Project Rodzina

Here are 6 more chapters of Project Rodzina. I hope you enjoy seeing the deepening friendship between Ilian and Richard.

The Oyster is opening.

Thank you for the feedback.

Chapter 28: The Oyster and the Pearl

The night deepened, dense and silent. Richard remained at his vigil in the armchair, the book closed on his lap. The only sound in the room was Ilian’s ragged, uneven breathing as he turned occasionally on the sofa, caught in a restless sleep. Richard got up every hour to check his temperature, placing the back of his hand against the hot forehead.

It was almost midnight when he heard an almost imperceptible sound at the front door: a very light, hesitant knock. He stood up, his body stiff from sitting so long, and went to the door.

It was Elara, her face marked by worry.

"Dad?" she whispered. "I just got in. Is everything okay? Are you staying here all night?"

Richard put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, and gestured with his head toward Ilian, asleep on the sofa. He guided her, wordlessly, to the small kitchen, where the darkness was broken only by a faint light. To avoid making noise, they simply sat at the table, their figures merely silhouettes in the gloom.

"It was a very hard day for him," Richard whispered, his voice a grave, weary rumble. "Physical therapy in the morning and the injection afterward. He has a fever. It's an expected reaction, but... it's hard to watch."

Elara fell silent for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the living room, to Ilian’s motionless form on the sofa. Her usual pragmatic composure gave way to an expression of pure compassion. "I can't even imagine," she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. "Going through all that. I hope he gets better."

After another pause, it was Elara’s gaze that began to roam the dark kitchen, recognizing the familiar contours of the cabinets, the table where she and Ilian had eaten lunch. A soft sigh escaped her lips.

"It was a very generous thing you did, honey. Giving up your space, him being here with us in a house is certainly better than in some hospital or hotel," Richard commented, his voice full of silent pride.

Elara’s gaze turned back to the dark room, to Ilian’s curled-up form on the sofa. "It's strange..." she said, her voice thoughtful. "Even sick like this, he looks different when he sleeps. Younger. Less haunted."

Richard nodded in the shadows. He understood perfectly.

"But the moment he opens his eyes, the shell closes," Elara continued, the frustration evident in her whisper. "He’s like an oyster, Dad. Completely closed up. I feel like he doesn't want me here. That my presence bothers him. He shrinks away from every gesture." She paused. "That lunch... I only managed it because I was insistent."

Richard heard the hurt in his daughter's voice, her frustration at not being able to connect. He reached his hand across the dark table and found hers.

"Maybe, honey," he said, his voice a deep, wise whisper. "But you have to have patience with oysters." He looked in the direction of Ilian, asleep on the sofa. "They close up tight because the world outside is dangerous. It's the only defense they know."

He squeezed her hand gently. "But, with time, in the right environment, with the right kindness... they can open up. And sometimes, what they keep inside, what they protected so fiercely, is a pearl."

The metaphor hung in the air between them in the dark kitchen. Elara looked at Ilian with a new perspective, not just as a closed-off man, but as someone protecting something precious.

"Yes," Richard whispered, answering her silent question. "I'm staying on the sofa tonight."

Elara nodded. Calmer, she stood up, kissed her father on the cheek, and left as silently as she had entered, leaving behind the soft scent of her perfume.

Richard stayed alone in the dark kitchen for a while longer, thinking about his own metaphor. He only hoped they had enough time to see the pearl, before the dangerous world outside tried to crack the oyster again.

Chapter 29: The Morning After

The first thing Richard felt was a sharp pain in his neck. He woke up a little disoriented, his body stiff from having fallen asleep in an impossible position in the armchair. The gray morning light flooded the room, cold and merciless. For an instant, he didn't remember where he was.

His gaze landed on the sofa. The blanket was disheveled, but the sofa was empty.

A silent alarm went off in Richard’s mind. He sat up, ignoring the pain in his back, his eyes scanning the house. It was then that he heard a sound coming from the hallway: the soft click of the bathroom door, followed by the slow, dragging rhythm of Ilian’s cane.

Richard relaxed, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.

Ilian appeared in the hallway. He was already dressed in his loose trousers and long-sleeved shirt. His face was terribly pale but looked freshly washed, and his damp hair was combed back off his forehead. He moved with extreme slowness, his body clearly in agony, but he was upright.

His eyes met Richard’s, and he stopped, surprised to find him already awake.

"Good morning," Richard said, his voice a little hoarse with sleep. "How are you feeling?"

Ilian didn't answer the question. His gaze passed over the professor’s face, noting the lines of exhaustion. The guilt, which had already settled in when he saw him sleeping, weighed on him like a stone.

"Sir..." Ilian began, his own voice weak and raspy, "...you shouldn't have stayed."

