Project Rodzin

Here are a few more chapters in the struggle of my beloved Ilian Jansen.

I would appreciate any feedback.

Thank you very much.

Chapter 11: The Trees and the Ghosts

The awakening was sudden. A single spasm that tore him from the depths of sleep, his body arching on the bed, a silent scream caught in his throat. He tried to sit up, gasping, heart racing, skin covered in a cold sweat.

The dream.

There were no clear images, only sensory residues clinging to him like spiderwebs. The smell of burnt metal. The sensation of rough gravel against the skin of his face. A blinding pain in his left hand. And voices. Voices shouting in Arabic, the harsh, guttural words blending into a cacophony of terror.

He blinked, eyes wide in the darkness, trying to shake off the ghosts. The room was silent. The shadows that had previously seemed to dance now looked menacing, twisting in the corners. His entire body was tense, ready for violence.

But then his eyes found the large glass door.

Outside, the scene was the same. The moon, a little lower in the sky, still bathed the garden in its silver light. The large trees still swayed in the night breeze. Nothing had changed. The terror was only inside him.

He didn't get up. He forced his muscles to relax, an act of conscious will. He remained in bed, the duvet tangled around his legs, and just watched. He focused on the trees. On the slow, steady movement of the highest branches, bending and straightening in a rhythm that seemed as old as time itself. It was a calm, predictable, natural movement.

He began to synchronize his breathing with them. He inhaled when the branches leaned back, chest expanding. He exhaled when they moved forward, the air leaving his lungs slowly. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm of the trees became the rhythm of his body.

He did this for a long time, the count of minutes lost in the vastness of the early morning. Gradually, the hammering of his heart slowed to steady, regular beats. The tension in his shoulders dissipated. The ghosts retreated, pushed back by the persistent tranquility of the scene before him.

And gratitude returned, stronger and deeper than before. Not just gratitude for comfort anymore, but gratitude for safety. I am safe, he thought, the phrase an anchor in his mind. The dream is not real. I am here. The simple truth of that dichotomy—the horror of memory versus the peace of the present—was overwhelming. He was alive, he was safe, and he had a room with a view of the trees. In that moment, it seemed to be all that mattered in the world.

He pulled up the duvet, which now felt like a shield. He didn't close his eyes immediately. He continued to watch the dance of the trees, his silent guardians, until his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted back into sleep. A deeper sleep this time, dreamless, lulled by the whisper of the wind.



Chapter 12: The Measure of Ruin

Morning arrived like a silent promise. Ilian woke up with the sunlight, feeling the calm of the previous night still present in his body. He took a shower and then prepared a cup of coffee, the steam warming his face, and sat at his work table. For a moment, there was no pressure, only the silent beauty of the schematics under the morning light. The lines and symbols were a language his mind understood, a pure logic that contrasted with the disorder of his body and his memories. The peace, however, was fragile, a thin glass about to shatter.

At exactly nine o'clock, the doorbell rang with professional firmness.

When Ilian opened the door, he found three male figures. The tallest, an athletic man in his forties with an air of confident authority, stepped forward. "Mr. Jansen? I'm David Fischer, your physical therapist. This is my colleague, Ben Croft, hand therapy specialist." Ben, shorter and quieter, with hands that seemed to belong to a watchmaker, nodded. "And this is Mr. Harris Cole, responsible for logistics." Harris, a gray-haired man, simply inclined his head.

The guest house was invaded by a wave of clinical efficiency. "Mr. Jansen, before we begin," David said, his voice calm but laden with authority, "I want you to know that we have had full access to your medical records. From the first surgery at the military hospital to Dr. Evans's daily reports. Based on that, we have prepared a rehabilitation plan. Today will be an initial assessment session. We won't force anything. We need to understand exactly where we are to chart the path forward."

The word "assessment" filled him with a different kind of dread. Ilian just nodded.

"Ben will start with your hand," David announced.

Ilian sat on the sofa, heart heavy. Ben sat opposite him, opening a case that contained cold metal measuring instruments. What followed was the deconstruction of his failure. First, the visual assessment. Ben asked him to extend his hands. Ilian obeyed, palms down, feeling the weight of the specialist's gaze on his scars, on the empty spaces where his little fingers should be.

Ben looked at the left hand, visibly more damaged. "Right, Mr. Jansen," he said, his voice calm and neutral. "Now I need to assess the passive range of motion and the condition of the scar tissue. With your permission, may I touch your left hand?"

The request for permission, coming after the cold visual assessment, caught Ilian off guard. He hesitated for an instant, his body stiffening automatically in anticipation of the touch, even if consented. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, eyes fixed on some point on the wall.

Then, after the mute consent, Ben took Ilian's left hand. His hands were warm and strong, fingers moving with clinical precision over Ilian's wrist and joints. He probed the scar tissue over the poorly healed fracture bones, the pressure causing a deep, dull ache. "Relax," Ben said, though the command was impossible to obey.

With an instrument, he measured every angle of movement. "Flex your wrist... as much as you can." Ilian tried, pain burning, and heard the number being dictated to Harris, who noted it on a tablet: "Twenty-two degrees." Each number was a sentence, the quantification of his ruin. The extension of the fingers, the rotation of the wrist—each measurement was proof of his incapacity.

The strength test was the worst. Ben handed him a small device. "Squeeze. With all your strength." Ilian wrapped his disobedient fingers around the object. He concentrated all his energy, jaw clenched, face contorted. The muscles in his forearm trembled, pain radiating from the old fracture, but the needle on the gauge barely moved. The number was read aloud. It was incredibly low.

The session dragged on with passive stretches. Ben held Ilian's hand, stretching each finger, each joint, to the limit of pain. Ilian focused on a spot on the wall, breathing deeply and slowly, dissociating from the pain, from the touch. He was just a body in the chair. A problem to be solved.

When Ben finally said, "We're done with the hand for today," Ilian pulled his arm close to his body, cradling the aching hand against his chest. It throbbed with a deep, resonant pain, as if every nerve had been awakened and reminded of its trauma. He looked at his fingers that didn't obey, at the scars that told a story he didn't want to remember, and felt the weight of his own reconstruction as yet another mountain to be climbed.

There was no pause. David stepped forward. "My turn. Stand up, please, Mr. Jansen."

The leg assessment was less about measurements and more about movement. First, the stretches. Like Ben, David moved Ilian's leg, testing the limits of its flexion and extension. The pain here was broader, a burning that spread through the large muscles of the thigh and calf, especially around the main scar, where the tissue was rigid and inflexible.

"Now, walk for me," David instructed. "From here to the glass door. At your normal pace."

Ilian leaned on the cane, putting his weight on his right hand, and began to walk. Each step was a conscious performance. He tried to hide the way his right foot dragged, tried to disguise the tilt of his hip to compensate for the weakness. But he knew each of these defects was being observed, analyzed by David's trained eye. He felt like an insect pinned on a board, each of his imperfections exposed under a merciless light.

David watched him for no more than three steps and said, his voice neutral and cutting: "Stop."

Ilian froze.

David approached him, his analytical gaze sweeping Ilian's body from top to bottom. "Your weak leg is the right one. So, why are you using the cane in your right hand?" David asked. "You're using it on the wrong side. The cane should be in the hand opposite the weak leg, to create a tripod of balance. The way you walk, you're overloading your hip and twisting your spine. It's all wrong."

