Project Rodzina

Hello

It's an honor for me to share a few more chapters from my book. I hope you're enjoying my beloved Ilian Jansen.

I hope you like Oak Leaves :)

Thank you so much for the feedback, it's important to me.

Chapter 16: The Echo of Kindness

The guest house door closed with a soft click, and Ilian was enveloped by silence. A silence that, moments before, he would have embraced as a refuge. Now, it seemed vast and empty, devoid of the warmth and sound of voices that had filled him in the last hour. He stood still, feeling the echo of the Anderson family's kindness resonate in his chest. He was exhausted, but it was a different kind of exhaustion—the fatigue of a long-atrophied social muscle that had been gently exercised, not the exhaustion of pain or fear.

The first conscious act was to look at the glass container in his hand. The weight was real, the contents a tangible symbol of care. He walked slowly to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, and the cold white light illuminated the Agency's anonymous, vacuum-packed meals. With a care bordering on reverence, he placed the container with Helena's food on a shelf, where it stood out like a colorful work of art amidst gray and functional packages.

His gaze then fell on the pill organizer on the counter. The 5 PM compartment was still closed, the pills untouched inside. The hunger headache had passed, but the pain in his leg was a constant reminder of the dose he had skipped. Now, with his stomach warmed by Helena's fish and vegetables, he could finally fulfill the protocol without assaulting his own body.

The ritual was methodical. The click of the plastic compartment opening. The pills falling into his palm—a chemical cocktail that kept him standing. He filled a glass with water and swallowed them, one by one.

Then, he headed to the bathroom, completing the nightly routine. He leaned on the sink and began brushing his teeth, the movement of his arm slow and heavy. His gaze met his own reflection in the mirror. The man staring back was still pale, still with sunken eyes, but something had changed. The expression was no longer that of a cornered animal. There was a quietness, a calm.

As the brush moved, the dinner scene replayed in his mind in sensory fragments. Helena's soft laugh when talking about the flowers. The professor's expression when speaking about helping the surgeons. Elara's genuine smile. The word family, spoken with such seriousness by Richard, echoed in his head, a word whose weight and meaning he could barely begin to comprehend.

He rinsed his mouth and returned to the bedroom. He changed his day clothes for a clean pair of trousers and a simple shirt, movements slow, every joint protesting. The night's effort, however small it might seem, had exhausted him completely. He sat on the edge of the bed, his body heavy, and stayed there for a long moment, just breathing.

Finally, he lay down, his body sinking into the soft mattress with a sigh of relief. He turned on his side, facing the large glass door. Outside, the trees danced their silent choreography under the moonlight. A slight nausea, the constant price of his condition and the meds, floated in the pit of his stomach. It was a familiar discomfort, a reminder that his body was still a fragile and unpredictable territory.

But, for the first time in a long while, the physical sensation didn't dominate him. It was just background noise. What filled his consciousness was the warmth of the memory of dinner. The sensation of having been included, accepted, cared for. The nausea was there, but the gratitude was greater. The pain in his leg was there, but the feeling of safety was stronger. And with the imaginary sound of the Anderson family's quiet conversation as a lullaby he had never had, Ilian closed his eyes and, despite the slight queasiness, let himself drift into sleep.

Chapter 17: The Loop and the Invitation

Morning arrived like a silent promise. Ilian woke up with the sunlight, feeling the calm of the previous night still present in his body. After his shower, he prepared a simple coffee in the automatic machine, the aroma filling the house. With the hot cup between his hands, he sat for a moment at his work table, not to work, but just to observe the schematics under the morning light. The lines and symbols were a language his mind understood.

After coffee, he followed his medication routine and prepared for the day. He sat on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. The act of tying the laces was a precision ritual born of necessity, a complex and quick knot that he executed with the dexterity of his right hand, while the left served only as a passive support.

He remembered David's recommendation: the ten-minute walk. He went to the glass door, looking at the trail disappearing into the woods. The idea filled him with a cold anxiety. The forest was open, unknown. He still didn't feel safe.

His gaze then turned to the patio of his own bedroom. A small area paved with uneven stones, a patio he hadn't yet explored. The space was bordered by low bushes, separating it discreetly from the main lawn, but still open to the view of the large trees in the background. It was an outdoor space, but contained. Safe.

He made his decision. He opened the glass door and stepped out. The morning air was fresh and clean. The texture of the stones under the soles of his shoes was solid and real. He began to walk slowly, in small circles, around the patio. The rhythm of his cane on the stones was a dry, constant sound. It was his commitment, his version of the recommendation received, executed on his own terms.

He didn't realize he was being watched.

Richard Anderson had left his house and was walking towards the front door of the guest house. Halfway there, he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye in the patio area. He stopped, surprised and pleased. Instead of continuing straight, he walked around the side of the house, approaching silently.

He found Ilian there, walking in his slow circles, face concentrated.

"Good morning, Ilian," Richard said, his voice calm so as not to startle him.

Ilian stopped abruptly. He turned and, seeing the professor, visibly relaxed. "Professor. Good morning."

He approached and stopped by the bushes. "I was on my way to see how you were, and also to extend an invitation." He paused. "I thought I'd show you a bit of the surroundings this afternoon, by car. No effort, just so you can see where you are. How about we go around four o'clock?"

Ilian looked at the professor, then at the trees. The invitation, made there, in that safe space he himself had chosen, seemed less frightening.

"I would like that, Professor. Thank you." Acceptance was easier this time.

"Great!" said Richard, his face lighting up. "Then it's settled. At four. Until then, take the day to relax... well, it looks like you're already doing an excellent job with your recovery."

With a final wave, the professor walked away. Ilian remained on the patio for a few more minutes, watching the trees, the invitation for the afternoon drive echoing in his mind.

But as soon as Richard's figure disappeared from view, the ease of acceptance began to evaporate, replaced by an uncomfortable chill that ran up his spine. A car. A drive. A professor. The association was automatic, a conditioned reflex he couldn't control.

The memory came, sharp and cold: Germany. He was seventeen. One of the rare, very rare times he had left the gates of the military base. A field test of Project Falke, taking his new targeting calculations. He remembered the strange sensation of speed, the rural landscape blurring past the window… His life in Germany ended in a car. His life in Russia began in a car.

He took a deep breath, the fresh air of the patio suddenly seeming insufficient. He trusted Richard. He had to trust. Richard wasn't Kessler, and this was a drive, not a transport. But the invitation, which had seemed so kind seconds before, now carried the phantom weight of that other day. The world, slowly, was beginning to open up, yes... but Ilian remembered, with painful clarity, what happened the last time he was in a car with a mentor, on the way to his own project.

Ilian remained on the patio for a few more minutes, the fresh morning air on his face. The invitation for the afternoon drive echoed in his mind, a mixture of anxiety and an almost childlike curiosity. He completed one more slow lap over the uneven stones before finally retreating into the guest house.

The glass door slid shut with a soft thud, sealing the silence inside. He didn't go to his work table. The effort of the walk, however small, called for a moment of rest. He limped to the sofa and sat down, placing the cane carefully by his side. His body sank slowly onto the cushions, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as the pain in his leg subsided to a constant throb.

He closed his eyes. But, for Ilian, the darkness behind his eyelids was never empty. It was a blank canvas.

It was an old trick, a mental survival mechanism perfected over a lifetime. In the long, lonely hours, when the outside world was a source of pain or boredom, he took refuge inside. He built palaces of logic in his head.

And that was what he did. Without the pressure of a deadline, without Miller's voice in his mind, the work became a refuge again. He visualized the bloodstained technical schematic the professor had put away. He saw the blue lines not as a task, but as a river. He followed the signal flow, imagining the waves being captured, converted, filtered. In his mind, he saw the error correction algorithm, the source of the noise, and began to dismantle it, piece by piece, like a watchmaker examining a faulty gear. He tested new sequences, imagined alternative filters, all in an abstract and mathematical silence. It was his true home, the only place where he was master of his universe, where everything obeyed immutable and elegant laws.

He stayed there, lost in this mental labyrinth, for a time he couldn't measure. It was a low, hollow sound, coming from his own body, that brought him back to reality. His stomach. Hunger was now a real necessity.

He opened his eyes. The light in the room had changed, the sun was higher. He looked at the kitchen. The idea of eating was no longer a chore, but a desire. With a deliberate effort, he rose from the sofa and walked to the refrigerator. He opened it and took the glass container Helena had given him.

