Chapter 357: Yorkshire

The sky was just beginning to brighten, and the first dewdrop had yet to form. Dressed neatly, Hoffa boarded the train from London to Yorkshire. Once it departed from London, the train rumbled through the countryside, passing vast fields.

Seated on a red leather seat, Hoffa gazed out the window. The fleeting view of hayfields in the morning light gave him a throbbing headache. It felt as though, at some other time, in some other place, he had sat on a train like this before—next to a girl.

The girl across from him had her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, with her feet propped up on the table. Her upper body was slumped against the berth as she flipped through a third-rate novel, showing little concern for appearances. Fortunately, they were in a sleeper car with no other passengers to witness her unceremonious posture.

Hoffa still didn't know the girl's name. He had asked several times, but she never gave him an answer. Each time he inquired, she would either change the subject or scoff without responding. Eventually, he gave up asking.

The journey was largely uneventful and monotonous. Hoffa spent most of his time either sleeping, eating, or enduring his headache while watching the scenery pass by. This routine continued until the early hours of the next morning.

When the conductor's voice announced their arrival, the girl, who had been reading the entire time, finally tossed aside her novel. She brushed the cookie crumbs off her clothes, stood up, and said curtly, "Lead the way."

Hoffa led the girl off the train. They now stood on a tiny platform, barely ten square meters in size. Behind them stretched harvested wheat fields and hayfields, a sea of dull yellow. Rolls of dried grass were scattered across the fields at regular intervals.

Beyond the railway, there was nothing but dirt paths winding through the countryside.

A gust of wind rattled an old, rusted signboard on the platform, making it creak. The faded letters on it read: Welcome to Morton.

Standing in this completely unfamiliar place, Hoffa felt momentarily lost. The surroundings were eerily silent—there wasn't a single soul in sight.

The girl adjusted her sleeve cuffs and remarked nonchalantly, "Let's start looking. Mr. Bach, if possible, I'd like to have some pudding before nightfall."

"Pudding?"

"Yorkshire pudding is quite famous. Don't you know?" she retorted coolly.

Hoffa caught the hint of sarcasm in her tone. Indeed, this place seemed utterly desolate—there was no sign of life, let alone a place that sold pudding.

But he still remembered the soldier's instructions: Yorkshire, Morton town, by the Dewater River, a farm.

A river. A farm.

Hoffa thought to himself that if he could locate the river, he could follow it to the farm.

Checking his pocket watch, he glanced at both the time and the photograph inside. Closing the watch, he turned and stepped onto the uneven dirt road leading into the countryside. Compared to the war-torn outskirts of London, this place seemed relatively intact. The fields still held their shape, untouched by the ravages of conflict.

The two of them trekked through the fields, climbed a low hill to get their bearings, then waded through dry riverbeds and sparse underbrush. Eventually, they reached a small, flowing river.

Standing by the river was an ancient waterworks system built centuries ago. The stone structures still functioned diligently, just as they had since their construction—only now, they stood devoid of human presence.

As they followed the river deeper into the land, Hoffa's expression grew increasingly grim. Along the riverbanks, he spotted a few stone houses, but they all appeared abandoned. Even the windmills and waterwheels by the river had ceased to turn, as lifeless as a man who had long given up on his dreams.

Finally, they arrived at a riverside farm with a stone mill and a small stone house. Hoffa took out his pocket watch and examined the photograph again. The background of the picture was the very same building, now overrun with weeds. But unlike in the photo, the structure had succumbed to time—its wooden windows were cracked, and inside, only abandoned furniture and cobwebs remained.

The farm was still here, but its people were long gone.

A wave of disappointment washed over Hoffa. He sat by the river, running a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what to do next. But no matter how much he thought, there seemed to be no solution. If the people were gone, how could he possibly complete his mission?

The girl noticed his distress. She walked over and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

Hoffa looked at her blankly. She said, "Don't worry. We'll find someone."

He pointed at the abandoned village in front of them, saying nothing.

She, however, pulled him toward the dirt road by the river, pointing at the ground. "Look, tire tracks. A Jeep's, and they're fresh. That means someone was here recently."

Following her direction, Hoffa examined the ground and indeed spotted faint tire marks. He ran his fingers over them before standing up, renewed determination in his eyes. "You're right. Someone must be here. Let's follow the tracks!"

With that, they walked along the dirt road marked by the tire tracks. Before long, they spotted a moving black dot at the end of the road. Excited, Hoffa grabbed the girl's hand and sprinted toward it.

As they drew closer, the black dot took shape—it was a moving truck, loaded with wheat and hay. Sitting atop the golden stacks were a group of women, chatting and laughing as the vehicle bounced along the road.

Seeing the group, Hoffa waved his arms enthusiastically from below, shouting, "Hey, wait! Please, wait!"

The driver, a sturdy middle-aged woman wearing work gloves and smoking a cigarette, glanced at him from the driver's seat and slowly brought the truck to a stop. The women in the back curiously peered down at the unusual visitor.

Hoffa hurried up to the truck and addressed them. "Excuse me, I'm looking for a family." He opened his pocket watch and held it up to them. "Do any of you know them?"