Shame flooded Ilian's face. He didn't know what to say.

But then, David's gaze moved from Ilian's leg to his left hand, which hung stiffly at his side. He saw the way Ilian gripped the cane with his right hand, his dominant and strong hand, and then looked at the left hand, which barely moved. His expression of frustration softened slightly, giving way to a purely clinical understanding.

David sighed and made a note on his tablet, dictating to Harris. "Add to the list: gait re-education. He is using the cane on the incorrect side, compensating for the weakness in the left hand." He looked at Ben. "We can't correct his gait until you make progress with that hand. It's one more thing for the list."

He turned back to Ilian, his tone once again professional and impersonal. "Continue walking to the door. I want to see the rest."

Ilian obeyed, feeling even more like an insect pinned on a board, each of his imperfections exposed and cataloged under that merciless light.

"Right, you can stop," David said when he reached the door. The analysis had lasted perhaps thirty seconds, but to Ilian, it felt like an eternity.

He asked Ilian to sit on the sofa again. The simple act of lowering his body onto the sofa was a clumsy and painful maneuver. He felt completely vulnerable. David lifted his right leg, stretching it slowly. "Tell me when you feel the tension," he instructed. The tension came quickly, a taut and painful cord in the back of his thigh. "Here?" asked David. Ilian gasped a "Yes." But David didn't stop. He pushed a little further. "And now?" The pain became a burning sensation. "Yes!" said Ilian, his voice tense. David held the leg in that position. "I'm feeling the resistance here. The tissue is very shortened from immobility. Breathe deeply. We're going to hold for thirty seconds." Every second was an eternity.

Sweat was now running freely down his face, dripping from his chin. The pain in his hand had joined a burning pain in his leg, and his whole body trembled with fatigue. He felt dissected, every flaw in his body exposed and recorded. When David finally released his leg carefully, the pain was great.

Then, the nature of the visit changed. David turned to the logistics agent. "Mr. Harris, can we see the guest room?"

Harris nodded and guided them to the room near the small laundry area. It was a spare bedroom.

David and Ben entered the room, and the conversation that followed transformed the space. Ilian, standing by the sofa, listened as if he were a distant spectator, while they projected his rehabilitation.

"The environment is perfect," said David. "We'll need a treadmill with negative incline and parallel support bars installed here." He pointed to the larger wall.

"And an adjustable therapy table for hand work near the window, for natural light," added Ben. "Along with a tool panel for dexterity exercises."

"Low-friction ceiling pulley system, for non-impact resistance exercises. A set of ankle weights, elastic bands of various tensions, and a balance board."

Harris noted everything on his tablet, his face impassive. "The equipment will be ordered today. Installation can take until the end of the week."

Ilian listened, stunned. They weren't just planning exercises. They were building a custom-made rehabilitation chamber inside his sanctuary. The thought was terrifying—the implication of the work and pain awaiting him in that room. But beneath the dread, there was a strange and unknown sensation: that of being an investment. They weren't just maintaining him; they were rebuilding him, piece by piece, with a clear purpose.

When the inspection ended, they returned to the living room. David turned to Ilian, who was still on the sofa processing everything. "The plan is as follows," he said, in a commanding tone. "Intensive sessions with us will be three times a week: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Rest is as important as work for muscle reconstruction."

He then gestured to the glass door. "And, every day, you will walk. The trail that circles the property. Start with ten minutes, no more. The uneven ground of dirt and roots will force the small stabilizer muscles of your ankle and knee to work. It is training. Much more effective and safer, in the long run, than walking only on flat ground. It is an order, Mr. Jansen, not a suggestion. Mr. Miller made it very clear that he is in a hurry for your recovery."

With instructions given, they prepared to leave. "See you in two days to start the real exercises," David said.

They left. The house became suddenly silent and vast. The back room, previously a neutral space, now seemed laden with the weight of a painful future. Ilian limped to the large glass door and looked out. In the distance, he could see the beginning of a dirt path disappearing into the trees. The idea of walking there was simultaneously frightening and strangely tempting.

His gaze then found Helena's figure in her garden, on her knees, tending to her flowers. The contrast hit him again. Her work, organic and intuitive. And his, the project of his own healing, now an engineering plan, clinical, methodical, and inescapable.

Ilian remained on the sofa for a long time after the physical therapy team left. His body didn't ache with the agony of exertion, but with a deep stiffness, a dull ache in the places where Ben and David had stretched and measured his limits. The exhaustion he felt was mental as well as muscular. He felt like an object that had been dismantled, inspected, every flaw and defect cataloged on a clipboard. The image of the back room, waiting to be filled with rehabilitation machines, was a shadow in his mind.

He was adrift in this sea of thoughts when the doorbell rang. His body stiffened. More people, more demands. The simple idea of another interaction exhausted him. With a slowness that was part pain and part reluctance, he rose. The walk to the door was a journey of resignation. When he opened it, he found Dr. Evans's kind face.

"Ilian," the doctor said, his professional smile becoming genuinely concerned upon seeing the pallor of his face. "I stopped by to see how the first assessment went. David called me, said you cooperated well. Come on, go back to the sofa. Don't stand on my account."

Dr. Evans's presence was the antidote to the harshness of the morning. His medical assessment was the antithesis of the previous session. It was done with quiet questions, with a reassuring touch on his wrist while measuring his heart rate.

"David said the range of motion is quite compromised, but that was expected," the doctor said, his voice calm. "The pain you feel now is normal. It's the body protesting at being awakened. Don't worry." His visit was a balm. He was listening to Ilian's chest when the front door opened completely with a push.

Agent Miller walked into the house as if entering his own office. He didn't knock. He didn't ask permission. The sound of his expensive shoes on the floor was a desecration of the silence. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. Peace evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp tension.

"Doctor Evans," Miller said, with a nod that was more acknowledgment than greeting. His gray eyes passed over the doctor and fixed on Ilian, vulnerable on the sofa.

Dr. Evans finished listening calmly, removed the stethoscope, and put it away in his bag. "Mr. Miller. What an unexpected visit."

Miller sat in the armchair opposite Ilian, crossing his legs and opening his briefcase on his lap. "Just tracking the progress of our investment. So, doctor, what's the verdict? When will he be fit to leave this house and start working for real on the university campus?"

Dr. Evans closed his bag with a soft click. "Agent Miller, as I have already explained in my reports, and as stated in Dr. Hayes's initial assessment from the Human Potential Program, the recovery from traumas like Ilian's does not follow a schedule. Rushing things now would be counterproductive and could lead to an even more serious relapse."

"Relapse, relapse..." muttered Miller, leafing through a paper in his briefcase. "Hayes and his theories... What I see here are reports of a week in the hospital for an infection that, reportedly, is resolved. What prevents him from working now, doctor?"

"Ilian is still under strong drug treatment..." replied Dr. Evans, "...These medications are one of the main causes of the exhaustion he feels. Exactly as predicted by the profile drawn up by the Agency. That, added to the fact that his kidneys are still recovering... His body is in a constant battle, Mr. Miller. What he needs, and what Dr. Hayes himself recommended to optimize his eventual productivity, is time and rest, not pressure."