He placed it in the microwave. While the plate spun, the smell began to fill the small house. Not the plastic smell of the Agency meals, but the rich aroma of fish, herbs, and lemon. A smell of real food. A smell of care.

Ilian stood in front of the appliance, mesmerized not just by the smell, but by the process. His mind traced the invisible path of the gigahertz waves, penetrating the food, exciting the H₂O molecules. Pure dielectric heating. The same wave physics he used to track targets miles away, here, contained in a metal box for such a simple purpose. So domestic. It was logical, efficient. And the result was that pleasant aroma, a promise of comfort.

When the beep sounded, he took the hot food and, instead of returning to the confusion of papers on his work table, took it to the small dining table in the kitchen. He sat down and ate in grateful silence. Every bite was a delight. He ate slowly, savoring, until the plate was clean.

Then, an almost forgotten impulse of normalcy moved him. He took the plate and cutlery to the sink, turned on the tap, and washed his own dishes. The sensation of hot water on his scarred hands, the friction of the sponge, the glass being rinsed—these were simple acts of autonomy. It was a way of taking care of that small space, of being useful to himself, of not just being a patient to be served.

With the kitchen in order, he fulfilled the next step of his routine. He went to the counter and took the midday dose of meds, the bitter taste a constant reminder of his condition.

Finally, feeling the weight of the day—the walk, the meal, the mental effort—he went to the bedroom. He didn't feel the energy to work anymore, and there were still a few hours until four. With a sense of permission he granted himself, he lay down on the made bed, on top of the duvet, and closed his eyes, not to flee, but simply to rest and wait.

Chapter 18: Fragments of the City

Ilian woke not with a sound, but with a change in the light. The sun, which had been streaming in strongly through the window, now had a softer, more golden hue, announcing the decline of the afternoon. He had rested, his body immersed in a heavy stillness, his mind finally silent.

He looked at the clock: it was almost three in the afternoon.

The routine, under normal circumstances, would be simple: get up, maybe wash his face, and wait. But the professor's invitation wasn't a normal circumstance. It wasn't a medical transfer or an Agency order. It was a social invitation, a gesture of inclusion in a world he had never been part of. And, for some reason he barely understood, he felt the need to present himself to that world not as a survivor, but as a person.

He walked slowly to the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror. The person looking back was a familiar stranger. A thin, pale man, with hair too long, falling over his forehead, and a beard of several days that shadowed his prominent cheekbones, accentuating his thinness and giving him the air of a fugitive, of someone who lives in the shadows.

The decision was made. It was a small act of rebellion against the apathy that had consumed him for so long.

In one of the cabinets, he found a new shaving kit, still in its plastic packaging, no doubt a standard item provided by the Agency. He opened it with his clumsy fingers. The shaving foam came out cold and white in the palm of his hand. The smell was generic, chemical, but the sensation of the foam on his skin, covering the roughness of the beard, was a disconcerting sensation.

The process of shaving was a lesson in patience. He held the razor with his right hand, the only one he could trust for the precision work the task required. His left hand, stiff and weak, was almost useless. Each pass of the blade was a slow, calculated movement, an exercise in intense concentration to avoid a cut.

But as the beard disappeared, revealing the pale skin underneath, something else happened. He was erasing the marks of lost time, of abandonment, of neglect. He was imposing his will, however small, on his own appearance.

When he finally rinsed his face with cold water and looked at himself in the mirror, the change was surprising. Without the beard, his face looked younger, the features sharper. The structure of his jaw, the line of his mouth, a scar on his chin. He was still thin, still pale, but there was a definition, a dignity he hadn't seen in months.

He showered, dried himself, and now looked at his hair. It was longer than he liked, unruly. With a comb he found in the drawer, he tried to tame it, combing it to the side, off his forehead. The result wasn't a professional haircut, but it was an attempt. It was order imposed on chaos. It was an effort.

He dressed in his usual clothes, the long-sleeved shirt, the dark trousers, the same shoes, but the man inside them felt different. It was as if, by removing the beard and tidying his hair, he had stripped away a layer of the dust of captivity, revealing something that had been dormant underneath.

He returned to the living room and sat on the sofa. He was ready. He didn't look at his work papers. He just waited, hands resting on his knees, heart beating with an anxiety that was almost... pleasant. It was the anticipation of something new.

At four o'clock sharp, the doorbell rang. The sound, firm and punctual, didn't provoke the leap of dread from before. Ilian took a deep breath, just once, and began the slow process of getting up from the sofa. He leaned on his cane and limped to the door.

When he opened the door, he found Professor Anderson on the porch, car keys in hand. The afternoon sun, already low in the sky, cast a golden light that outlined his silhouette. The professor's smile was warm, but froze for a split second. His eyes swept over Ilian's face, the now defined jaw, the smooth skin, the hair combed to the side. The change was subtle, but profound. The man standing before him wasn't the same frightened survivor he had met at the airport, nor the devastated patient he had discovered cleaning his own blood off the floor. It was a glimpse of someone else.

"Ilian," Richard said, and his smile returned, wider and more genuine than before. An unmistakable glint of approval appeared in his eyes. "You look great. The rest has done you good."

The compliment was simple, direct, but to Ilian, it was like a balm. He didn't know how to answer, so he just inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment, feeling the heat rising up his neck.

"Ready to go?" the professor asked.

Ilian nodded. He stepped out onto the porch and closed the door of his safe house behind him. That was when he noticed. The black SUV wasn't parked on the gravel path in front of the guest house, as would be expected. It was further away, near the main entrance of the property, a good few meters away.

Richard seemed to notice his look. "I thought a little walk in the fresh air before we sat down would be a good idea," he said casually, but Ilian understood the intention. It wasn't an oversight, it was a gentle invitation, a challenge disguised as convenience. It was the professor's way of helping him follow the physical therapist's orders.

"Of course," Ilian said, accepting the silent challenge.

They began the walk, side by side. They left the porch and stepped onto the lawn. The sensation under his shoes was completely different from the deck or the stone patio. The earth was soft, damp. With each step, the rubber tip of his cane sank slightly into the soil, requiring a little extra effort to pull it out for the next step. The pace was slower, more laborious.

His right leg protested. The uneven, soft ground forced the small stabilizer muscles of his ankle and knee to work in a way that the flat floor never required. The pain wasn't sharp, but a dull, constant burning.

Richard walked beside him, unhurried, his pace perfectly synchronized with Ilian's. He didn't offer help. He didn't make small talk. He gave him the space and dignity to make that crossing alone. But his presence was a silent safety net, a promise that if he faltered, he wouldn't fall.

For Ilian, that small walk became a universe. He noticed things he hadn't seen. The way the sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees, creating patterns of light and shadow on the main house. The distant sound of a bird. He was using not just his muscles, but his senses. He was reconnecting with a world that existed beyond the four walls.

Finally, they reached the car. Ilian was panting, his leg starting to tremble with effort, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. But he had done it. He had arrived. He looked back at the distance he had covered and felt a small, fragile spark of pride.

The professor opened the passenger door for him, and this time, as he got into the car, Ilian felt less like a patient being transported and more like a man on his way to see the world.

The click of the seatbelt was a sound of commitment. Ilian sat in the passenger seat, hands resting on his knees, body tense. Richard started the engine and the car began to move smoothly down the gravel path. As they left the property, Ilian felt a wave of anxiety, the instinct of a burrowing animal being exposed to the open sky.

Richard, as if sensing the tension, pressed a button on the dashboard. The window on Ilian's side rolled down smoothly, and the outside world invaded the silent refuge of the car.

The air. The first thing Ilian noticed was the air. It was cold, fresh, and laden with the scent of New England autumn, a mix of damp leaves, earth, and the resinous aroma of the pines lining the street. He inhaled deeply, the air filling his lungs. It was the first time in years he felt the wind on his face inside a moving vehicle without it being associated with fear or a forced transfer.

They glided through the neighborhood streets. It was a place of tranquility. Large houses, set back from the street, with impeccably kept gardens and ancient trees whose branches formed a canopy over the asphalt. Due to the time, in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, the streets were almost deserted.

Richard kept the conversation light, his voice a calm background. He wasn't giving a guided tour, but sharing his own world.

