Hearing the sound, Mom flinches in fear and sharply looks at us. Her eyes in this moment are like a mirror reflecting anxiety, confusion, and unconscious horror—as if the world has suddenly shifted. She can't believe her eyes, as if a ghost from the past has appeared before her, one she has silently prayed for all this time.
I immediately approach her, without hesitation for a single second, and hug her tightly, feeling her body tremble under my hand. It isn't a shiver from cold but from the accumulated anxiety of the day, from the loneliness she hides behind a mask of care.
"I'm home," I tell her, trying to make my voice sound gentle but confident, so my words can become a support for her, a small island of hope in the stormy ocean of her emotions.
"I'm glad to see you, son," she replies with a sad, barely noticeable smile, and her voice sounds almost like a whisper, soaked in relief and inexpressible longing.
I sit down next to her on a chair, trying to be as close as possible, as if physical closeness could ease her anxiety even a little. I feel her breathing, hear her heart beating too fast—she is trying to hold herself together, but everything inside her is falling apart.
Vi also joins us. He remains silent, eyes lowered, not wanting to interfere in our conversation. His presence is quiet, almost invisible, yet very necessary—as if he instinctively feels that now it is more important just to be near than to speak.
"What's wrong, Mom? I can see it on you. What happened?" I ask, trying not to raise my voice, though everything inside me boils.
It feels like a fire hidden behind a calm facade: every word struggles to stay in, not to burst out in a scream. I try to coax from her the reason for what I feel with every fiber of my being—something has gone wrong, and not by accident. That feeling is sticky, intrusive, like the premonition of a storm before the first thunderclap.
"Don't worry, Mary is fine. We played and had fun all day. She recently went to sleep…" Mom begins, clinging to this part of the day where everything still seems normal, kind, serene. Her voice trembles, but she tries to seem calm so as not to scare me, as if this game of "everything is fine" can hold together a collapsing world.
"Mom, what's wrong with Katrin?" I interrupt, unable to wait, wanting to get to the heart of the anxiety. My heart tightens in anticipation of an answer I am afraid to hear.
"I have no idea… I've never seen her like this," Mom replies, lowering her eyes. Her voice is dull, carrying the fatigue and helplessness accumulated over the last hours, as if every nerve is stretched to its limit.
"Please, tell me everything in order," I ask, feeling it is getting harder to hold back emotions with every word. I am already on the verge of a nervous breakdown, a hurricane raging in my chest, squeezing my heart into a fist. It feels as though the world is about to split in two.
"Everything was fine… I thought she was asleep. After your call, I went to check on her, but I heard her sobbing, wrapped in a blanket. I went to her, but she… she asked me to leave. Katrin refuses to eat, doesn't leave her room. I really, Maxim, don't know what's wrong with her. The only time we spoke was when I answered you in the morning about where you were, and that was it. So… I didn't say anything hurtful to her this time…" she babbles, her voice trembling more and more, tears of fear and guilt shining in her eyes. She is afraid I will blame her again, like before, for hurting her for no reason.
"Calm down. I'll talk to her, and we'll solve this problem," I say, gently placing my left hand on her shoulder, hugging her slightly, and my right hand on hers, trying to soothe her a little, to let her feel she isn't alone. This touch—small, almost imperceptible—is a bridge over her fear.
"I know you didn't say anything to her. I'll go to her now and find out, okay?" Mom nods, slightly relaxing, though pain still lingers in her eyes. Her lips quiver as if she wants to say something but changes her mind.
I stand up from the chair, taking a deep breath, preparing for a difficult conversation. That breath is like a step into the unknown—only someone who feels nothing isn't afraid. And I feel everything.
"Vi, watch Mom, and I'll go to Katrin," I whisper into his ear, and he nods without words, standing beside her like an invisible wall. He says nothing, but in that silence there is strength—a calmness that can support and protect.
I go upstairs and enter the bedroom. The curtains are open, and the soft moonlight, like a silvery river, slowly streams through the window, gently illuminating the room with muted, cold light. This light wraps everything around in a special silence—as if the night itself tenderly hugs the room, giving it a strange, simultaneously gentle and sad mood. In this mysterious light, everything seems fragile, as if dissolving into the air, and I feel my heart tighten from the quiet sadness that pierces every corner.
On the bed, curled up in a ball, lies my beloved. She looks like a fragile flower, gently covered by the petals of night, peacefully sleeping amid the silence. Her breathing is steady and calm, as if trying to hide the storm raging deep inside—unseen, yet palpable. I stand there, holding my breath, afraid to disturb this delicate boundary between sleep and wakefulness, between her calm and the inner storm.
I move closer, sit down beside her, and in the quiet of the room feel the pain I can't understand softly reach my heart, making me tremble in helplessness. Looking closer at her face, I notice how pale she is, as if all joy and life have left her, leaving only emptiness. Her eyes are red and swollen—the traces of tears carrying the bitterness of pain, loneliness, and broken hopes. It seems her entire soul is at its limit, and these traces are a silent but piercing cry, tearing me apart. Looking lower, I see that even in sleep she holds my T-shirt tightly in her hands, as if it is the only anchor keeping her in this world, the only source of safety and warmth. At that moment, my heart clenches with pity and the desire to protect her from all harm.
My beauty looks terrible—her vulnerability is so obvious and painful that it wounds me deeper than any words. I don't want to see her like this—broken, lost, and defenseless. Questions swirl in my head like a storm: what could have affected her so deeply during this time? Maybe my departure? But no, she knows I will return soon, and that knowledge should comfort her, should become a light in her night. But darkness seems stronger.
It is time to learn the truth.
I gently place my hand on her face, the touch tender and loving. I begin softly stroking her cheek, and these touches feel like an attempt to erase all the pain I can read in her eyes and see on her face, to let her know that I am here, that she isn't alone in this struggle.
Rebel Girl slowly opens her eyes and looks at me. In her gaze is a mixture of fatigue, hope, and fear—eyes reflecting the full weight of the night, and at the same time, a small, fragile spark of faith.
"You're back?" she whispers, and her words are filled with such tenderness and vulnerability that I feel something inside me tremble. Tears run down her cheeks again, and I hurry to wipe them away, as if I could stop the whole world by simply removing these drops of pain.
"Yes, my love, I'm here," I reply, leaning in to kiss her, but she suddenly pushes me away, as if afraid of too much closeness. Her distance feels strange, incomprehensible, and heavy—as if an invisible wall has grown between us, one I don't know how to break.
"Katrin, what's wrong with you?" I ask, my voice trembling with worry, my heart beating with an anxious rhythm, but she silently turns away, avoiding my gaze, as if afraid to reveal her true state to me.