From a distance, the women couldn't make out the details in the watch. But they could clearly see the young man standing in the dirt road, his forehead glistening with sweat from running after the truck. His features weren't particularly striking, but his earnest, slightly anxious expression made him seem sincere. He stood there, holding up the watch, waiting for a response.

One of the women leaned forward and took the watch from his hand. She passed it around among the others in the truck.

Hoffa stepped back beside the girl, waiting in silence.

Suddenly, a sharp gasp came from the truck.

"Ah!"

Someone exclaimed, "How do you have that pocket watch?"

With a gasp, a young woman in her early twenties leaned out from the edge of the truck, staring at Hoffa on the dirt road. She had a healthy, sun-kissed complexion, wore a straw hat tied with a yellow ribbon, and was dressed in a khaki-colored long dress. She bore some resemblance to the woman in the photograph, though she was much younger.

Hoffa was momentarily stunned by her appearance but quickly realized she wasn't the person he was looking for. He asked in return, "Do you know the family of the person on this watch?"

"She's my sister, Tina!"

The young woman spoke excitedly. "How did you get this pocket watch?"

Hoffa exhaled in relief, having finally found a relative of the soldier. Just as he was about to explain, the truck driver—a woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips—stuck her head out of the cab impatiently and said, "If you wanna talk, do it on the truck. I've got wheat to deliver and no time for roadside chatter!"

The young woman on the truck snapped out of her excitement and quickly turned to Hoffa. "Can we talk on the way?"

As she spoke, she leaned over the pile of wheat on the truck and stretched out a hand toward him.

Hoffa grasped her hand. It was rough and calloused from years of farm work, yet strong. With surprising ease, she pulled him up onto the truck.

Once aboard, Hoffa instinctively turned to help the girl who had been following him. However, when he turned around, he was met with her indifferent gaze. Ignoring his outstretched hand, she grabbed the truck's side chain and effortlessly leaped onto the stack of wheat.

Awkwardly, Hoffa scratched his nose and retracted his hand.

Before he could steady himself, the truck rumbled to life again, bouncing along the uneven dirt road.

Gripping the railing for balance, Hoffa finally found his footing. The young woman who had pulled him up wasted no time and eagerly introduced herself. "My name is Susanna. And you?"

"Hoffa. From London," he called over the engine's roar.

"Hoffa, how did you get this watch?" Susanna asked.

Hoffa recounted everything—the chance encounter with the wounded soldier in London, the promise he made.

When he finished, Susanna looked sorrowful. "Most of the men from our town met the same fate. The fact that my brother-in-law managed to send this watch back is already a miracle. I just hope my sister won't be too heartbroken when she hears the news."

"How is your sister?" Hoffa asked.

"She's doing well."

Susanna wiped the corner of her eyes.

"The town is deserted now," Hoffa remarked, gripping the truck's metal railing tightly.

"We've moved away," Susanna said, handing the pocket watch back to him. "Since my brother-in-law entrusted it to you, you should be the one to give it to my sister. You seem like a trustworthy person. I'll take you to her."

Hoffa reached for the pocket watch while holding onto the railing.

Noticing how unsteady he was, Susanna shifted her dress and scooted to the side, making space for him.

"Sit here," she offered. "You'll get dizzy standing."

Hoffa smiled and was about to thank her when a slender hand suddenly reached over and plucked the pocket watch from Susanna's grasp.

The girl who had been following Hoffa had quietly stepped forward. Without hesitation, she took the watch and sat down beside Susanna—right on the spot meant for Hoffa.

With an air of nonchalance, she remarked, "You're right, Susanna. Standing can make one dizzy, especially for women, don't you think?"

Only then did Susanna properly notice the shoulder-length brunette girl.

She had been so quiet earlier that no one had paid her much attention.

Now, she sat atop the wheat pile, one leg casually crossed over the other, comfortably leaning back against the truck. Holding the pocket watch, she twirled it between her fingers and said, "I'll deliver this to your sister. It's better if someone with a bit more tact handles such delicate matters, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Bach?"

Hoffa had no reason to refuse. What could he say? He could only accept it. But there was something in the girl's eyes—something unclear, unreadable. He turned away, not wanting to meet her gaze.

However, everywhere he turned, there were eyes on him.

His gaze landed on a group of elderly women in long dresses, watching him from the truck. One of them gave him a toothless smile and shifted to the side, making room on the wheat pile. The meaning was clear.

"Thank you."

Hoffa chuckled awkwardly, squeezed his legs together, and carefully sat down.

"You all don't live in the village anymore?"

The girl, resting her head on one hand and lazily swinging her leg, asked casually.

"The men are gone. We've relocated to the outskirts of Marlton Castle, where people can offer us some protection," Susanna replied.

"You come back for the harvest?"

"Yes," Susanna confirmed.

Meanwhile, Hoffa swayed slightly atop the wheat pile as the truck jostled along the road.

An elderly woman beside him kindly poured a cup of tea, her wrinkled hands carefully offering it to him.

"Oh, no, no, I'm not thirsty," Hoffa said gratefully.

(End of Chapter)

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