"This is our street," he said. "In that yellow house lives the Thompson couple, he's a history professor at the university. A brilliant man, but terribly competitive when it comes to his garden." Richard smiled. "And that tree there, that red oak, is my favorite this time of year. The leaves turn a shade of deep red wine before falling."

Ilian didn't speak, but absorbed everything. The idea of neighbors with names, with professions, with gardening rivalries. It was a social ecosystem he didn't know. He looked at the houses imagining the normal lives unfolding inside. It was a world of a peace he could barely conceive.

The car turned a corner and the professor pointed to the entrance of a dirt path that disappeared into the forest. "And there," he said, "is where the trail that starts on our property ends. One day, when you feel stronger, your walk can take you here."

The connection between his safe little patio and the outside world was made. Ilian looked at the dark entrance of the trail with a mixture of dread and fascination. For now, it was a border he dared not cross.

Curiosity, however, was stronger than fear. He was enjoying the ride. Seeing the world from the safety of the car, with the calming presence of the professor beside him, was turning out to be a good experience. The breeze on his face, the smells, the colors, it was sensory overload, but a good overload.

"Shall we go a little further?" asked Richard. "I'll close the window, the wind can get too cold as the speed increases."

Ilian just nodded, and the glass went up, sealing them again in the silent bubble of the car as they left the tranquility of the neighborhood behind.

With the windows closed, the sounds of the outside world became muffled, distant. The car now moved along wider avenues, lined with red brick buildings and commercial establishments. Richard avoided the busy heart of the city, sticking to historic residential districts, without the chaos of downtown.

For Ilian, the experience transformed into a kaleidoscope of fragmented images and sounds, each echoing in his past in ways the professor could never guess.

A dog, being walked by its owner, made Ilian's heart jump. For an instant, the animal transformed into a dog ready to attack, the sound of furious barking filling his mind. He blinked hard, hand gripping the arm of the seat. The image disappeared. It was just a dog. Breathing deeply, he forced his muscles to relax.

An ambulance passed them. The sharp sound transported him to the night of his rescue, the chaos, the screams, the smell of gunpowder. He closed his eyes for a second, forehead furrowed in concentration, fighting to stay in the present, on the soft leather of the car seat, in Richard's safe presence.

But there was also beauty. The reflection of the afternoon sun hitting the windows of a modern building, creating a blinding glare that was beautiful, not threatening. A group of children leaving a school, their colorful backpacks swaying, their high-pitched voices full of a carefree energy that was contagious. He watched them with deep melancholy.

Richard remained mostly silent during this part of the trip, instinctively sensing that Ilian needed space to absorb everything. He only offered small anchors of information. "This is the most residential neighborhood. Lots of families and beautiful parks," he said, as they passed a green area.

The hour passed like a good dream. When Richard finally turned the car around and started the way back, Ilian felt completely exhausted. His mind, starved for stimuli after years of sensory deprivation, had devoured every image, every sound, every fragment of normal life.

As they entered the long access road to the property again, with the familiar trees welcoming them, the late afternoon light gilding the landscape, Ilian felt a relief at returning to the safety of that place. The world was vast and fascinating, but also exhausting. He still needed his refuge.

Richard parked the car in front of the guest house, but instead of immediately turning off the engine and getting out, he put it in neutral. The sun had set, and the interior of the car was bathed in a soft, crepuscular light, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and confidence.

Ilian was silent, gaze lost in the now dark landscape outside. His mind was a whirlwind of images, colors, and sounds. The red autumn leaves, the old brick of the houses. They were fragments of a world he thought he had lost forever. A strong and unknown emotion rose in his throat, a mixture of deep melancholy and a gratitude so overwhelming it was almost painful. For the first time, he felt the need to break the silence, to give voice to that feeling.

"Professor..." he began, his voice low and a little hoarse. Richard turned to him, expression attentive and patient. Ilian struggled to find the words, his emotional vocabulary atrophied by disuse. "Thank you very much." He looked at his own hands, unable to sustain the professor's gaze.

The simplicity and sincerity of those words touched Richard deeply. He smiled, a genuine and warm smile. "I'm immensely happy you liked it, Ilian. It was a pleasure."

He let the emotion of the moment settle before continuing, his tone becoming more practical. "I need to warn you about a few things, so you won't be caught by surprise tomorrow."

Ilian finally looked up, attention fully focused.

"Dr. Evans asked me to tell you that he will stop by quite early, around eight, for a routine check-up, before the day gets busy," Richard explained. "And, shortly after, a team will arrive to start setting up the physical therapy room in the back bedroom. There will be noise and people coming in and out for a good part of the day. I know it's not ideal."

The image of the invasion, the noise, the transformation of his refuge, brought a shadow of anxiety to Ilian's face.

Richard, noticing the change, continued quickly. "That's why I thought maybe you wouldn't want to stay in the middle of the confusion. What do you think about, after your lunch and a little rest, doing this again? We'll leave around three in the afternoon, explore another part of the city. A quiet drive, like today's."

The offer was a lifeline. An escape from the disturbance and, at the same time, a promise to repeat the wonderful experience he had just had. This time, Ilian's hesitation was almost non-existent. The prospect of seeing more of that new world, under the professor's protection, outweighed the fear.

"I would like that very much," he said, his voice firmer than he expected.

"Great!" said Richard, his face lighting up. "Then it's settled. The doctor in the morning, and a drive in the afternoon, just after lunch”, he finally turned off the car engine. "Now, you'd better go rest. You look exhausted."

The farewell was simple. As he got out of the car, Ilian felt his body heavy with fatigue, but his mind light. He walked back to the guest house, not only with the memory of the world he had seen, but with the concrete promise of seeing more of it the next day. And that promise was the closest thing to hope he had felt in his entire life.

Chapter 19: The New Notebook

The soft click of the guest house door closing plunged Ilian back into silence. But it was a different silence. It was no longer the oppressive void from before, nor the peaceful quiet of a solitary meal. It was a silence that hummed, vibrating with the echo of the images and sounds of the last hour. His mind, like a dry sponge for years, was soaked with the colors of autumn, with the sound of Richard's calm voice, with the glimpse of a completely new world.

He remained standing in the middle of the room, his body throbbing with deep exhaustion, but his mind racing at a dizzying speed. He felt an intense thirst, his throat dry not just from lack of water, but from the excess of new impressions. He walked slowly to the kitchen, his cane tapping a soft rhythm on the floor. He opened the refrigerator just to grab a bottle of cold water, ignoring the food. He drank in long gulps, the ice-cold water a welcome shock, a physical anchor for his floating mind.

As he drank, another need, stronger and more urgent than thirst or fatigue, began to emerge. It was the need to process. To translate the avalanche of sensory and emotional data into something he could understand. It was an overwhelming desire to write.

He looked at his work table. The project notebook was there, open, full of equations and diagrams. No. That didn't belong there. The sensations of the drive couldn't be mixed with Miller's demands. He needed a blank canvas.

He remembered the supply box Agent Harris had brought. In one of them, there were office supplies. He limped to a small cabinet, opened it, and found the box. Inside, among impersonal pencils and notepads, there were two hardbound, black notebooks, brand new. He picked one up.

The object in his hands was simple, but to him, it seemed like a treasure. He ran his fingers over the smooth cover. The pages were creamy white, immaculate. The smell of new paper filled his nostrils. It was the smell of a beginning, of a future not yet written.

With the new notebook and a pencil, he didn't go to the work table. He returned to the sofa, to the cocoon of soft light from the lamp. He sat down, opened to the first page, and hesitated. The blank page was intimidating. Then, he began to write.

The words flowed, not in English, the language of his present, nor in Russian, the language of a painful past, but in Polish, the language of his childhood, his most secret and intimate language. He didn't write complete sentences, didn't construct a narrative. They were fragments, impressions, a stream of consciousness.

The color of the oak leaf. Wine-red.

Richard's face smiling. The eyes.

Children leaving school. So many colorful backpacks.

The word FAMILY. It weighs. But it doesn't hurt.

The wind in the window. Cold. But good.

He filled one page, then another. It was a catharsis, an emptying of his overloaded mind onto the paper.

When the stream of words slowed, he stopped. He read what he had written. It was a chaos of feelings. The words seemed inadequate, unable to capture the visual image, the sensation of sunlight hitting the glass, the shape of the old houses.

