We finish washing the floors, speaking almost no words. We work silently, in sync, as if words would only get in the way right now. Then we return to Grandma's house.
A subtle awkwardness hangs between us—thin, almost imperceptible, yet still noticeable. It isn't cold or off-putting; rather, it feels like the silence before something important. I feel it growing with every glance, every movement, transforming into something more.
"Grandma, we'll be moving in with Max for a while. How long—I don't know," Katrin announces quietly but firmly, lowering her gaze as if afraid to meet her eyes. Her voice trembles with uncertainty, hidden behind a fragile mask of determination.
"As you wish. You're grown enough to decide for yourself. But know this: if anything happens—I'll welcome you back," Grandma replies restrainedly, yet with warm tenderness. A faint, almost imperceptible sadness slips through her voice.
They embrace. It isn't just an embrace—it is long, warm, almost maternal, blending love, forgiveness, and ineffable care. It speaks without words: "You can always return, no matter where life takes you." I watch them and feel a strange, aching sensation—a mix of tenderness and longing. It feels as if I am standing in the middle—both a link and a barrier between two close souls about to part.
The day passes in packing and chores. We fold clothes, sort documents, and Mary's toys. The room gradually empties, becoming unfamiliar. We plan to leave tomorrow after lunch—Katrin still needs to pick up some papers from school. The house buzzes with a tense, restrained excitement, like before a distant journey into the unknown.
Grandma, as if sensing the long separation, fusses in the kitchen, tirelessly preparing—a whole mountain of food. Cabbage and apple pies, jars of raspberry jam, fragrant roast, lovingly baked homemade bread—she packs it all into bags, as if seeing us off on an endless journey, not just forty kilometers away. Every dish carries her care, her farewell, her silent "take care."
The farewell is warm and touching. Grandma hugs Mary and whispers something kind into her ear—the little girl smiles quietly, burying herself in her lavender-and-bread-scented shawl. Then we leave, get into the car, and set off.
The road is calm, like the surface of a quiet lake. Familiar landscapes flash past the windows—fields, scattered trees, houses, fences. Mary falls asleep in the back seat, her head resting on the plush bunny she never lets go of—a small anchor in this changing world.
Katrin is silent. She sits beside me, looking out the window, her gaze reflecting fleeting streets, fragments of the past. Much has changed over the years—houses, shops, even the trees have grown taller. But Rebel Girl remains the same… just as beautiful. Just as mine. Slim, thoughtful, a little tired, with that elusive smile I love.
Suddenly, she tenses. As if something inside has snapped. All her relaxation vanishes in an instant. She freezes, eyes fixed on the landscape outside—the painfully familiar streets, turns, cracks in the asphalt, signs unchanged over all these years. It feels as if her heart recognizes the place before her mind does.
"Max, why are we here?" she asks anxiously, her voice trembling, breaking off as if from fear or an unbearably heavy memory.
I don't answer. I simply turn onto the shoulder and park by the entrance. I get out of the car, feeling my heart pounding—not in my chest, but somewhere in my throat, tight, dull, heavy. I know she will feel it. I know she will understand. And yet I choose silence.
"Take Mary, and I'll take the bags," I say briefly, almost militarily, my voice tense—fragile, like glass about to crack.
Katrin obeys—mechanically, as if her body acts separately from her mind. There is a strange detachment in her movements. Her hands tremble as she lifts her daughter, and that tremor passes to me—thin, like an echo of pain not yet happened but already lingering in the air. We head toward the entrance. Step by step, slower and slower—as if our legs themselves try to delay the moment we fear.
At the door, Katrin suddenly stops and grabs my hand sharply—so hard that I flinch from the pain. Her fingers are cold and gripping, like someone drowning in fear. I turn to her.
"Please… don't do this…" she whispers so quietly that her words almost dissolve into the spring air, smelling of dust, melting snow, and wind carrying distant sounds of children laughing.
Her voice holds fear, almost childlike helplessness—so genuine it instantly erases all adult masks. Her eyes shine—either from tears or from the evening light filtering through the treetops. Katrin squeezes my fingers, as if trying to hold not just my hand—but herself, her past, her right to hope, softness, and mercy.
I look at her. At the woman I once loved so much, who still stirs too much in me—anger, pity, longing, desire. Yet I do not allow myself weakness. I cannot. Not now.
