"Yes, it is all over now… Like lightning, it vanished into darkness." — Aco Šopov
"I don't want to wear this shirt!"
Marko's voice cut through the room.
He stood stiffly, fists clenched, glaring at his mother.
Ida knelt in front of him, trying to fasten the tiny buttons. Her hands trembled so much she kept missing the holes.
"I know," she whispered. "But we don't have another one. We have to respect your grandmother's choice."
"Respect?" he snapped. "Look at it! Black and gray stripes—like you're taking me to prison!"
He stomped his foot.
"I hate this shirt!"
"They look good on us, Mom, don't they?" Viktor stepped in, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"See? We're the same." He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Ida looked at them—her boys.
Her vision blurred.
Not now.
She swallowed the tears before they could fall.
She had to be strong.
She had to be their wall.
Viktor's gesture pierced her heart.
He was just a child.
And yet… something in him had already changed.
He stood differently now. Spoke differently.
As if overnight, he had stepped into a role he hadn't chosen.
A protector. Too young, she thought. Far too young. But there was no time to stop it.
"I hate these ugly shirts." Marko's words echoed again. Each one landed like a blow.
Ida felt her strength slipping.
Without another word, she took Zoja in her arms and clasped her tightly." Then she carried her to the neighbor.
"Aren't you taking her?" her mother-in-law asked, a frown knitting her brow.
"No," Ida answered, her voice suddenly firm. "She cries easily. I won't make this harder for her."
Something shifted in that moment. She drew a line. A tone appeared in her voice that even she didn't recognize. Decisive. Final. No room for argument. As if something ancient had awakened inside her.
With Pavel gone, the lioness had risen.
This was not a day for victory. And yet… she felt it.
A strange, quiet surge of power. A realization. She saw her future clearly now.
A mother.
A provider.
Alone.
"I hate these shirts…"
The words wouldn't leave her mind.
Inside her, emotions collided violently.
Anger—sharp and cutting.
Grief—deep and tearing.
Rage—ready to explode.
Sorrow—pulling her toward a flood of tears.
She didn't know which one would win.
She had long stopped grieving him, though the memory of him still lingered in the quiet corners of her heart.
Because she had known he was going to leave.
The last two months had been hell. Watching him fade—piece by piece. His body reduced to wounds and pain. Day and night, suffering.
Even morphine couldn't help. He couldn't swallow anymore.
Food refused to go down. She and his mother fed him like a baby—strained juices, drop by drop. Infusions kept him alive. Barely. His veins collapsed. Each new needle felt like prolonging his agony. It was unbearable. To watch someone die slowly— and cannot help.
In the end, Pavel could barely speak.
But when the children entered… he tried. He forced something like a smile. Lifted his hand—just enough to call them closer. To touch them. One last time. He was no longer here. But he wasn't gone either.
Somewhere in between.
"A terrible fate," the nurse whispered one day.
Ida said nothing. What was there to say?
Then, one morning, his mother spoke:
"We got a bed. It's better if he stays with us. We're home all day."
And just like that — they took him. He never came back. He died at midnight. In the late hours of Friday night. At the end of May. They never told her his last words. Not to her. Not to the children. His final thoughts, wishes, and messages were buried with him. And that silence… hurt more than death.
"Come on," Ida said suddenly. "They're waiting." She took her sons' hands.
"We're going together. Like the Three Musketeers, remember?" She forced a faint smile.
"Stay close to me. And don't talk to anyone if you don't want to."
As they stepped outside, something inside her closed.
And something else… opened.