He went back to the box and found what he was looking for: a small case with graphite pencils of different hardnesses. Another standard Agency item that, suddenly, seemed like a gift.

He returned to the sofa and turned to a new page in the notebook. He chose a pencil and felt the familiar hexagonal wood in his fingers. His right hand, scarred but steady, found its purpose. His left hand, stiff and incomplete, rested beside the notebook, serving as a weight. And he began to draw.

He was reasonably good at it. It was another skill born of solitude, of endless hours with nothing but a pencil and the back of a technical document.

He didn't try to draw a complete scene. It was a sketch, a study. He focused on the image that had marked him the most: the large red oak Richard liked. He didn't worry about photographic realism. With quick, shaded strokes, he tried to capture the essence of the tree: the way the branches twisted toward the sky, the rough texture of the bark, the overlapping leaves.

The outside world disappeared. The sound of his own breathing became distant. There was only the soft sound of graphite scratching the paper, the smell of the pencil wood, the image slowly emerging from the blank page. In that moment, he wasn't the Agency's asset, he wasn't Dr. Evans's patient, he wasn't the survivor of a terrible past. In that cocoon of light, with a notebook on his lap, he was just a creator, translating the world into his own language. And, for the first time in a long while, he felt almost whole.

                                                         

Chapter 20: The Healer's Tools

The first act of the day was a pilgrimage to the bathroom. He didn't rush. He allowed himself the luxury of a long shower, the hot water cascading down his body, loosening the knots of tension in his back and shoulders, a painful remnant of the previous day's physical therapy assessment. When dressing, he chose a clean long-sleeved shirt, his usual armor, and combed his damp hair, the small act of self-care becoming, perhaps, a new habit.

In the kitchen, he ignored the food. His body, conditioned by years of deprivation, didn't ask for nourishment in the morning. Hunger was a visitor that only arrived around noon. But the desire for coffee was primal. He prepared a mug of black coffee, without sugar, and sat at his work table. The bitter, strong aroma was the true catalyst of his day, the signal for his mind to start working. He drank slowly, the hot mug warming his hands, while he looked at the schematics, not with the pressure of the deadline, but with the calm curiosity of a craftsman planning his craft.

The doorbell rang promptly at eight.

The sound pulled him from his contemplation. He put down the mug and began the slow walk to the door. It was Dr. Evans. His presence was reassuring.

"Good morning, Ilian," he said, entering with his leather bag. "Did you sleep better last night?"

"A little better," Ilian replied.

They sat down, Ilian on the sofa, the doctor in the armchair. Dr. Evans didn't open the bag immediately. His gaze was gentle, but analytical. "Richard called me two days ago. He told me about the... incident. How do you feel? Has the bleeding stopped completely?"

"It stopped. It hasn't happened again."

"I'm glad. I reviewed your medical records from the military hospital this morning," the doctor continued, his voice calm. "I noticed you had some similar episodes during the first months of hospitalization. They were attributed to extreme stress. What Miller did to you was unacceptable and put your body under the same kind of duress. Don't be alarmed by the bleeding. It's a symptom. Just let me know if it happens again."

The doctor paused, his gaze softening. "And your appetite, Ilian? Has it improved? Do you still feel nauseous?"

The question was direct, but asked with care. "The nausea is mild," he admitted, his voice low.

"I understand," said Dr. Evans, nodding. "That could be from both the kidneys and the medication. That's exactly why I want to check your levels today, before the agitation starts."

Ilian watched as Dr. Evans took out the materials for a blood draw. There was no panic, nor fear of the needle. Instead, a wave of deep weariness washed over him. Once again, he was a body to be measured, a set of veins to be accessed. It was the routine of these last few months.

"Left arm, please," asked Dr. Evans.

Ilian extended his arm over the arm of the sofa. He rolled up his shirt sleeve, exposing his forearm. The skin was full of pale scars. Dr. Evans was already used to the marks. His gaze passed over them for a fraction of a second, but his face remained perfectly neutral. He wasn't seeing Ilian's history, he was just looking for a vein.

Ilian felt the cold grip of the rubber tourniquet, the icy dampness of the alcohol cotton. The prick of the needle was a distant sensation, a sharp but familiar pressure. He remained motionless, a passive body, while he watched his own blood, dark and alive, fill the small glass tubes.

"Done," said the doctor, removing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the spot. "Based on the results, maybe we can adjust some doses. Find something that leaves you a little less exhausted."

While putting away the blood tubes, he returned to the main subject. "Now, your recovery. I read the full physical therapy assessment report." He picked up a tablet. "Physical therapy will rebuild your muscle strength. But their work is with the muscles. I'm concerned about the structures."

He turned the tablet to Ilian, showing an MRI image of a knee. "This is your joint. Physical therapy will strengthen everything around it, but the pain you feel... its origin is old. The 'accident'..." — he used the Agency's word carefully — "...only aggravated a structural problem. That's why I'm going to schedule an appointment for you with one of the best knee specialists in the country. I want him to do a full evaluation."

Ilian's heart beat faster.

"Don't worry," said Dr. Evans. "But it's important that you know there are options. Interventions to reduce inflammation and relieve pain. And maybe, further down the line, a small arthroscopic surgery to 'clean up' the joint. The specialist will tell us."

Ilian's mind spun. The word "surgery" was a terror. But the phrase "relieve pain" was a hope.

The doctor changed the image on the tablet to an x-ray of a hand. "And there's your hand. Ben's report was clear. The loss of functionality is severe." He looked from the image to Ilian's hand. "That's why I'm also going to schedule an evaluation with a hand surgeon, Dr. Chen. I want her to see if corrective surgery is a possibility."

The idea was paralyzing. But the possibility of recovering dexterity... was a hope that almost hurt.

Dr. Evans, seeing the whirlwind of emotions on Ilian's face, put the tablet away. "It's a lot of information, I know. And none of it is for right now. These are just evaluations. Your month of rest is sacred. It's one step at a time, Ilian." He stood up. "Now, get ready. The installation team will be here shortly. Try to find a quiet place."

With a final wave, he left, leaving Ilian alone in the silence of the room. A silence that was no longer empty, but filled with a chorus of terrifying and wonderful possibilities. The door to a future with less pain had been opened.

Ilian remained sitting on the sofa for a long time after Dr. Evans left. The room was silent, but his mind was chaos. The doctor's words were seeds of hope and terror germinating in the fertile soil of his anxiety. The possibility of a life with less pain, of a hand that obeyed, was a light so bright it blinded him, but the path to it passed through more hospitals, more needles, more vulnerability.

He was torn from his thoughts by a sound coming from outside. A heavy, industrial sound. The engine of a van, followed by the sharp, annoying beep of the reverse alarm. Then, the sound of metal doors sliding, and voices. Male voices, loud and carefree, that didn't belong to that place.

The installation team had arrived.

The doorbell rang, not with the doctor's calm, but with a firm and authoritative pressure. Ilian stood up, body stiff, and opened the door. It was Mr. Harris, the logistics agent, and behind him, two younger, robust men dressed in work overalls.

"Mr. Jansen," Harris said bluntly. "We're going to start the installation. We'll try to be as quick and discreet as possible."

The word "discreet" seemed like a cruel joke. They entered, and with them, the peace of Ilian's morning evaporated. His guest house, his refuge, was invaded. The men moved with a noisy energy, their heavy boots marking the floor. They brought toolboxes that clinked and large sealed cardboard boxes, which were stacked in the living room.

"We're going to cover the furniture to avoid dust," Harris announced.

Ilian watched, helpless, as they unfolded large plastic tarps, covering the sofa where he had sat with the professor, the armchair, his own work table. His space was being erased, neutralized. He retreated to the bedroom, seeking a less chaotic place and the privacy he so desired.

The men began carrying the boxes to the back room. The sound of boxes being dragged, the tearing of adhesive tape, their voices echoing orders and comments. And then, the noise began.

The sharp, piercing sound of a drill boring into the wall.

The scream of metal was a physical assault. It vibrated through the floor, up Ilian's legs, into his bones. It was a sound of deconstruction, of violation. Ilian closed his eyes, trying to take refuge in the palaces of logic in his mind, but the drill was a monster demolishing the walls of his concentration. He tried to think, but the incessant noise shattered every coherent thought.