Miller snapped the briefcase shut. He leaned back in the armchair, a thin, disdainful smile on his lips. "Optimize productivity... Or, doctor," he said, his voice low and insinuating, "it could just be a case of... as we say... lack of will. It's a nice house. Food, care, all paid for by the Agency. It's a good place to take an extended vacation, don't you think?"

The accusation was so cruel, so unfair, that Ilian felt the air ripped from his lungs. Shame flooded him, hot and suffocating. He lowered his gaze, fixing it on his trembling hands in his lap. Every scar, every missing finger, every poorly healed bone seemed to scream in protest against the insinuation that his suffering was a sham. He sat completely still, transformed into a statue of humiliation, silence being his only defense.

Dr. Evans noticed his patient's embarrassment. He saw the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way he shrank into himself. The doctor stood up, the decisive movement breaking the tension.

"Well, my consultation is over," he announced, his voice now cold and professional. He turned to Ilian. "Remember what I said, Ilian. Patience. Rest. I'll call tomorrow." The message was for Miller.

The doctor picked up his bag and walked toward the door. Miller didn't move. The guardian was leaving, leaving Ilian alone with the executioner.



Chapter 13: The Demand

The door closed. Ilian heard the sound of Dr. Evans's footsteps on the gravel and, seconds later, the soft hum of the car engine fading away until it was swallowed by the silence. The doctor's absence left a void in the room, a void that was immediately filled by the cold and massive presence of Agent Miller.

The silence that settled was different from any other. It wasn't peaceful or expectant. It was a predatory silence. Ilian remained motionless on the sofa, every muscle in his body a source of throbbing pain after the physical therapy assessment. The left hand, which Ben had manipulated, still ached incessantly. The right leg was a line of fire that ran from his ankle to his hip. And, in the middle of the room, sitting in the armchair like a judge in his court, was Miller, the source of a much deeper pain.

Miller was in no hurry. He opened his leather briefcase with deliberate slowness. His gray eyes did not waver from Ilian, assessing him, measuring his weakness. Ilian felt his gaze like a physical weight, pressing him against the cushions. He tried to control his breathing, but each inhalation was short and painful.

"The doctor seems very protective," Miller began, his voice a cutting murmur that sliced through the silence. "I hope you're not taking advantage of his compassion to delay the inevitable."

He leaned forward, body tense like a spring ready to snap, and picked up Ilian's notebook from the coffee table. The gesture was an invasion. He flipped through the pages, fingers turning the paper with a dry, disdainful snap. Ilian's work, his notes, his thoughts, being profaned by that cynical gaze.

"Is this all?" asked Miller, disdain evident in his voice. "After three days of supervised rest and a week of vacation in the hospital? A few equations and scribbles? We expected more, Jansen. Much more."

Ilian's blood ran cold. The humiliation was so intense it almost suffocated him. He wanted to shrink, disappear, but a spark of something different ignited amidst his dread. It was the offense of a craftsman seeing his work misunderstood. The offense of a scientist being judged by a bureaucrat. The combination of the Andersons' kindness and Miller's brutality created a new chemical reaction inside him. Not submission, but a cold resistance.

He raised his eyes from the floor and, for the first time, met Miller's gaze. His voice, when it came out, was low, but every word was precise, sharp as a scalpel.

"The error correction algorithm in the TPY-5 system," he began, "is not a programming problem. It is a fundamental architectural problem. It is inefficient in how it processes background noise in high electromagnetic interference environments." He paused, breath short. "Rushing a palliative solution, a 'patch' in the code, would be... inefficient. And dangerous. The problem requires complete analysis, not speed."

For an instant, Miller seemed surprised. He hadn't expected a lecture; he expected an excuse. The surprise quickly turned into irritation. An icy glint passed through his eyes. He didn't understand the technical details, but he perfectly understood the underlying message: Ilian wasn't just saying "I'm sick," he was saying "the work is more complex than you can comprehend."

With a controlled movement, Miller closed the notebook and placed it slowly back on the table.

"I am not interested in your academic lectures, Jansen," he hissed. "I don't care about your 'analysis'. I am interested in results. In deliveries. In the return on all the investment made in you."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper. "So, here is what is going to happen. You have a week. Seven days. To present me with a complete draft of a new filtering architecture. Not a concept. Not ideas. A functional plan. Which must be approved by the base."

A week. The deadline was absurd. Impossible. Even in full health, it would be a monumental challenge. In his current state, it was a sentence of failure. Ilian felt the air ripped from his lungs. The panic attack threatened to return, the edges of his vision starting to darken.

"No... it's not possible," he gasped.

Miller's smile was cruel. "Oh, it is possible. You will make it possible." He leaned back in the armchair, savoring the moment. "You know, when we found you, you weren't in a very good position. Remember that hole, Jansen? We pulled you out of there. We cleaned you up, fixed you, gave you this nice house, food, doctors..."

Every word was a blow. The memories Ilian fought so hard to bury—the stifling heat, the smell of sweat and fear, the pain—surfaced, vivid and terrifying.

"But what we give," Miller continued, standing up, "we can also take away. And if you can't be useful, if you decide these 'vacations' are more important than your duty, then we will have no further reason to keep you here. Believe me, a return to that place can be arranged. And I doubt your former hosts have forgotten about you."

The threat, now explicit, paralyzed him completely. He sat there on the sofa, body broken by physical therapy, mind shattered by the image of a return to hell.

Miller adjusted the tie of his impeccable suit. "A week, Jansen. Don't disappoint me."

He walked to the door. He didn't close it as he left. He left it open, a final act of disrespect, as if to remind him that there were no walls that could truly protect him.

Ilian was left alone. The sound of Miller's car leaving was a distant echo. The world shrank to the four walls of that room. The physical pain, which he had tried to ignore during the conversation, returned with a vengeful force, a fire in his muscles and joints. But it was background noise. What screamed in his mind was the deadline. A week. And the image of a hot, dark cell on the other side of the world, waiting for him. He bent forward, elbows on knees, head in hands, and a sound that was almost a moan was torn from his chest. The executioner's visit hadn't been just to intimidate. It had been to strike the blow. And Ilian, alone in his violated refuge, felt completely, hopelessly, broken.

He remained on the sofa, a statue of pain and exhaustion. The throbbing in his leg and hand, an echo of the physical therapy, was now background noise, drowned out by the silent scream in his mind. A week. Miller's words were hooks digging into his flesh. That hole. The threat wasn't new. It was the same threat, spoken in different languages, by different men, in different places, throughout his entire life.

Miller's voice merged with other voices from his past. The voice of the orphanage director in Poland, explaining that his mind was his only value, since his body was defective. The voice of the German officer, a man in an impeccable uniform, who took him at twelve, saying his country now demanded his loyalty and his brain. He remembered the loneliness of the military base, where he developed technologies that would be used against his will, always watched, never free. He remembered the panic of being kidnapped at seventeen, the smell of a dirty hood over his head, and the cold brutality of the Russian base. He remembered being sold, at twenty-four, as if he were equipment, a part, to that Arab nation, where he was brutalized in a hot, dark cell.

The demand was the same. Results. Or... The exploitation of his mind had always been tied to the punishment of his body. Miller was just the latest in a long line of masters. The Andersons' kindness, Dr. Evans's care, were an anomaly, an aberration in a pattern of existence he knew too well. And now, Miller was reaffirming the natural order of things.

Fear was a slow poison, but the survival instinct was stronger. And survival, for Ilian, had always meant one thing: obey. Produce. Be useful.