What nonsense has she made up for herself?
"Let's go inside," I say quietly but firmly, averting my gaze, as if I don't even want my eyes to touch her pain. I step toward the door—resolutely, as if each step upward leads not into the building, but into some inevitability beyond negotiation.
Katrin follows silently, head lowered. She carries sleepy Mary in her arms—warm, heavy, peacefully snoring, unaware of how fragile her family's reality is. I feel sorry that I cannot help her—nor Katrin. My hands are full of bags. And my heart—of something much heavier.
On the fifth floor, I stop in front of a familiar door. My heart pounds like crazy, like a trapped beast in my chest, and I fear Katrin will hear its roar through my back.
"Max… please…" Rebel Girl whispers again, almost silently, and there is a crack in her voice—like crystal that can never be glued back together.
"This is our home. We are happy here. This is where we conceived our Mary. We will live here. Period," I say firmly, as if passing a sentence. As if I am putting a cross on something—not only on her pleas but on my own doubts.
I open the door. The same smell—warm, dusty, with a hint of vanilla and something indescribably homey. It hits us instantly, like a memory. As if time itself holds its breath here, breathing through the curtains, the furniture, and the walls.
Katrin enters slowly, as if afraid to disturb the silence. As if every step echoes the past she hadn't expected but has returned to anyway. I take Mary—she is still asleep, her eyelashes fluttering on her cheek like a moth's wings. Carefully, like a fragile treasure, I carry her to the bedroom and lay her on the bed.
When I come back, I see her. Rebel Girl stands in the middle of the room, looking lost, vulnerable, as if trapped in a past that won't let go. Her eyes dart over familiar things—photographs, bookshelves, pillows on the sofa—as if every little detail revives a fragment of pain, a fragment of happiness. Tears run down her cheeks—clear, silent, like rain on a windowpane.
I approach and hold her. Silently. Firmly. Truly. She trembles all over, as if a thousand unspoken words are fighting inside her.
"Don't cry… it's okay. You're home again. You don't need to be afraid here anymore," I whisper, holding her close. My voice is quiet, as if I myself hope to find salvation in these words.
"This house… so much happened here… I just can't," she whispers, her voice breaking like old film running through the noise of time. It carries pain, tenderness, and helplessness. It carries her—real.
I remain silent. Just holding. Just being there. I know that feeling—when walls breathe your memories, and every object speaks to you. When the past stands behind you, not letting you take a step forward. You just need time for your heart to learn to breathe again.
Gradually, she calms down. We sit on the sofa, still holding each other, as if a single touch could protect us from the world.
"I sold it… Well, actually, Vi did it instead of me. I only signed the documents," she says with a trace of guilt. Almost a whisper, as if confessing.
"A year ago, I bought the apartment from the new owners," I reply, without looking at her.
"Why?" she looks at me with such longing, such despair, as if searching in my answer for the meaning of everything we have, everything we have lost… and perhaps everything that could still be regained.
"Because here, I was truly happy," I answer simply, because it is the truth. Unembellished, without pretension—pure truth, endured and shaping me.
Katrin says nothing. And there is no need. Words are unnecessary in that moment, like noise in a temple. She simply stays silently by my side—her warmth felt through the thin fabric of her shirt. We stay like that on the sofa—close, almost holding our breath, afraid to disturb this fragile moment. At some point, her head leans on my shoulder, and I feel her breathing slow, deepen. She falls asleep, pressed against me, as if finally allowing herself weakness. As if, in this quiet, she finds permission to rest.
I carefully lift her, trying not to wake her. Her body is light, as if emptied—not physically, but of something larger, invisible. My Rebel Girl doesn't wake—she breathes quietly, evenly, with that particular exhausted tenderness that only a soul that has endured too much and is still holding on can carry.
I carry her to our bedroom, stepping softly, as if afraid to shatter the magic of this night. I lay her next to Mary, and when their hair touches, intertwining on the pillow, my heart tightens—from love, from gratitude, from the pain of every day they have lived.
My two girls. The dearest, the most beloved. My family. My everything. A heart beating in two bodies.
I stand by the bed in the dim light, listening to the silence. And in that silence, there is something almost sacred. No anxiety, no rush—just steady breathing, warmth under the blanket, and certainty that, no matter what, we are together. Life, though battered, is here again. And it is breathing.