It was more than just an annoyance. It was a trigger. The sound reminded him of other things: the noise of tools in places where he had been forced to work, the sound of metal doors being forced open, the cacophony of chaos and violence.

The vibration ran through the walls, the floor, the frame of the bed where he sat. The drill stopped for an instant, only to be replaced by the rhythmic, brutal sound of a hammer. Each blow was a pound in his head. The calm he had felt upon waking, the frightening hope of the doctor's visit, it all unraveled, replaced by a growing anxiety and helpless irritation.

He was trapped. He couldn't leave, couldn't ask them to stop. He was a prisoner in his own room. Sitting on the bed, he put his hands over his ears, a useless gesture, his body vibrating with the sound of the invasion. The day, which had started with a promise, had turned into a new form of torture.

The sound was inescapable, a form of torture that shattered any possibility of peace or concentration. That room, his last refuge, had become a resonance chamber for chaos. He couldn't stand it.

On an impulse of pure desperation to escape, he stood up. His work table was covered by a tarp, his intellectual sanctuary violated. The living room was the epicenter of the invasion. There was only one way out.

He limped to the large glass door of his bedroom, the one that opened onto his private patio. With trembling hands, he unlocked the door and slid it open. The sharp sound of the drill was immediately muffled, replaced by a duller, more distant noise, now mixed with the sound of the wind in the trees and the song of a bird. The cold morning air hit his face, and he inhaled deeply, the clean oxygen a blessing for his tight lungs.

The noise of the drill was still a constant, irritating presence, and Ilian's instinct was to move further away. He needed more distance, more silence.

He stepped onto the damp grass. The sensation was immediately different and treacherous. The soft earth gave way under his weight, and the rubber tip of his cane, which was so secure on the stone, now sank a little with each step, requiring a conscious effort to free it from the soil.

The crossing through the garden wasn't a walk, it was a series of complex calculations. Each step was a painful negotiation between his will and the betrayal of his body. The routine was always the same, a broken, hesitant three-beat rhythm. The cane first, probing the ground, looking for a firm spot. Then, the left leg, the safe pillar, supporting all his weight. And then, the difficult drag of the right leg, foot scraping the grass, thigh and hip muscles complaining with a dull burning. His mind was now entirely focused on the primal task of not falling.

With no real destination in mind, only the desire to get away from the sound, he found himself moving slowly, step by step, toward the tree line that marked the edge of the property.

He was drawn to the entrance of the trail David, the physical therapist, had mentioned. He stopped at the edge of the woods, where the dirt path disappeared into the gloom of the trees. He looked at the darkness, at the tangle of trunks and roots. It was an unknown world, with no clear paths, full of shadows. David's order to walk there now seemed like an impossible task. He wasn't ready. Not for the unknown. He just stood there, stopped on the border between Helena's manicured garden and the wild forest, a man trapped between a refuge that was no longer safe and a freedom that terrified him.

"The noise is terrible, isn't it?"

The voice, soft and familiar, came from behind him. He turned, body suddenly tense, and found Elara a few steps away. She was looking at him with calm understanding.

"I saw you from the kitchen window," she explained. "I imagined you wouldn't be able to stay inside with all that confusion."

He just nodded, his throat too dry for words.

She looked at the trail entrance, then back at him. "Do you want to walk on the trail to get away from the noise?" The invitation was made, an offer of company to face the unknown.

Ilian looked at the dark path, then at her face. The desire to accept fought against the instinctive fear of what he couldn't see. The hesitation on his face was answer enough. He shook his head, an almost imperceptible movement.

Elara understood instantly. "That's okay," she said, her voice soft, removing all pressure. "You don't have to." She looked back at the guest house, from where the muffled sound of a hammer was beginning to echo. Then she offered a second option. A new refuge. "Come. Wait over at the house. My mother is making food, and the living room is quiet. You can stay there until they finish. No one will bother you."

The offer left him paralyzed. Enter the main house. Not for a formal, planned dinner, but spontaneously. Sit in their living room. Occupy their personal space. The idea was as intimidating as the trail in the forest. But the noise behind him was torture. And the invitation on Elara's face was genuine.

He looked at the trail, the path to the unknown. Then he looked at the main house, the island of light and warmth. After a long moment of silence, a moment where he weighed a lifetime of fears, the decision was made.

He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

A small smile appeared on Elara's lips. "Great. Come."

And Ilian, turning his back on the forest, took the first slow, hesitant step beside her, crossing the lawn, toward the kitchen door of the Anderson house.

The crossing through the lawn was a silent journey. Ilian concentrated on each step, on the way his cane sank into the soft earth, on the dull burning in his leg. He was aware of Elara's presence beside him, the calm rhythm of her breathing, the way she adjusted her stride to match his slowness. Her proximity was a source of nervous tension he didn't understand.

They reached the kitchen door. On the other side, the warm, lit interior looked like a picture of a life that wasn't his. The hope of a refuge from the noise was a few steps away.

Then, his gaze dropped and focused on the three concrete steps.

The memory of the previous night hit him: the sharp pain, the humiliation of needing help, the sensation of the professor's firm arm supporting him. His body, although not tortured by physical therapy that day, was still weak, still aching. He knew, with a cold, absolute certainty, that he couldn't climb up alone.

He looked at Elara. His throat closed up. The words he had said to her father— I... I think I need help to climb these — refused to form now. Asking the professor for help had been like reporting to a higher authority. Asking her for help... would be admitting a weakness that seemed unbearable. It would be breaking the fragile façade of control he fought so hard to maintain. The intimidation she caused him was a barrier higher than the steps themselves.

He couldn't ask. Silence stretched.

Instead of showing his defeat, he acted. He straightened his shoulders, a subtle shift in posture. His face, which had been tense with the concentration of walking, became a mask of cold indifference. He took a step back, moving away from the door, as if he had changed his mind of his own accord, and not out of incapacity. "I think I'll go back," he said, his voice surprisingly neutral, devoid of any emotion.

Elara, who was near the door, stopped. She watched him, her expression changing from expectant welcome to insightful analysis. She saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he avoided her gaze, the lie behind his indifference. She followed his gaze for a split second to the steps and understood everything.

"You know what?" she said, her voice casual to break the heavy moment. "It's too nice a day to stay inside listening to that noise." She smiled, a small, practical smile. "Come. I know a better place."

She turned, starting to walk, and, as a natural gesture of guidance, touched his elbow lightly to indicate the direction.

The touch, however light, was like an electric shock. Ilian's instinct screamed. Without thinking, he moved his arm breaking the contact and took a quick step back, a sudden, instinctive movement that made him almost trip on the grass. The action opened a large physical distance between them—no longer an invisible border, but a clear and undeniable chasm.

Elara stopped, her hand still suspended in the air for an instant, surprise on her face. She felt not just a withdrawal, but a physical rejection. Her hand fell to her side, and she looked away for a second, composing herself.

She started walking again, now with that awkward physical distance between them, and guided him away from the door, away from that moment of failure, toward another part of the garden.

The walk, though short, had taken its toll. Each step on the uneven grass had been a battle, and when Elara finally stopped, Ilian felt his right leg trembling. His breathing was short and shallow, and beads of sweat, born of effort and contained pain, began to form on his forehead, trickling slowly down his temples.

They had reached a secluded corner of the garden, under the shade of a large tree whose leaves were beginning to turn shades of golden yellow. There, on a circular patio of stone slabs, was a set of six garden chairs, wide and comfortable, with thick cushions, clearly a place made for rest.

"Here," Elara said, her voice soft. "This is where my mother sits with her friends from church. It's the quietest place in the garden."

Ilian didn't need any more invitations. He moved toward the nearest chair and settled slowly onto it. The comfort of the cushion enveloping his aching body was such a deep relief that he let out an audible sigh. He leaned the cane against the side of the chair and tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

Elara watched him for a moment, her expression a mixture of concern and that strange hesitation that now existed between them. She sat on the edge of another chair, a silence settling between them, broken only by the sound of the wind in the leaves and the distant, muffled noise of the work at the guest house.

"I really need to go, I have a seminar at the university I can't miss." The excuse was real, but the moment felt rushed. "But please, stay here as long as you want. No one will bother you, and the construction noise can barely be heard from here."

Ilian opened his eyes. The effort of the walk had left him almost breathless, but he felt the need to respond to her kindness. "Thank you, Elara," he said, his voice a little hoarse, but clear.