With an effort that felt like a man lifting a concrete slab off himself, he moved. Every muscle screamed. The pain in his leg was a hot knife. He dragged himself off the sofa, body protesting every inch, and limped to his work table. Sitting in the chair was a maneuver of controlled pain. He looked at the schematics, at the notes. Hunger, pain, exhaustion—everything was pushed to the back of his mind. There was only the deadline. A week.

He picked up the pencil. His right hand, steady despite everything, hovered over the notebook. He looked at the technical schematic in front of him. The blue lines, so clear and logical, danced, losing focus. He tried to concentrate on the filtering algorithm, but Miller's voice interrupted his thoughts. A buzzing started in his ears. The pressure behind his eyes increased, a throbbing headache beginning to form. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

That was when he felt it.

A subtle, almost imperceptible sensation. A strange pressure at the back of his throat, accompanied by a metallic, salty taste. He swallowed hard, confused. Then, he felt a wet warmth in his right nostril. He brought his hand to his face, a slow movement, and when he pulled his fingers away, he saw the bright red stain.

No, he thought, not with panic, but with a cold, desperate exhaustion. Not now.

His body, his final prison, had chosen that exact moment to rebel. As if to mock his attempt to obey, his struggle for survival, his own blood betrayed him.

He watched it in slow motion, a perfect red sphere, falling and landing directly on the section of the technical schematic he was studying. The sound was almost inaudible, a small wet thud. The stain spread instantly, a red flower of imperfection that blurred and corrupted the blue, precise lines of the project.

The work of his mind, stained by the failure of his body.

The bleeding intensified. Another drop fell, then another. He stood up clumsily, almost knocking over the chair, and limped as fast as he could toward the bathroom, leaving a small, terrible trail of red drops on the floor.

He leaned over the pristine white sink, head forward. The blood now ran in a thin, steady stream, staining the porcelain. The contrast of bright red against white was shocking. He pinched his nose hard, breathing in gasps through his mouth. The smell of his own blood filled the air. And the thought consuming him wasn't about his health. It was about the evidence.

Harris. The cleaning. The report. Lack of will. That hole.

It took an eternity for the bleeding to slow and finally stop. He stood there, weak, looking at his reflection in the mirror. A pale ghost with dried blood staining his upper lip and shirt. He washed his face, the cold water a shock to his skin.

The return to the living room was a painful walk. He saw the crime scene. The drips on the floor. And, worst of all, the schematic on the table, with its red, incurable wound. The impossible task of meeting Miller's deadline was replaced by a more immediate and desperate task: erasing the traces of his own agony.

He limped to the kitchen, took a cloth, and dampened it in the sink. He returned to the room. The idea of kneeling was absurd; his leg would scream in agony and he probably wouldn't be able to get up afterwards.

With immense difficulty, he leaned over, wrapping the damp cloth around the rubber tip of the cane. Leaning on the work table, he began to scrub the stains on the rug with the tip of the cane. It was a clumsy, inefficient effort. With each movement, pain radiated through his hand and leg, and the sweat of weakness broke out on his forehead. He was completely absorbed in that task, the world reduced to the small circle of damp fabric and the stubborn stain that refused to disappear.

He didn't hear the soft footsteps on the gravel path. He didn't notice the shadow blocking the light in the open doorway.

"Ilian?"

The voice, calm and familiar, made him freeze. Slowly, with a dread that chilled his blood, he raised his head.

Professor Anderson was standing in the doorway, his face a mask of confusion. He must have seen Miller's car leave and come to check. His gaze passed over Ilian's pale face, dropped to the bizarre scene of the cane being used as a makeshift mop, and finally landed on the bloodstains on Ilian's shirt. The confusion on his face turned into pure alarm.

"What was that?" whispered the professor, entering the house quickly. "What happened here? Are you alright? Miller was here, wasn't he?"

Ilian couldn't answer. He was trapped, caught red-handed in his moment of weakness and despair. The cane slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He just stood there, bent and defeated, unable to hide the evidence of his own body's betrayal.

Mr. Anderson approached, full of genuine concern. He didn't wait for an explanation. With firm gentleness, he took Ilian by the arm. Normally, the unexpected touch, however soft, would have provoked an instinctive recoil, a defensive stiffening. But Ilian was so immersed in shock that there was no protest, physical or verbal. He just let himself be led. Richard picked up the cane from the floor with his other hand. "Come. Sit down."

He guided him to the sofa, treating him as if he were made of glass. Only when Ilian was seated did the professor turn and examine the scene. He picked up the stained schematic, his eyes scanning the red spot with an expression that hardened by the second. His anger was not directed at Ilian. It was cold, calculated, and aimed directly at the ghost of Agent Miller.



Chapter 14: The Protector

Professor Anderson knelt in front of Ilian, who was curled up on the sofa. The gesture, ignoring the age difference, placed their eyes on the same level. The professor's gaze was not one of pity, but of intense and focused concern. He examined Ilian's pale face, the bloodstains on his shirt, the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Ilian," he began, his voice calm and paternal, a dike against the tide of panic in the room. "What happened?"

Ilian did not answer. He lowered his gaze, fixing it on his own hands, which trembled slightly in his lap. Fear was an instinctive reaction, forged in a lifetime where any sign of failure or fault was met with punishment. Speaking, admitting what had happened, seemed like an impossible risk to take. Silence was his only armor.

The professor seemed to understand the hesitation. "I saw Agent Miller's car leaving when I was coming home," he said softly. "I imagined the visit hadn't been pleasant. I came to see how you were."

The revelation that the professor already knew about Miller's visit gave Ilian a small opening, a way to speak without having to confess everything. He murmured, his voice hoarse. "A nosebleed. It happens sometimes." He gestured vaguely to the work table and the rug. "I'm sorry for dirtying the rug. And the schematic... I apologize."

He continued to apologize, the words coming out in a low, hurried stream, as if confessing a crime. Professor Anderson listened, his expression becoming confused.

"Apologies?" he interrupted, his voice tinged with genuine perplexity. "Ilian, why are you apologizing? You did nothing wrong. Your body reacted to stress. This is not a moral failing."

Seeing Ilian shrinking away, apologizing for an involuntary physical reaction, seemed to break something in the professor. An expression of cold fury passed through his eyes, a fury directed not at Ilian, but at the system that had conditioned him to think that way.

Without another word, Mr. Anderson stood up. He picked up the damp cloth Ilian had left on the floor, went to the kitchen sink, wet it again, and returned. Before an astonished Ilian, the professor knelt on the floor and began cleaning the small drops of blood from the rug with methodical and paternal concentration.

Ilian watched, paralyzed. Every movement of the professor was a shock to his system. That act of simple and humble service was stronger and more overwhelming than any word.

When he finished, the professor threw the cloth into the wastebasket and sat in the armchair. The same armchair that had been occupied by Miller. The act was symbolic, a reclaiming of territory in the name of safety and sanity. He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"Ilian, what did he say to you?" he asked, his voice now heavy with a gravity that demanded the truth.

The act of cleaning the floor had demolished Ilian's last defenses. Kindness, he realized, was a much more effective weapon than threats. The words came out, not in a stream, but in broken fragments, torn from his chest. "The deadline..." he took a deep breath, the sound trembling. "He wants an analysis. A complete draft. Of the new architecture. In a week."

