After sixty years, this scholar met the child on his deathbed. He asked him, "Why is your heart tender for those farmers?" He responded with a single sentence, and he said nothing more than, "I once was a farmer myself."

I lifted my head from Achil and asked him curiously, "Do you believe in the second life?" Achil always enjoyed these ideas and stories, and it was funny to see his serious face. He answered seriously, "Of course! Otherwise, how do you explain something like that?" I agreed in confusion, "That is perplexing, indeed," and I looked at the riverbank in front of us, pondering on it. It was the first time I had heard of such an idea, and it seemed beautiful to me.

After a few minutes of silence, I asked him, "Why does this man remember and we don't?" He seemed puzzled as well and quickly concluded, "Perhaps there was a malfunction in him, as happens to some who are born without hearing or sight." I rested my head on his body and looked at the sky. This idea consumed all my thoughts: "But that's meaningless. What's the point of our lives if we don't remember them!" Then I sat angrily and refused, "No, I prefer death and becoming nothing rather than repeating a meaningless life."

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Achil felt a responsibility to convince me of this idea; he seemed deeply attached to it. "Perhaps we don't remember our memories, but they remain within our bodies." At that moment, I realized it was an illogical idea, and there was no way to search for ways to believe it. However, I continued the conversation, indulging in his curiosity and his obsession with believing in this idea. "So, who do you think has lived a previous life?"

He looked at me seriously, and it appeared charming, and he answered, "You..." I smiled at this silly answer: "Then, who do you think is living for the first time?"