I step out of the kitchen, where I have just been talking on the phone, and slowly, almost on tiptoe, enter Mary's bedroom. The air in the room is dense, heavy—as if unsaid words, tears, and pain have frozen in it. The silence is special—muffled, alert, like before a storm. It isn't just silence as the absence of sound—it is a living, pressing silence. The kind that breathes cold wind down your neck, squeezes your chest, lingers in every shadow, as if even the space itself fears to move, not wanting to scare something important, sacred… or terrifying.
Half-darkness envelops everything—the muted daylight barely filters through the tightly drawn curtains, coloring the room in grayish-blue tones, as if time has frozen and lost its colors. Everything here looks like it is in slow motion, as if life itself has paused, unsure how to move forward.
Katrin lies on the bed. Her figure seems so fragile, almost childlike, as if grief has burned away her adulthood. She seems to have sunk into the soft folds of the bedding—small, lost, broken. My beloved clings to Mary's little blanket convulsively, with her whole body, as if gripping it like a lifebuoy in a stormy ocean. She hopes that it—at least this piece of the blanket—can bring back even a shadow of her daughter: her warmth, her scent, or her breathing. At least a ghostly sense that she is somewhere near.
Katrin holds onto it with such desperate tenderness, as if afraid that letting go will make everything vanish. As if it were the last bridge, the final thread connecting her to their former happiness. To the days when Mary laughed like a tinkling stream, ran through the house with tousled hair, hugged her running, and said she loved her more than anyone in the world. When the world was whole. When misfortune seemed distant, impossible. When grief hadn't entered the house.
"Darling, I called David and Tim. They'll do everything they can. We will get her back, I promise."
I promise her this, with the firmness in my voice meant to give her even a little faith. I try to keep my voice steady, but inside everything trembles. Every word spoken aloud seems to pin itself to the floor and at the same time give strength—because now it isn't just hope, it is a vow.
I will do everything to make sure we are together again, no matter what it takes. I will move mountains if I have to, even if the devil himself stands in my way—I won't stop.
I feel my fists clench, my heart pounding with fury. Helplessness turns into resolve. I have to act—or I'll go mad.
"Why did he need us? Clearly, Mary is his leverage against us."
Katrin's voice is hoarse, as if stuck in her throat. The words struggle to get through the tightened throat, full of pain and a shadow of panic. She doesn't understand his motives. And who could? Everything happening seems absurd, insane. Pain mixed with helplessness echoes in her words, as if she is trying to find some foothold in this nightmare. Her eyes are dry, but the suffering only deepens—when the tears are gone, the pain remains. That dry, burned pain—like ash after a fire, merciless but silent.
"I don't understand either. I think he's waiting for us to suffer first, and only then will he call with his demands."
I suggest this possibility and shiver at my own words. They are terrifying because they are too real. Ivan knows how to break us. He knows that time is his weapon and stretches out the torture. He makes us live in anticipation—in a hell that doesn't scream but whispers nightmares in your ear.
"By now, that bastard could have done something to her."
Katrin's voice trembles. The thought is unbearable, her fear hanging in the air, heavy, sticky, like damp fog. It seeps under the skin, into the lungs, into the bones. I feel my breath catch. Fear—it isn't abstract. It is real, physical, as if ice has settled in my chest.
"That's why I don't wait, I act immediately. I called everyone I could, to get help."
My words are firm, like stone. I can't allow myself weakness. I have no right to.
Katrin continues to lie quietly on Mary's bed, clutching the small blanket that smells of childhood, trust, and serenity. That smell, familiar to the point of trembling, drives me insane.
And the contrast—her adult, exhausted face and that tiny blanket—stirs a real storm inside me. It is like seeing broken time—yesterday and today in one frame. Painful. Unfair.
"Try to sleep a little, don't torment yourself. I'll go to David's and try to speed things up on site while Tim's guys search the city."
I say it calmly, but inside I am boiling. I am being torn apart. Every minute of inaction is torture. I can't sit still, hoping someone else will handle it. I need to control everything myself—every detail, every call, every street. Even the slightest mistake, the smallest oversight could cost us too much. Being at the center of it all—it isn't just strategy. It is my salvation. Only that way can I keep myself together. It is the only thing stopping me from screaming.
"All right, I'll try to sleep," she replies, her voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who has gone through a storm and barely stands on her feet.
It isn't just physical fatigue—it is soul-weary exhaustion. The kind that nothing can rest. The kind that no pillow or sleep can relieve.
I approach her and gently kiss her on the cheek. Her skin is cool and damp with invisible tears—quiet, soundless, almost imperceptible. These tears don't scream, they whisper… of pain, of fear, of love. Whispered straight to the heart, leaving traces like from a thin needle.
Inside me, there is fear for my beloved and her health. It won't let go and is a constant background, like a quiet, oppressive hum in the ears. It has been my companion since it all began.
That's why, while I am home, I make sure she takes the necessary pills today—the ones that help keep her heart steady, the ones that at least slightly dull her anxiety, preventing her from breaking. I can't lose her too. Not now. Not when we are fighting for Mary. Not when we both need every ounce of strength left. Everything we have. Even if it is just a drop. We will cling to it until the end.
Leaving the house, I get into my car and drive to David's office.
The door click echoes dully inside—as if marking the end of calm, the rare moment when one can still breathe without heaviness in the chest. It feels like that sound is the last calm chord before the storm that will engulf me completely. The seat feels hard, as if covered with sandpaper, and every movement cuts the skin, forcing me to feel my vulnerability. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white, like someone clinging to the edge of a cliff—not to let go, not to lose control. My heart pounds with every turn—rhythmic, yet growing with anxiety, and I notice I am not breathing. I inhale sharply, as if air is a rare, precious resource, while exhalation slips from memory, leaving emptiness. My chest feels compressed, as if a scream is trapped inside, soundless and desperate, unable to escape, yet demanding release.
The road stretches on, like a dream where your legs sink into viscous sludge, preventing you from running forward. Time loses its value, seeming to dissolve in this tormenting anticipation. There is no room for doubts, mistakes, or regrets—there isn't a single wasted second. Each one could cost too much, could decide everything, like a stone falling to the bottom of a dark well.
He receives me without questions—David's eyes hold the same anxiety I feel. We don't speak, but a silent understanding hangs between us, an invisible thread, both strong and thin, like between soldiers at war. His words are sharp, dry, businesslike—like a chisel cutting away the unnecessary. But I know inside him everything is burning too, that his silence screams louder than any words. He is holding it together, as am I, but it is like standing on the edge of an abyss, pretending the ground beneath is solid.
The camera catches his car, but it turns out it has been stolen and has been on the wanted list for a long time. This information hits me like a cold shower—a burning paradox of hope and despair. A lead, but not the one we hope for. Fate's silent mockery, playing a cruel game with us. Everything we know is only the surface; the real truth remains in the shadows, thick and sticky, like fear that binds the mind.
I forward the car number and photo to Tim so his guys know what to search for. My fingers tremble as I type the message, the buttons sticking from sweaty palms, and every mistake causes irritation and anxiety. Fear grips my throat, making each breath harder. Fear that we'll be late again, that everything will repeat—the recurring nightmare offers no peace.