Professor Anderson leaned back in the armchair, absorbing the information. He didn't seem shocked, just tired and furious. "A week," he repeated, not as a question, but as the confirmation of insanity. "That's not a deadline, it's a trap. It's impossible." He looked at Ilian, and Ilian saw not just a professor, but an ally. "We'll figure this out. I'll take care of it. But not today. And not tomorrow."

He stood up, the decision made. "You need to rest. Have you had lunch?"

Ilian shook his head. "No... but I can't eat."

"Alright." The professor went to the kitchen, took a glass, and filled it with cold water. He returned and held it out to Ilian. "Drink this, then."

Ilian reached out to take the glass. His hands trembled slightly. The professor waited, patient, until Ilian managed to hold it firmly. He drank the water, the cold liquid a relief to his dry throat. He held the empty glass with both hands, as if it were an anchor, the tangible proof of that gesture of care amidst the storm.

He remained sitting on the sofa, but didn't feel the comfort of the cushions. His entire body was a receptor of pain and apprehension. On the other side of the room, Professor Anderson moved. He didn't speak. His actions spoke for themselves.

With deliberate calm, the professor took the bloodstained technical schematic from the work table, folded it carefully, as if it were a valuable document, and placed it aside, out of Ilian's field of vision. The gesture was clear: This is not your priority right now. He then took the blanket that was thrown over the armchair and placed it over Ilian's shoulders. The fabric was soft and heavy, a cloak of protection.

"Stay here," the professor said, his voice low but charged with an authority Ilian had never heard before. "I need to make two calls."

He didn't go to the main house. He remained in the room, taking his cell phone from his pocket and moving away near the glass door, giving Ilian an illusion of privacy while remaining as a sentry. Ilian sat motionless, listening only to the sound of his own heart and the fragments of the conversation that would change everything.

The first call was quick. Ilian heard the name "Dr. Evans." The professor's voice was sharp steel wrapped in velvet.

"Richard Anderson... Yes, I just arrived at the guest house... No, he is not well. Agent Miller was here." A pause. Ilian held his breath. "The pressure is unacceptable. The young man had a significant nosebleed, not to mention the emotional state I found him in... Exactly." Another pause, longer. "I need you to send an official medical report. I want a formal recommendation for a minimum period of four weeks of active recovery, with zero psychological stress. 'Contraindicated' is the word I want to see regarding any work or pressure. Try to be incisive. His health is the only priority. I'm counting on you, Robert."

He hung up. Ilian felt a bit of hope. The efficiency, the way the professor commanded the situation, was both frightening and incredibly comforting.

The second call began immediately. The tone changed, becoming more formal, colder.

"Director Vance, please. It's Professor Richard Anderson... Yes, I'll hold."

The silence stretched. Ilian could feel the tension emanating from the professor.

"Vance, we have a serious problem with your field agent, Miller, and the well-being of our lead scientist on the project... No, it is not an exaggeration. It is an assessment." He listened on the other end, body motionless. "I was just informed by Dr. Evans, and I confirm with my own eyes, that Jansen's physical and mental state is precarious. Miller's approach is not only counterproductive, it is actively sabotaging his recovery and, consequently, putting the entire project timeline at risk... Exactly. A total collapse serves no one, does it?"

The professor's voice was relentless. "I am formally requesting a one-month recovery period for him. Without any contact from Agent Miller. Any and all communication from the agency regarding him will be done through me... Yes, I take full responsibility for the delay in the initial schedule. In fact, I am guaranteeing there will be a schedule, instead of a shipwrecked project." He made a final pause, the checkmate. "Either we do it my way, or you can start looking for another team willing to participate, and another team leader for the project. The choice is yours."

He hung up.

The silence that followed was profound. Professor Anderson stood with his back to Ilian for a long moment, looking out at the garden, hand resting on the glass door. Ilian watched him, barely breathing. He had just witnessed a battle fought in his name, a display of power and protection he had never imagined possible.

Finally, the professor turned. The fury in his face had dissipated, replaced by a resolute calm. The figure of the mentor, the protector, was back, but now strengthened by a layer of steel. He walked back, pulled the chair from the dining table, and sat in front of Ilian, close enough so they didn't need to raise their voices.

He looked Ilian in the eye.

"It's done," he said, his voice soft again. "You have a month, Ilian. A whole month, starting today. Without Miller. Without deadlines. Without demands."

He leaned forward a little, the intensity in his gaze pinning Ilian in place.

"Your only job, for the next four weeks, is to heal."

A wave of relief, so strong and overwhelming, rose in his chest, a sensation so intense it was almost like another form of pain.

The knot of panic and fear that had formed in his stomach with Miller's visit finally began to dissolve. He felt the tension in his shoulders, which he hadn't even realized he was holding so tightly, decrease millimeter by millimeter. Air entered his lungs more easily. For a long moment, he couldn't speak, just breathe.

He raised his eyes and met Professor Anderson's patient gaze. For the first time, Ilian didn't look away. He sustained eye contact, and in his eyes, the professor could see a universe of gratitude that words could never express. Ilian's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He swallowed hard, throat tight with held-back emotion, and tried again.

"Professor..." he began, his voice a hoarse and weak whisper. He paused, gathering all his strength to formulate the sentence. "Thank you." The word came out with visible effort, laden with immense weight. He added, his voice a little steadier: "Truly. Thank you very much."

Professor Anderson nodded slowly, an understanding smile on his lips. "You don't need to thank me, Ilian." He looked at the young man's state of exhaustion. "You need to rest now. I know you haven't eaten anything, but I won't force you. Just rest a little."

He paused. "We have dinner around seven. If you feel up to it, our kitchen door will be open. If you don't show up, don't worry, I'll come here to see if you need anything. Do you want me to stay a little longer?"

Ilian's instinct was to accept, to cling to that safe presence. But a new strength, born of gratitude, compelled him to reassure him. "No need, Professor. I'm better now. You can go, don't worry."

The professor studied him for another moment, then nodded. "Alright. Rest, Ilian."

With a final gesture of comfort, he left. Ilian stood listening to the footsteps fading away. Alone again, but in a different way. He adjusted himself on the sofa, his aching body finding a position of less discomfort, and, for the first time on that terrible day, closed his eyes without fear.



Chapter 15: The Awakening and the Decision

Darkness was total and velvety when Ilian emerged from sleep. There was no startle, no residue of nightmares. He simply floated back to the surface of consciousness, feeling first the weight of his own body. Every muscle, from his neck to his feet, ached with a dull, deep pain, the silent protest against the ordeal of physical therapy.

His throat was dry, scratching every time he swallowed, and a slight headache throbbed in his temples, a hollow and insistent drum, the unmistakable beat of hunger.

He remained motionless for a long moment, disoriented, not knowing what time it was or how long he had slept. The house was in absolute silence. With a slow and careful movement, he reached out, fingers searching in the dark for the familiar switch of the lamp on the table next to the sofa. His fingers found the small metal pin. He turned it.

A soft, amber light flooded the room, making him blink. The first thing his focused gaze found was the clock. He had slept for hours. The day was gone.

His gaze moved to the kitchen counter, visible from the living room. There was his pill organizer, a plastic and colorful reminder of his routine. He knew, without needing to look, that the 5 PM dose was untouched. The Agency's protocol, Dr. Evans's instructions, were clear: take the meds with food, to protect the stomach and the already overburdened kidneys.

