Chapter 1

As the garbage collector or cleaner, or even the one who takes on the dirtiest jobs, and sometimes even more derogatory terms, I am not often openly insulted, but I am frequently the subject of gossip.

In the past, I often thought about who it was that allowed me to live a clean life.

Now, thanks to this, I have a job to be grateful for and have never struggled to find work.

No matter where I go, no matter what era or situation, I have managed to survive.

In my younger days, I tried to make things better.

There were limits to what I could do, as I only had the bare minimum and nothing more, and even when I did what I could, nothing really changed.

Life wasn’t so bad, as long as I didn’t go hungry or homeless and could endure a little contempt.

Others worry about what they will eat tomorrow or being attacked by monsters.

In contrast, I don’t have to worry about food, and monsters stay away from the smelly garbage dump.

I’ve never had a serious illness and have no family.

Even if I have some regrets, I can spend my days peacefully without worrying about the future.

Even during times of great war or national disasters, I never had the ability to go to the front lines.

But I never lost my job either.

Now, I live a simple life in a quiet rural area, continuing the same job and earning a little money.

There are people who complain, but there are also those who are grateful, and I live comfortably.

“Well, that’s the end of today’s work.”

I dug a shallow hole, and the pile of garbage that had been there while I was reading a book disappeared.

I hadn’t been reading for a long time.

A slime slowly climbed up the gentle slope at the bottom of the hole.

Its streamlined body was faintly blue and translucent, with a black core visible inside.

It was about the size of something you could hold, and its body rippled as it jumped.

The slime approached the old man sitting on a wooden chair with some worn spots next to the hole and leaped up to land on his knee.

There was almost no impact, and the slime’s body conformed to the shape of the old man’s leg.

“Good job, Fyos.”

The old man gently stroked the slime.

The slime’s texture was firmer than water but as soft as water, a very mysterious feeling. It felt cool in the heat and slightly warm in the cold.

Now that he was older, it felt warm more often.

When he was younger, he used to place the slime under his head as a pillow, and it felt quite comfortable.

“It’s a bit late to say this, but I’m grateful to you.”

As he stroked the slime, he spoke as if to a beloved grandchild, recounting their shared experiences.

He wasn’t sure why he felt this way.

It was probably because it was his birthday. The old man didn’t know the day he was born. His parents were gone by the time he was old enough to understand, and there was no time to celebrate birthdays.

He didn’t know his real birthday, and he didn’t need to or want to know it now.

To him, his birthday was the day he received his name, the day a friend gave him one of the most important gifts in his life.

He suddenly noticed that the slime’s surface was rippling.

It wasn’t because he was stroking it; it was doing it on its own.

“Happy... This is...”

A warm feeling spread in his chest.

It wasn’t his own feeling, and the old man couldn’t help but catch his breath.

They say that if you can communicate and build trust, you can understand each other’s hearts.

Until now, the old man had thought that slimes had no intelligence or emotions.

The feeling of happiness from being stroked came from the slime.

Tears streamed down the old man’s cheeks.

“So, you do have feelings, Fyos. I’m sorry, I didn’t understand until now.”

The joy of connecting with the slime, the ugliness of not having fully opened his heart, and the regret of possibly ignoring the slime’s feelings mixed together and became tears.

The slime also felt complex emotions.

The feeling of happiness turned to worry, and the slime moved closer to the old man’s chest.

“Yes, yes. You’re worried, thank you.”

The slime, which couldn’t speak or show expressions, had the intelligence to worry and the wisdom to be close.

The old man felt the slime’s emotions as if it were speaking to him.

He deeply regretted his shortsightedness and reflected on it.

To avoid causing more worry, he calmed himself, wiped away his tears, and smiled gently at the slime.

The sun was high in the sky, and the sunlight was strong.

Even if it wasn’t the hottest season, prolonged exposure to strong sunlight was hard on his old body.

He had stayed too long, so he stood up with the slime in his arms and started walking slowly.

The slime wasn’t heavy, and it felt warm, so he often walked like this recently.

The feeling of happiness from the slime in his arms made him feel warm inside.

At the edge of a small village in a rural area, there was a small house called the “garbage shed.”

It wasn’t dirty or full of garbage; rather, it had few possessions and was neatly organized.

It was called the “garbage shed” because the person who cleaned the garbage lived there, but over time, the name stuck as the old house’s appearance matched the name.

The boy who first called it that had grown up to be a good man with a wife and children.

The old man placed the slime on the table and boiled water to make tea.

The tea was made from wild herbs he had dried after cutting them from the forest.

It had a slightly bitter taste and a unique aroma, but it was one of the few daily pleasures for the old man, who had little money and few entertainments.

He prepared two cups, one for himself and one for the slime.

It wasn’t because the slime could understand emotions that he gave it tea.

One day, he asked the slime if it wanted to try, and the slime covered the cup and drank the tea.

He was surprised but found it amusing, so since then, he always made two cups.

Since the tea didn’t cost much, it didn’t hurt his budget to make an extra cup.

At first, the slime drank the tea quickly, but over time, it adjusted its pace to match the old man’s, a sign of intelligence he had overlooked.

Enjoying his tea, the old man decided to lie down on the bed.

With age, his active time had decreased, and moving was difficult, with his joints aching.

It was almost noon, but he felt full from just the tea.

Looking up at the ceiling, he tilted his head and saw the slime by his pillow.

“If only I had understood you sooner.”

Was this warmth the result of true connection?

When he moved his arm to stroke the slime, it moved toward his hand.

He felt a strange tenderness and smiled.

When he patted his chest, the slime climbed on.

“Haha, I’ve never held a woman’s hand, but is this how warm it feels?”

He was talking to himself, a habit he had developed from loneliness.

Talking to the slime might not be considered talking to oneself, but since there was no response, it was still a monologue.

“Fyos, I’m tired. I think I’ll take a nap.”

For some reason, the old man felt unusually heavy.

His strokes became slower and eventually stopped, his hand falling from the slime.

The slime trembled with sadness.

The old man passed away as if he were sleeping, leaving behind the slime he had finally connected with.

Currently, I am gradually changing the names of the characters in the book as I have time.

Names may change midway through, but since there are hundreds of chapters, the process is gradual.

Please bear with any inconsistencies in names.