A small smile of acknowledgment touched her lips. "You're welcome. Rest."

He watched her stand up and walk away with her quick steps, disappearing as she rounded the main house.

Alone. He was alone again. He took a deep breath, the fresh air calming his nerves. And then he began to process that morning: the invasion, the escape, the failure on the steps. His frustration with his own broken body was immense, but underneath it, there was a current of gratitude for her kindness.

After some time, he heard the soft sound of footsteps on the grass. His body stiffened by instinct, but relaxed when he saw who it was. Helena was approaching, walking slowly so as not to startle him. She was carrying a small wooden tray.

"Ah, here you are," she said with a warm smile. "Elara told me she found you. This is my favorite little corner for thinking."

She placed the tray on the small table between the chairs. There was a glass pitcher with iced tea and lemon slices floating in it, two tall glasses, and a small plate with homemade cookies. Without asking, she filled a glass and placed it next to him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Anderson."

"Please, call me Helena," she said, sitting in the chair Elara had left vacant. Her presence was completely different from her daughter's. If Elara was a pragmatic observer, Helena was a source of pure and unconditional warmth. Her conversation didn't ask for anything, only offered.

"This tree," she said, looking up above them, "was planted by Richard's father when he was a child. Its leaves in autumn are my favorite spectacle."

She talked about the flowers, pointed to a bluebird that landed on a nearby branch, asked if he was comfortable, if the breeze wasn't too cold. Her voice was a soft, continuous murmur, a lullaby that required no answer.

Ilian drank the iced tea, the sweet and citrus flavor waking up his palate. He ate a cookie. The noise of the work at his house was now distant, the sound of a world that didn't belong to him. His world, in that moment, was that circle of comfortable chairs, the shade of a tree, and the gentle presence of the woman offering him tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And he felt not only safe, but genuinely at peace.

Helena's presence was a gentle warmth. They remained sitting in silence for a while longer, drinking iced tea, while Ilian ate another cookie, slowly. For him, that moment of peace was such a rare gift that he tried to absorb every detail: the way the sun created patterns on the stone floor, the sound of the wind whispering in the leaves of the big tree, the serene expression on the face of the lady sitting across from him.

Finally, Helena looked at the sun, its position in the sky indicating the lateness of the hour. "Richard should be arriving for lunch soon, and I know he wants to take you for a drive later. I need to go."

She stood up, the movement graceful. "Are you okay here alone for a bit longer, dear? Are you sure you don't want me to bring you something for lunch?"

Ilian, feeling a spark of independence born of that morning, managed to answer. "I'm sure, Mrs. Anderson. Thank you very much."

She smiled, satisfied with his answer. "As you wish. But please, stay here as long as you need." With a final affectionate look, she picked up the tray and walked away, leaving him alone.

Ilian remained in the garden, savoring the stillness. Suddenly, the distant and irritating noise of the work stopped. The silence that followed was so abrupt and complete it seemed to ring in his ears. The workers' lunch hour. A truce.

He realized that this was his opportunity. With the silence in his favor, he could return to his own space. The process of getting up from the comfortable chair was slow, muscles protesting. Leaning on the cane, he began the slow crossing back.

Crossing the lawn, he saw the installation team's van. The men were sitting in the back, doors open, eating sandwiches from large paper bags, laughing at some joke. They looked at Ilian for an instant, a disinterested curiosity, before returning to their conversation. To them, he was just part of the landscape of that property. To Ilian, it was a glimpse of a world of camaraderie and physical labor that was completely alien to him.

He entered the guest house. Silence had returned, but the space was no longer his refuge. Plastic tarps covered the sofa and his work table. A fine layer of white dust covered the surfaces. The path to the kitchen was obstructed by toolboxes and pieces of packaging. The house wasn't his.

Hunger, however, was real, a hollow ache in his stomach. Navigating the chaos, he reached the refrigerator and took the container with Helena's dinner leftovers. The smell of the cold food was delicious. He placed it in the microwave, heart beating with the simple anticipation of a peaceful meal.

The appliance beeped. He took out the hot plate. He heard the sound of the van outside. Doors opening. Loud voices. The workers were coming back.

One of them entered the guest house, face sweaty, without even looking at Ilian. "Forgot the tape measure," he grumbled to himself, crossing the kitchen and opening a toolbox with a metallic clatter. Ilian's personal space was violated unceremoniously. The man found what he was looking for and left, leaving the door open.

And then, the sound of the drill started again, louder and closer this time, coming directly from the back room. The noise was an assault. The dust seemed to stir in the air. The opportunity to eat in peace was shattered. He looked at the plate, but his stomach closed up.

Frustrated, he covered the plate and put it back in the refrigerator. Hunger would have to wait. He retreated to his bedroom, the only place with a door that could be closed. But the noise pursued him, vibrating through the walls.

He looked at the clock. It was time to take the afternoon dose of meds. The protocol was clear: take with food. But there was no food, only chaos and noise. With a sigh of resignation, knowing he would feel sick, he took the pills and swallowed them with a glass of water. The choice was between pain and the certainty of nausea. He chose nausea.

Trapped in his room, the incessant noise of the work hammering his nerves, his empty stomach protesting against the meds, creating an acidic and uncomfortable sensation. Time dragged. Every minute was a small eternity of noise and malaise. The two o'clock drive was no longer just a pleasant invitation, it was a salvation, a desperately needed escape.

A little before the appointed time, unable to stand another minute in that environment, he stood up. He felt a wave of dizziness, the effect of the medication without the counterbalance of food. He leaned against the wall for an instant, waiting for the world to stop spinning. With a determination born of desperation, he grabbed his cane, and left the room.

Crossing the living room was like navigating a battlefield. Tarps, dust, and the deafening sound of the drill. He opened the front door and stepped out, closing it behind him. The fresh air, even if cold, was an immediate relief to his lungs.

He made a decision; instead of waiting for Richard to come pick him up, he would go meet him. It was a small act of independence, a way to accelerate his escape.

The walk toward the main house was slow, his body weakened by hunger and nausea. He was halfway there, in the middle of the gravel driveway leading to the garage, head down, focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, when he heard his name.

"Ilian!"

He raised his head. Professor Anderson's figure was coming out of the kitchen door and walking toward him with a wide and genuine smile, a mixture of surprise and pride.

They met halfway.

"I was just on my way to call you," said Richard, his warm voice contrasting with the construction noise.

Ilian felt a small and rare warmth of satisfaction. Even feeling weak and nauseous, he had taken a step toward the world, and the world, in the person of the professor, had taken a step toward him. The noise of the construction behind him suddenly seemed a little more distant.

Chapter 21: A Refuge in the Car

Richard guided him to the passenger side of the SUV and opened the door. The interior of the car was a familiar refuge. Ilian got in, the movement still clumsy, but less painful than he remembered. The closing of the door was a sound that cut through the construction noise like a knife, enveloping them in a sudden and almost absolute silence. Ilian leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for an instant, his whole body tired from the morning's tension.

The car glided smoothly through the quiet neighborhood streets, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the autumn trees. Richard drove calmly, keeping up a light conversation. But he was an observer. He noticed the pallor on Ilian's face. He noticed the way he swallowed hard from time to time, as if fighting a wave of queasiness. His right hand, resting on his lap, was clenched with a force that turned his knuckles white.

"Are you okay, Ilian?" Richard asked, his voice breaking the silence, concern evident in his tone. "You look pale."

Ilian opened his eyes. He wanted to say yes, that he was fine. It was his reflex, his armor. But the nausea rising from his stomach was an undeniable reality, a direct consequence of his decision to take the meds without food. In an act of vulnerability that surprised him, he admitted his weakness.

"I couldn't eat lunch," he said, his voice low, gaze fixed on the road ahead. "The noise... the confusion... I took the meds on an empty stomach."

The professor's expression changed instantly. The relaxed contentment gave way to a focused and immediate concern. "Dr. Evans was very clear about that. You need to have something in your stomach, especially with that medication."

He didn't panic. He acted with paternal practicality. At the next intersection, he turned the car, leaving the original route that would have taken them further away. "We're going to fix this," he said, his voice now firm but reassuring. "I know a small café nearby that makes natural sandwiches and very light salads. Exactly what Dr. Evans would recommend. You wait here in the car, I won't be long."