The idea of forcing that chemical cocktail into his empty, acidic stomach was nauseating. A small rebellion, the first truly autonomous decision about his body, took shape in his mind. He was not going to take them. Not now. The headache of hunger was a clearer and more urgent message than any written protocol. He was going to wait.

With an effort that cost him a low groan, he sat up and then stood, his body protesting in every joint. The walk to the bathroom was a pilgrimage of contained pain. He undressed slowly, every piece of clothing an obstacle. The long-sleeved shirt, his armor, was the last to come off.

He stepped into the shower stall and let the hot water fall over him. Steam filled the space, and he leaned against the cold wall, letting the heat penetrate his aching muscles. The water washed away the residue of the day's stress. It was a ritual, an attempt to purify himself not only of the dirt, but of the sensation of having been handled, measured, and threatened.

When he got out, he dressed in the clothes the Agency had provided. Dark trousers, a neutral-colored long-sleeved shirt. Clean, efficient, anonymous clothes. Bought by someone else, washed by someone else. Nothing there defined him. Nothing there was his.

He stood in front of the foggy mirror and wiped a circle with his hand. The man staring back was still thin, still pale, with dark circles under his eyes. But the desperate panic was no longer there. In its place, there was deep exhaustion, but also a shadow of determination, a glint born of the battle Professor Anderson had fought for him. He wasn't completely alone anymore.

He returned to the living room and looked at the clock again: 7:07 PM. Seven minutes late.

The professor's invitation echoed in his mind. If you feel up to it... We have dinner around seven... The kitchen door will be open.

A wall of ice rose inside him. Fear. The instinct, forged in a lifetime of isolation and danger, screamed for him to stay. Stay here. Close the door. Take one of those cold meals from the fridge. Eat alone, in the dark. It's safer. It's what you know. No one can hurt you if you are alone.

But then, another voice, newer, more fragile, whispered in his mind. The image of Professor Anderson's worried face. Helena's voice, warm and sincere: you are always welcome at our table. Elara's shy smile. The promise he had made to himself, to try. Not to disappoint those who had defended him.

He stood in the middle of the room, caught between the terror of the past and the fragile possibility of the future. Hunger ached in his head. Loneliness ached in his soul. Which pain was worse?

With a trembling sigh, a surrender, the decision was made. The new part, the hopeful part, however small, had won.

He gripped the cane, the familiar wood a comfort in his hand. He walked to the door, heart beating fast, not with dread, but with a nervous anxiety. His hand hovered over the handle for an instant. Then, with a firmness that surprised him, he turned it and stepped out.

The door closed behind Ilian, and he was alone in the darkness of the garden. The night was cold, the air heavy with the smell of damp earth. Across the garden, the Andersons' house was an island of warm, golden light. The distance, which during the day seemed so short, now, in the darkness, seemed like a vast and intimidating ocean to be crossed.

He took the first step, the tip of the cane sinking into the soft soil. His body, still protesting from the physical therapy, ached, but the pain was background noise. What screamed in his mind was the sound of his own heart, a frantic beat of pure social panic. What if I fall? What if my silence is an insult?

Meanwhile, inside the main house, the atmosphere was of silent expectation. The aroma of baked fish with lemon and herbs filled the kitchen. Helena moved around the room, her face creased by a line of worry. She adjusted a piece of cutlery next to the fourth plate she had placed on the dining table.

"Do you think he's coming, Richard?" she asked in a low voice.

"We'll see, Helena," replied her husband, who was reading news on a tablet. "The step he has to take tonight is bigger than the distance of the garden."

That was when they heard it. A light, hesitant knock on the glass door of the kitchen. They looked at each other. Richard stood up and walked to the door.

He opened it. Ilian was standing on the porch, a silhouette cut against the night. The kitchen light spilled over him, revealing an even paler face, the dark circles under his eyes looking like bruises of exhaustion. He was there. A smile of pure relief opened on the professor's face.

"Ilian! I'm so glad you came. Come in, come in."

But there were three steps separating the porch from the kitchen. To Ilian, a cliff. He looked at them, and for a moment, the certainty that he could do it wavered. The journey seemed impossible. He tried to lift his right leg for the first step, but a sharp pain shot from his hip and the muscle refused to obey. He gasped, his body unbalancing a little.

"Professor..." he spoke quietly. "I... I think I need help to climb these."

In the same instant, Richard's smile turned into pure compassion. Without a word, he went down the steps and stood beside Ilian. In the kitchen, Ilian saw out of the corner of his eye Helena and Elara turn away discreetly, pretending to arrange something on the counter, granting him the dignity of their privacy. Richard offered his arm. "Lean on me."

Ilian rested his left hand on the professor's firm arm. Together, slowly and painfully, they went up. One step. A pause to breathe. The second. Another pause. The third. As he stepped onto the kitchen floor, a trembling, audible sigh escaped his lips. He had crossed the threshold, not alone, but supported. "Thank you," he murmured, gratitude making his voice hoarse.

"Come, sit here," Richard said, guiding him to a chair on his right. Ilian limped to the spot and sat down. Elara was already in her seat, across from him. She looked at him with a small, sincere smile. "We were hoping you would come, Ilian," she said, her voice calm. "Welcome."

Ilian, still trying to catch his breath and process the transition, managed only to incline his head in a brief thanks.

Helena approached, her face a mix of relief and affection. "Make yourself at home, Ilian. I'll just get our dinner." She moved toward the oven, and Ilian sat there, head slightly down, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, trying to calm his racing heart.

Helena emerged from the stove area with the steaming platter and placed it in the center of the table, before finally sitting down next to Ilian. The delicious aroma enveloped him.

It was she who broke the silence, her voice soft and full of genuine warmth. "Ilian, I am so happy you came." She smiled, a little nervous. "I was here in the kitchen, hoping you would like my food. I made everything with such care, following the doctor's notes." She laughed at herself. "If you were five minutes later, I swear I was going to prepare a plate to take over to you. I put so much effort in, I wanted to make sure you tasted it."

Her sincerity left him speechless. He felt his face heat up. "Thank you, Mrs. Anderson," he murmured. "And... I apologize for the delay."

"Oh no, the important thing is that you are here," she said.

"Absolutely," Elara intervened with a smile. "Anything is better than those astronaut meals the Agency left. My mother's food at least has a soul."

Elara's comment made Ilian relax a little. They weren't asking questions. They were just including him, enveloping him in their family atmosphere. Richard began to serve the salad and passed it to Helena. The dinner ritual began.

Ilian watched, barely breathing. There was a silent choreography everyone there seemed to know, a dance of passing bowls and waiting for turns that left him fascinated and tense. In the orphanage, it was a line, a silent competition for portions. In the bases, it was a solitary tray brought to his room, or, more often, the absence of it as punishment. The idea of sharing food from a common source, so casually and trustingly, was a dangerously intimate concept.

