outside, then looked down at the sachet in his hand again.
It was embroidered with a small flower. He couldn't recognize what kind of flower it was, but he thought it looked very pretty.
Outside, the wind blew from the lavender fields, carrying the scent of wet earth after the rain and a faint, almost imperceptible fragrance.
He pressed the sachet to his chest and slowly closed his eyes.