A few minutes later, Richard parked in front of a cozy-looking establishment with a few tables on the sidewalk. He got out, leaving Ilian alone in the silence of the car.

Ilian watched the professor enter the café. He saw the care, the immediate action. No one had ever done something like that for him. Interrupting a plan, changing a route, just to take care of a need of his. It was a strange concept. He looked at the few people passing on the sidewalk, living their normal lives. He still felt like a spectator looking through glass, but the glass didn't feel like that of a cell, but rather of a protective greenhouse.

Richard returned with a small brown paper bag. As he entered the car, a soft smell of fresh bread and vegetables filled the space. He handed Ilian a simple sandwich wrapped in paper and a bottle of water. "It's chicken breast with lettuce," he said. "I asked specifically for no salt at all and no sauces. The simplest thing they had. I don't think this will upset your stomach."

The scene that followed was one of strange intimacy. The two men, sitting in the silence of the parked car. The only sounds were the paper being unwrapped and the quiet chewing. There was no pressure of a restaurant table, of cutlery, of other customers. It was just a moment of shared care, without artifice.

Ilian ate slowly. The first bite was hesitant. The whole wheat bread was soft. The simple, fresh food went down like a balm through his esophagus and landed gently in his stomach. The nausea, which was a constant wave, began to recede, like a tide going out. He took another bite, and then another. He ate the whole sandwich, and the small victory was immense. The knot of anxiety and queasiness in his stomach finally undid itself, replaced by the comforting sensation of having something nourishing him. The bitter taste of the meds was finally erased.

A comfortable silence settled in the car. Ilian felt physically better. The food had calmed the nausea, and the quiet of the car, far from the construction noise, was a balm for his overloaded mind. He felt relaxed. A sensation so rare it was almost strange.

Richard started the engine, but didn't move immediately. "Feeling better?"

Ilian managed to look at him and nod, his voice a little stronger than before. "Yes. Thank you, Professor."

"Good," Richard said with a smile. "Since we're out here, and we still have time, there's a park about ten minutes away that I'd like you to see. It's one of my favorite places in the city."

He didn't resume the original plan of a grand tour, but extended the moment of tranquility. They drove for a few more minutes, the urban landscape giving way to tall trees and green spaces. Richard parked the car in a secluded spot, facing a stunning view.

Before them, a small lake reflected the blue sky and the fiery colors of the autumn trees on its bank. Some ducks swam lazily, their ripples breaking the perfect mirror of the water. The place was of absolute peace, almost sacred. The sound of traffic was a distant murmur, replaced by the rustling of dry leaves on the ground and the occasional quack of a duck. They remained silent for a long time, just watching the view, with the car windows down.

It was Richard who spoke first, his voice low, nostalgic. "I like this place. Helena and I have come here many times." He sighed, a smile forming on his lips as he looked at the lake shore. "Elara, when she was a child, loved to run on this lawn. She didn't care about the view. She just wanted to run after the ducks." He laughed softly. "She ran through this grass until she was breathless, giggling. She had an energy that seemed endless."

He was sharing a memory, a small window into his past, into his family life. It was a gesture of trust, an invitation for Ilian to see beyond the "professor" and the "host."

Ilian listened, his mind painting the scene: a small girl, running freely, laughing, in a sun-drenched park. An image of a normal, happy childhood. The melancholy for what he never had was there, a familiar shadow in his chest, but it wasn't the dominant emotion. It was overtaken by a genuine curiosity. He felt safe, relaxed. The sandwich in his stomach was a comforting warmth. And, on an impulse that surprised him, he participated.

After a long silence, he asked, his voice quiet, almost a murmur, without taking his eyes off the lake.

"Is she still like that? So... full of energy?"

The question, so simple and so personal, caught Richard by surprise. He looked at Ilian, and his smile widened, full of a new kind of warmth. It was the first question Ilian had asked him that wasn't about work or an immediate need. It was a question about his family. It was a bridge.

"That's a good question," Richard said, thoughtful, with a soft laugh. "Ah, not so much. I think university and biology books took a bit of that running out of her. Now she's more... focused. More analytical. In that, she takes after me. But the kindness in her heart, the smile... that's all Helena."

He said the last part with an affection so evident that Ilian felt again that small crack in the wall of ice around his heart. He didn't answer, but a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he went back to watching the ducks on the lake. He didn't feel like a piece on a board, or an asset being managed. In that car, in that park, he was just a man, sitting next to another, looking at a lake. And that was more freedom than he had ever known.

Richard's story was an offering, a sharing. And Ilian felt the impulse to offer something in return, however small and broken. The internal battle wasn't long, but it was seismic.

The instinct of a lifetime, the number one rule of survival learned from Kessler, from Orlov, from every guard, screamed: Silence. Information is weakness. Don't reveal anything. Don't give them ammunition. He thought of Dr. Hayes, of his calm and analytical questions at the military hospital, a professional siege he had endured with a wall of absolute silence.

But the kindness of that man sitting next to him... was a different force. Richard wasn't interrogating. He wasn't digging. He was just... there. Sitting next to him, sharing a memory of his daughter. And that total absence of pressure, that unconditional safety, became, paradoxically, the only thing capable of opening a fissure in the wall.

He moistened his lips, throat suddenly dry. Speaking. Voluntarily. It felt like a leap into the abyss. His voice, when it came out, was a murmur, almost inaudible, the sound strange in his own ears, directed more at the ducks than the professor.

"In the orphanage... where I grew up," he began, the words coming out with immense difficulty. "There were ducks there too."

He said nothing more. But in those few words, there was a universe of loneliness. He hadn't spoken of a girl laughing and running, but of a lonely boy watching.

Richard was silent for a long moment. He didn't ask questions. He didn't say "Tell me more" or "I'm sorry." He understood the weight of that small confession, the first piece of Ilian's past he offered voluntarily. He understood that this was a gift of immense trust.

The professor just nodded slowly, his gaze softening. He turned to the front, also looking at the lake.

"They are good company, aren't they?" he said, his voice soft. "The ducks. They ask for nothing."

And in that moment, Ilian felt the small crack in the wall of ice around his heart widen a little more. He didn't answer, but a tiny, almost imperceptible nod was enough.

The car remained silent, a sanctuary of stillness parked in front of the serene landscape of the lake. Professor Anderson's response —"They are good company, aren't they? The ducks"— hung in the air, a simple statement that contained a universe of understanding. It wasn't a question that demanded an answer, but an acknowledgment, a verbal handshake over a memory shared across time and distance.

Ilian continued watching the small ripples the ducks created in the water. Richard's story about Elara had opened a door, and his own brief confession about the orphanage hadn't closed it. He felt strangely calm, safe. The fear of having shared too much was replaced by an unknown impulse to continue, to explain, to give a little more.

"I watched them through the window," he said, his voice still a murmur, but steadier than before. Richard remained silent, his attention fully focused on him, giving him space to continue. "From the orphanage library. It was one of the few places of silence."

The memory came with sensory clarity. The smell of old paper and dust. The sensation of the cold window glass against his forehead. The world outside, gray and damp. And a canal. A slash of dark water where the ducks were the only living thing, the only thing moving with purpose.

"I liked the sound they made," Ilian continued, his mind traveling far away. "The quacking. And how the sound traveled over the water, especially on foggy days. It was different. The echo..." He stopped, searching for the words, not in English, but in his own mind, trying to translate a concept that had been born in silence. "It was there. Watching the ripples in the water when they dived, listening to the echoes... that was where I started thinking about... waves. Sound waves. Waves in the water. How they move, how they reflect, how the environment alters them. It started there."

It was the most intimate confession he had ever made. The origin of his science wasn't in a German laboratory, but in a library window, born of the solitude of watching ducks.

Richard just stared, his face a mixture of fascination and a deep, moving sadness. He was witnessing the genesis of a brilliant idea, a mind that had flourished not because of encouragement, but despite neglect.

"That is fascinating, Ilian," the professor said, his voice full of genuine admiration. "So, your passion for wave physics... started with ducks?" The way he said it validated Ilian's experience, treating it not as a sad story, but as a remarkable scientific fact.

Ilian just nodded, feeling he had already spoken too much. He turned his attention back to the lake.

Another long, comfortable silence settled between them. Richard processed the information, and his compassion for that young man deepened even further. After a few minutes, he asked a simple question, born of genuine curiosity.