Helena served herself and then turned to Ilian. "Salad, Ilian?" He nodded. She passed him the bowl. It wasn't heavy, but the challenge was different. Social panic hit him harder than hunger. With his right hand, he held it. To serve himself, he needed the same hand. His left hand was almost useless, unable to hold the bowl firmly. It was the first test of that strange ritual, and he was failing. He had to execute a clumsy choreography: find a space on the table, place the bowl there carefully, pick up the serving cutlery, put a small portion on his plate, and then pick up the bowl again to pass it to Elara. Every second felt like an eternity, the silence of the table amplifying the sound of his own incompetence. He felt his face heat up, certain his slowness had broken the rhythm of the meal. But when he looked up, Elara was watching him with a soft smile. They weren't annoyed. They didn't rush him. Their deliberate kindness in ignoring his failure was almost as disconcerting as the failure itself.

He ate the first forkful of salad. The taste of fresh vegetables, the touch of olive oil and lemon exploding on his palate. It was simple, but it was real. It was life.

When it was time for the fish, the main platter was in the center of the table, far from his reach. Before he could even think about the complicated logistics of asking them to pass it, Helena, beside him, acted with the naturalness of a mother.

"Let me serve the fish for you, Ilian," she said, taking his plate. "It's so soft it falls apart." With a spatula, Helena placed a large, perfect fillet on his plate, drizzling it with the herb sauce. She served him generously, a portion that said "eat to feel satisfied."

Ilian brought the first piece of fish to his mouth. It was soft, melting in his mouth, with the delicate taste of herbs. It was the antithesis of the functional, soulless food he had survived on for so long. It was food made with care. With affection. The happiness of being there, in that calm place, feeling genuinely cared for, was a sensation so overwhelming he had to put down his fork for an instant to compose himself.

Everyone began to eat and praise the food. "Mom, this is incredible." "Really, you outdid yourself."

He ate a few more bites in silence. Then, he stopped. He looked at his plate and then, raising his head, looked directly at Helena.

"Mrs. Anderson..." he began, his voice quiet, but clear. She turned to him, eyes full of attention. He searched for the words. "It is the best food I have eaten... in many years."

The compliment was simple, but the sincerity and effort behind it were immense. Helena stopped eating. Her eyes shone, and she didn't try to hide the emotion. She placed her hand over her heart for an instant and smiled at him, a smile that was pure joy and gratitude. "Thank you, Ilian. That means a lot to me."

And in that moment, at the table, surrounded by gentle voices, Ilian felt something break inside him. A small crack in the wall of ice he had built around his heart for a lifetime.

The compliment, so simple and so laden with effort, hung in the air for a moment, changing the atmosphere of the table. The emotion in Helena's eyes was a reflection of the small bridge he had just built. Richard Anderson, sensing the intensity of the moment and the need to give Ilian a refuge to retreat to, gently shifted the focus.

"So, dear," he said, turning to his wife with a warm smile. "You didn't tell us how your meeting went. Did your friends from church manage to make progress on the preparations?"

Helena, composing herself, accepted the change of subject with gratitude. "We're looking at the last details and the deadline is short. I was put in charge of bringing flowers to decorate the tables. I thought about using the roses from the garden, they're still so beautiful."

Elara, who had been eating in silence until then, intervened. "The roses are beautiful, Mom, but you could do something quite different, you could bring the 'Café au Lait' dahlias. They're perfect right now, huge. And their color..." she paused, searching for the word. "It's soft. They're my favorites."

Ilian heard the name of the flower, Dahlia Café au Lait, and Elara's simple declaration, They're my favorites. The words echoed in his mind. He tried to imagine the flower. 'Coffee with Milk'. Would it be a pale, creamy color? His mind, trained to catalog data, registered the information with automatic precision.

And then, another realization hit him, a realization that was a vast and desolate void. He didn't know the name of any flower.

Roses, maybe. He knew what a rose was because of books. But if he saw one, he wouldn't be sure. In his world, there was no room for flowers. His universe had been built with steel, circuit diagrams, and the smell of oil and fear. The colors he knew were the gray of walls. The idea of having a favorite flower, of having had the freedom and peace of mind to observe the natural world in enough detail to choose one, was a concept as strange to him as quantum physics would be to most people.

He thought about his life, a succession of restrictions. As incredible as it seemed, the place where he had had the most freedom was the orphanage in Poland. There was a dirt courtyard and a solitary tree. He could feel the sun on his face, the wind. A minimal freedom, but it was the only one he had known. After that, his genius had become his curse. Germany, Russia, the Arab nation... bases, bunkers, windowless rooms. He had always been a resource, a mind to be mined, a body to be contained. Never a human being who was allowed to learn the name of a flower.

"That's a good idea, dear," said Helena to Elara, bringing Ilian back to the present. "Maybe I'll mix the dahlias with a bit of eucalyptus foliage. What do you think, Richard?"

The conversation continued, light and normal. Ilian remained silent, but he was no longer just a passive listener. His mind, always analytical, had captured a new data point. A data point that had nothing to do with radars or algorithms. Dahlia Café au Lait. He repeated the name to himself, not out of a particular interest in Elara, but out of fascination with the act itself. And, for the first time, he felt a spark of curiosity that wasn't linked to his own survival or his work. It was a curiosity about the small and seemingly useless details that made up a normal life. A detail like the name of someone's favorite flower.

The conversation about flowers dwindled, leaving a comfortable silence as everyone went back to focusing on their meals. For Ilian, the silence was no longer a void to be feared, but a space to breathe, to process. He ate slowly, every forkful of soft fish and fresh vegetables a small miracle of taste and normalcy. He watched, eyes lowered, the family dynamics. The way Helena looked at her husband when he spoke, the way Elara smiled at her father. They were small interactions, a non-verbal language of affection and familiarity he had never witnessed up close.

He tried to take another forkful of fish, but something had changed. The wave of emotions from dinner, the physical exhaustion still residing in his muscles, the cocktail of medications in his system—everything seemed to converge at a point in his stomach. A slight but unmistakable wave of nausea rose through him. The delicious aroma of the fish, which had been a pleasure moments before, was now becoming heavy. The hunger, which had been so real moments ago, evaporated, replaced by a subtle queasiness.

He couldn't simply stop eating. Not after his compliment. He didn't want them to think he was lying, that his gratitude was fake. So, he began to disguise it. With his fork, he separated a small piece of fish. Pushed a piece of vegetable to the side. Moved the rice. It was a silent ballet, an attempt to create the illusion of activity on his plate. He looked at his food, but all he saw was an obstacle, a task his body refused to complete.

But Helena noticed. Sitting beside him, she sensed the change. She saw the way his fork moved aimlessly, how he didn't bring any more food to his mouth.

"Ilian, dear, you haven't even eaten half of what I put on your plate, and you're already full?" she said, her voice soft and without a trace of rebuke. "You eat like a bird. You need to eat well to regain your strength."

Ilian stopped moving the fork, feeling his face burn again, this time with the embarrassment of being discovered. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Anderson. I apologize."

"No, no, don't apologize!" she interrupted quickly, with a reassuring smile. "Don't force yourself at all. Medicines can take away your appetite." She looked at his plate and had an idea. "Don't worry, I'll set aside a container for you to take for your lunch tomorrow. What do you think? It's surely much better than that packet food from the Agency."

The offer was so practical, so affectionate, and so unexpected that Ilian could only nod, feeling a wave of relief.

It was at that exact moment that Richard Anderson intervened, a master at diverting attention to save Ilian from embarrassment.

"Don't worry, Helena. He liked the food," he said, looking gently at Ilian. "Sometimes, a researcher's head can be so full of questions that there's no room for anything else. That reminds me of a project a few years ago..."

