They returned home in heavy silence, as if even the walls sensed the danger.
As for the old man, they placed him in a care home to look after him in this stable place.
Monicha spread the papers across the table, examining them one by one, her expression hardening with every line.
She slowly looked up and said in a low but firm voice:
"These documents are dangerous… extremely dangerous, Kalin. Keeping them could destroy you, but getting rid of them might bury the truth forever."
He stood there, staring at the table—at the photos, at his name written again and again.
His mind echoed with a single question, one without an answer:
Should I keep them and live hunted… or let them go and remain ignorant?
Monicha stepped closer, her tone softening:
"Truth is a weapon. You either carry it wisely, or leave it to destroy others."
Then she added quietly:
"Don't decide now. Not while you're broken."
He said nothing.
He gathered the papers slowly, hiding them away as if his hands were holding the weight of the world.
Then he retreated to his room.
He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, breathing uneven.
The silence there was not comforting… it was suffocating.
Alone.
For the first time, without masks.
Tears fell silently—no sobs, no sound—
as if even his grief was afraid of being heard.
He covered his face with his hands and whispered, his voice shattered:
"Why is all of this happening to me?
Why me?
I'm tired… tired of fear, of secrets, of loss… of everything."
He pulled the blanket around himself like a child searching for safety that no longer existed.
His chest ached, his heart heavy—
yet within the brokenness… something resisted.
Something inside him had not given up yet.
Kalin finally drifted into sleep…
but sleep showed no mercy.
He found himself standing in a long corridor—far too long.
The walls were black, endless.
With every step, he heard his name echo:
Kalin… Kalin…
He turned suddenly.
His mother stood at the far end of the hallway.
The same dress.
The same eyes.
She smiled—but didn't move.
He ran toward her.
The faster he moved, the farther she drifted away.
He shouted,
"Mom!"
She slowly raised her hand…
and pointed behind him.
When he turned, his father stood in the shadows.
His face had no features, but his voice was cold and clear:
"It had to happen."
The floor beneath Kalin cracked open.
Files rained from above—childhood photos, dates, names…
and the weapon.
He heard the gunshot.
He looked back at his mother—
she was fading.
Not suddenly.
Slowly. Cruelly.
He reached out—
but the emptiness swallowed his hand.
He woke up.
His breath sharp, heart pounding, hands shaking.
He looked around—his room, the walls, the dark.
This wasn't just a memory.
It was a warning.
He didn't sleep after that.
At first light, he walked into the living room.
Monicha was there, sitting quietly, a cup of coffee in her hands.
She didn't ask how he was.
She just looked at him.
That was enough.
He sat across from her and placed the papers on the table.
His fingers brushed them as if they burned.
He said softly, broken:
"I thought I knew who I was."
She looked up.
Didn't interrupt.
"My whole life felt normal… or so I believed.
Now my name is written in files I don't understand,
and people were ready to kill my mother because of me."
Silence.
Then, quieter:
"I'm scared."
She didn't comfort him with empty words.
She only said:
"Fear doesn't make you weak.
Ignorance does."
He looked at her—
not as a friend this time, but as an ally.
"And if I learn the truth?"
Her answer was steady:
"Everything will change.
And I won't be able to protect you like a child anymore…
I'll stand beside you as someone who chooses his own pato th."
He took a deep breath.
Closed the largest file.
"Then don't leave."
She smiled—small, real.
"I won't."
From that moment on,
they were no longer just traveling together.
They were bound by a secret—
with no way back.
To be continue....