"Do you miss Poland?"

The question, though gentle, changed the atmosphere in the car. The warmth of intellectual sharing gave way to the cold of reality. Ilian continued looking at the water, but his expression hardened, the mask of neutrality slowly returning to his face. Poland. The orphanage. His first prison. A place of cold, of indifference, of loneliness. It wasn't his home, it was just the place where his story had begun.

A long moment passed. Richard already thought he wasn't going to answer, that the question had been a mistake, a step too far. Then, Ilian turned slowly and looked at him. His eyes were void of any nostalgia.

"No," he said.

The word was succinct, devoid of emotion, but final. It was a door being closed.

Richard understood immediately. He didn't insist. He didn't ask why. He accepted the answer and the boundary Ilian had just drawn. He just nodded, a gesture of respect for the pain he couldn't even imagine.

A heavy silence settled. Ilian shrank into his seat, certain he had ruined the moment, that he had been rude, that his inner darkness had inevitably stained the peace of that afternoon. He expected the professor to start the car and take him back home, the experience ending in social failure.

But Richard didn't start the car. He kept looking at the lake, his eyes following the trail of a duck that had just entered the water, ripples spreading in perfect circles. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low and contemplative, not directed at Ilian, but at the scenery before him.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" he said softly. Ilian looked at him, confused. "How everything... the sound of that duck's quack, the waves it creates in the water, the light of a distant star that traveled for years to reach us... everything is governed by the same laws of wave propagation. The same mathematics."

Ilian's heart stopped for an instant. The professor wasn't pressuring him. He wasn't judging him. He was returning to the small, fragile offering Ilian had made him minutes before—the story of the canal and the sound waves—and treating it with respect, with intellectual curiosity. He was building a bridge back, not to his painful past, but to his safe haven: science.

The relief was so deep Ilian felt the muscles in his shoulders relax. He looked at the ripples in the water, seeing them not just as a beautiful pattern, but as an equation in motion. He answered a scientific question that hadn't been imposed on him.

"The attenuation..." he murmured, his voice still hesitant. "...is different. In water and in air. The density of the medium."

A genuine, bright smile lit up Richard's face. He had found the way. "Exactly! The impedance of the medium. Propagation at low frequencies..."

And suddenly, they started a conversation. Not about feelings, not about the past, not about the project. But about physics. Purely and simply. Richard asked questions, not like a boss, but like a curious colleague. Ilian answered, not with monosyllables, but with short, precise sentences, his mind lighting up with a glow that his physical condition tried to extinguish.

They talked for another twenty, maybe thirty minutes. For Ilian, it was the longest and most "normal" conversation he had had in his entire adult life. He didn't feel like a patient or an asset. He felt like a scientist.

Finally, when the daylight began to fade, Richard looked at Ilian. There was a new shine in the young man's eyes, a shine of intellect and engagement.

A genuine, bright smile lit up Richard's face. He had found the way. "Exactly! The attenuation..." he repeated, clearly impressed. He leaned back in the seat, looking at Ilian no longer just with compassion, but with evident professional admiration.

"Ilian, the way you connect these concepts is remarkable," the professor said, his voice full of an enthusiasm Ilian had never heard directed at him before. "I know PhDs in physics, men who have spent their whole lives in labs, who don't have the intuition you demonstrate so naturally. You have a genuine gift for this, a way of seeing the patterns behind the chaos that few people possess."

The compliment, so direct and sincere, hit Ilian like a wave of heat. He was used to having his mind exploited, having his ideas extracted like valuable ore. But being praised... was completely new territory. He lowered his gaze, feeling his face heat up, but not with shame. It was a different sensation, a warmth spreading through his chest.

Richard continued, his voice full of contagious conviction. "It will be more than a pleasure, it will be an honor to have you on my team. It is incredibly rare to find someone so young with this level of depth in a field that is, let's be honest, dominated by men more than twice your age."

Ilian didn't know what to say. A simple "thank you" seemed too small. He just remained silent, his heart beating a little faster, but this time, with an emotion he barely dared to name. Happiness.

The professor, realizing Ilian was overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, softened his expression and looked at the sky, which was beginning to darken. He offered Ilian a way out.

"It's getting late," the professor said, now with a tone of finality. "Let's go home."

He started the car. As they drove away from the quiet park, the conversation had ended. But the bridge between them was now cemented in steel. Ilian had shared a fragment of himself, and Richard had not only received it with grace, but had also validated it in a way no one ever had. And for Ilian, that was the deepest lesson of all.

The trip back home was made in a different silence. It wasn't a tense silence, nor a silence of exhaustion, but a shared stillness, full of the weight of the words that had been exchanged. The car glided through streets now darkening rapidly, house lights and streetlamps turning on like artificial stars. Ilian looked out the window, but his mind wasn't absorbing the images. It was replaying the conversation, the professor's praise, his own rare confession.

When they entered the Anderson property, night had fallen completely. Richard stopped the car in front of the guest house, now lit only by the soft porch light.

"We're here," he said, his calm voice breaking the silence. "Rest well tonight, Ilian. It was a long day."

"Thank you. For everything," he replied, genuine gratitude in his voice. "May I go?"

"Of course, good night," the professor replied.

He got out of the car and began his slow walk to the door. He heard the professor's car drive away and, upon reaching the door, noticed something. The workers' van had disappeared. The noise, the dust, the chaos of the morning... there was no trace left.

He opened the door and entered. And stopped, stunned.

The house was impeccably clean. The smell of plaster and dust had been replaced by a neutral scent of cleaning product. The plastic tarps were gone. The sofa, the armchair, his work table, everything was back in its place, as if the morning's invasion had never happened. The Agency was truly efficient. Their efficiency was a double-edged sword: on one hand, it was a comfort; on the other, it was a chilling reminder of their invisible presence, of their ability to enter, alter, and erase traces of his world without him seeing.

But tonight, relief outweighed fear. He was grateful for the silence, for the order. He followed his nightly routine. He took another hot shower, the water helping to relieve the pain in muscles tired from the walk and tension. He ate Helena's food, heated in the microwave, sitting alone at the small kitchen table, savoring every bite in the quiet of the house. Then, he took his meds, the daily ritual marking the passage of time.

With his body clean and nourished, he didn't feel ready to sleep. His mind was still buzzing with the day's experiences. He went to the work table, where stacked with other notebooks was his new treasure: the black notebook.

He didn't sit at the work table. He returned to the lamp's pool of light by the sofa. He sat down, opened to a new page, and began to write. In Polish. He wrote about the sensation of the wind on his face, about the peace of the lake at dusk. He wrote about the professor's story, about Elara running after the ducks, and about the warmth he felt upon being praised. He deliberately omitted any mention of the noise, the nausea, the chaos of the morning. That notebook wasn't for recording his suffering. It was for keeping his victories, however small.

When the words ran out, he picked up one of his graphite pencils. On the next page, he didn't try to draw the vastness of the park. Instead, he drew a single detail: a duck, its head tilted, the ripple its body created on the surface of the water. A simple sketch, focused on the memory of the peace of that moment.

He looked at the page, at the drawing, and at the words in his secret language. And then, a cold, clear thought hit him. Agent Harris. The weekly cleaning. The possibility of that anonymous man picking up the notebook, flipping through it, seeing something so intimate, so personal. The idea was a profanation.

That notebook contained the only part of him the Agency didn't control. His perception. His art. His soul. And he needed to protect it.

He stood up, the notebook clutched to his chest. He looked around the room. Under the bed? Too obvious. In a drawer? Too easy to find. His gaze landed on the sofa. It was a large, heavy sofa, with thick cushions on the seat and back.

With his right hand, he pushed hard on one of the large back cushions, creating a dark gap between the cushion and the sofa's back frame. The space was deep, tight, full of shadows. It wasn't the ideal hiding place; someone cleaning the sofa thoroughly might find it. But it was what he had, and it would have to do.

With reverent care, he slid the notebook into the opening, letting it fall into the darkness inside. Then, with effort, he pushed the heavy cushion back into place, adjusting it until the sofa looked perfectly normal, untouched.


He looked at the sofa, now a silent safe. For the first time since he arrived, he had a secret. A small sanctuary within his refuge. And with that sense of control, however tiny, he went to the bedroom and, feeling genuinely good, lay down and fell asleep almost instantly.