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, attention turning to the professor. Ilian felt the spotlight move away from him and could finally breathe.

"We were developing a new type of image processing algorithm to penetrate radar 'noise'... a military project, to identify targets amidst interference. We worked on it for two years, under enormous pressure. In the end, the results were... mediocre. The military application wasn't the success we expected. The whole team felt like a failure."

Ilian listened quietly, the word "failure" echoing in his own mind, so loud and deafening it almost blocked out the rest of the story. Falke. The name of his own military project, his greatest and most shameful failure. Richard's failure had been "mediocre." His had been absolute. Costing many lives. Guilt, his constant companion, squeezed his chest with a sudden, cold force.

"But," continued Richard, pulling Ilian back from his private abyss, "a year later, a colleague of mine from the medical school called me. His team was having difficulty obtaining clear MRI images of brain tumors in children because of the 'noise' generated by the blood flow itself. They adapted our radar algorithm... and it worked. It worked in a way it never worked for the military. It helped surgeons see more clearly."

He paused, looking directly at Ilian.

"Sometimes, Ilian, a scientist's mind creates a tool. And we rarely have control over how the world decides to use it. The same logic that can be used to track a missile can be used to find a tumor. The important thing is never to forget the potential for good that exists in our work, even when circumstances are grim."

A cold thought ran through his mind: Did the professor know? Did he know about Project Falke? But he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Richard was kind in a way Ilian barely understood. If he knew the truth about Falke, about the deaths, he wouldn't have invited him into his home, to his table. He wouldn't look at him with that quiet compassion. Richard's kindness was the definitive proof of his own ignorance.

The story hit him with quiet force. All his life, his inventions had been exploited as weapons. The idea that his skill could have a peaceful, healing application was a radical concept. It didn't change his situation, but it planted a seed. A seed of hope that he wasn't just a tool of war, but a scientist whose work could, one day, have a different purpose. And with that thought, the nausea in his stomach seemed to lessen, replaced by something new and much lighter.

The rest of the meal passed in a lighter atmosphere. Ilian remained silent, but it was a different silence now, less tense, more observant. He listened to the small family stories, the fragments of their normal lives, and every word was like a drop of water on dry soil.

Finally, the soft sound of cutlery resting on plates indicated that dinner was coming to an end. Ilian looked at his own food, the fish half-eaten, the vegetables almost untouched. The nausea had subsided, but exhaustion prevented him from eating more.

With quiet efficiency, Elara was the first to stand up. "Mom, I'll help clear the table."

She collected her plate and her father's, took them to the sink, and returned. Approaching Ilian, she didn't reach out immediately. She paused for an instant, her gesture hesitant and full of respect. "Ilian..." she said, her voice low and gentle. "May I take your plate?"

The simple question pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up and met her eyes, not looking at the food he had left, but directly at him, waiting for his permission. There was no judgment in her face, only a delicate query. The act of asking, instead of simply taking, was a show of respect so deep he could only nod.

With a small smile, she took his plate carefully and carried it to the sink. Helena stood up too and followed her. From his place at the table, Ilian could hear the muffled sounds of running water and the low whisper of the two women. He didn't need to hear to know what they were talking about. He barely ate. He felt his face heat up, but the shame was mitigated by a new feeling. Their concern was genuine, not an accusation. He watched them take a glass container and carefully separate the food for tomorrow's lunch.

Richard, noticing Ilian was alone with him at the table, spoke again. "Helena made an apple pie. Her specialty. Are you sure you don't want a very small piece? The smell is divine."

The idea of more food was impossible, but the invitation was warm. "I appreciate it very much, Professor, but I... I can't eat anymore." With an effort that demanded all his concentration, Ilian began the process of standing up. The pain in his leg, which had been a weak annoyance during dinner, now screamed for attention, a sharp stab reminding him of the dose of meds he had skipped at five o'clock. He steadied himself on the cane, his body exhausted, but his mind strangely at peace. "Do I have permission to leave?"

The question again. So formal. And then, Richard remembered. The first night. The same hesitation, the same request for permission for something as basic as resting. But now, for the second time, he understood. It was programming. He masked the emotion with a gentle smile.

"Of course, Ilian," the professor said, his voice softer than usual to hide his own disturbance. "It's been a long day for you. I'll walk you to the door."

They walked slowly, passing the kitchen entrance. Helena and Elara turned. Helena was drying her hands on a cloth, holding the now-lidded glass container.

"For your lunch tomorrow, Ilian," she said with a maternal smile. "Just heat it up."

She held out the container to him. Ilian took it with his left hand, the same clumsy movement as before, trying to balance the weight of the glass, as his right hand leaned on the cane. Before the situation became a challenge, the professor acted.

"Let me carry that to the door for you," he said gently, taking the container from Ilian's hand. The relief was immediate.

Helena and Elara returned to the sink, the sound of running water filling the silence. Ilian and the professor reached the kitchen door, stopping at the top of the three steps leading to the darkness of the garden.

The descent was as treacherous as the ascent, but different. This time, help was offered without hesitation. Professor Anderson went down first, turning to offer his arm to Ilian, the glass container held firmly in his other hand. "Take your time," he said.

Ilian leaned on the professor's firm arm. Step by step, they descended to the cold porch. The night air was a shock after the warmth of the kitchen, and Ilian shrank into his shirt.

"There," said Richard, handing the container to Ilian when they reached the flat ground. The glass was warm in his cold hands. "Thank you for coming, Ilian."

"I thank you for everything," Ilian said, his voice low. "And I apologize for not staying longer."

"You stayed the perfect amount of time," Richard replied with a smile. "We couldn't have asked for more."

He watched Ilian begin his slow crossing back across the lawn. The young man moved with difficulty, the cane in one hand, the food container carried clumsily in the other, a tangible symbol of that night. The professor stood on the porch, a silent guardian in the dark, until he saw the guest house light turn on and the door close. Only then did he turn and go inside.

The warmth of the kitchen enveloped him again. Helena and Elara had finished the dishes and were now wiping the counter. The atmosphere was quiet, thoughtful. Richard closed the door and let out a long sigh, a sound that was part weariness, part relief, and part a deep, complex emotion.

"It was good he came," he said, more to himself than to them. "It was a huge step. I hope that, little by little, he gets used to us. That he can relax."

Helena turned, the dishcloth in her hands, her face full of a maternal worry that was almost palpable. "He ate so little, Richard. That young man is too thin. Seeing him up close, he looks even more fragile. He needs to eat to gain strength. I got even more worried."

"Don't worry so much, Mom," said Elara, who was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, gaze lost in the darkness of the garden outside. "He's just strange," she said. "And quiet. I've never seen anyone like that. It's like he's waiting for a blow at any moment, even when someone is just passing him the salad."

Elara's sharp observation hung in the air. That was exactly it. Ilian didn't live, he reacted. He didn't exist, he survived every moment, every interaction.

"I don't know the reasons for him being like that," Richard said, his voice grave. "What he needs to receive from us is patience. And normalcy."

The three stood in silence for a moment, reflecting on their strange guest. His presence, even in his absence, filled the house with a mix of compassion, mystery, and a new, unexpected layer of purpose for their family. They weren't just hosting a colleague of the professor; they were sheltering a broken soul, and they all felt, in their own way, the weight and importance of that responsibility