"Don't worry about that," Richard said, standing up and stretching his sore back. "I'm here to help."

Just as Ilian sat on the sofa, the doorbell rang. Richard went to answer it.

"Good morning, Richard," the doctor said, entering the house. His professional gaze went from Richard to Ilian, who was curled up on the sofa, and back to Richard. He noted the professor’s pallor and fatigue, his rumpled clothes from the day before, the blanket fallen over the armchair. He connected the dots instantly.

"Richard..." he began, his voice low and slightly admonishing. "You don't look much better than he does. Did you spend the night here?"

"He had a rough night," was the only explanation Richard gave, a summary that contained a universe of concern.

Dr. Evans sighed, a look of shared respect and weariness passing between the two men. He set down his bag. "Right. Let's see our patient first."

He examined Ilian, who was now sitting up, his body racked with chills he couldn't hide. The doctor listened to his description of symptoms, the muscle pain, the low fever, the nausea, and nodded with professional calm.

"Low fever, body aches, nausea..." the doctor said, after hearing the symptoms. "It's all within expectations, Ilian. Unfortunately, today will be unpleasant. Just rest and drink plenty of fluids."

Richard, watching everything, felt a little relieved. "I'm going to take a quick shower and I'll be right back to keep you company," he told Ilian.

As soon as Richard left, leaving Ilian alone with the doctor, he gathered his courage. It was his chance.

"Doctor..." he called out, his voice a whisper. "Wait. I... need a favor."

The doctor turned, his expression attentive.

"The professor..." Ilian continued, the difficulty of asking for something for someone else a new and strange sensation. "He spent the night here. In that armchair. He is exhausted because of me." He looked at the doctor, his eyes pleading. "He won't rest."

"He cares a great deal about you, Ilian," the doctor said understandingly.

"I know," Ilian replied, his voice gaining a desperate urgency. "And that's why he needs to go. Please. Tell him I need to be alone. I need absolute silence. Tell him it's doctor's orders. He'll only listen to you."

The doctor looked at Ilian, at the sincerity and genuine concern on his pale face. He saw not just a patient, but a young man trying, for the first time, to protect his protector. He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.

"Understood, Ilian. Leave it to me," he said, leaving the guest house, leaving Ilian alone in the hope that his secret plan, his first conspiracy of care, would work.

He crossed the lawn, his mind processing Ilian’s request. It wasn't common for a patient to refuse company, let alone engineer a plan to ensure someone else’s rest. It showed a strength and empathy the agency’s cold reports never mentioned.

He entered the kitchen of the main house, where the smell of fresh coffee hung in the air. He found Helena near the stove, her face a mask of anxiety.

"Robert! Thank God. How is he?" she asked, her voice a worried whisper.

"He's stable, Helena. Exactly as we expected," he said, his voice calm. "The reaction to the medication is strong, but normal. Today will be difficult for him, he'll need a lot of rest."

At that moment, Richard came down the stairs. He still hadn't showered or even changed his clothes, and exhaustion was etched on his face.

"How is he, Robert?" he asked, his concern immediate. "I'm just going to take breakfast over to him. Maybe he'll eat something if I insist a little."

Dr. Evans interrupted him gently, placing a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that made him stop. "Richard, sit down. Please."

Richard stopped, surprised by the formality.

"He is resting," the doctor said, his professional authority now in full force. "My medical recommendation, and I insist on this, is that we leave him completely alone until late afternoon. His body needs absolute rest to process the medication and recover from yesterday's stress. Any interaction, even the most well-intentioned, is a stimulus he doesn't need right now."

He looked at the tray Helena was already preparing and added, to make his order more convincing, "He won't be able to eat anything for the next few hours anyway. Forcing the issue now would only make things worse."

Helena, hearing "medical recommendation" and seeing her husband's exhausted state, intervened immediately. "You heard him, Richard. The young man needs peace, and you need to rest."

Richard looked from the doctor to his wife. He was outnumbered. His need to care fought against professional advice and common sense. "But leaving him alone all day..." he began, his voice full of stubborn reluctance.

"He won't be alone all day," Helena said, formulating a new plan with maternal practicality. "I'll ask Elara to take some soup to him at lunch. She doesn't need to stay, just ensure he has something to eat if he feels hungry."

Defeated by the conspiracy of care around him, Richard finally relented. "Alright," he murmured.

The doctor smiled, his secret mission accomplished. He said his goodbyes, leaving the family with their new instructions. Richard, convinced by logic and his wife's concern, finally went to his room to rest. And the responsibility of watching over Ilian from a distance passed, unexpectedly, to Elara, who didn't even know yet about the small mission awaiting her at lunchtime.

The morning passed in a fog of malaise. Ilian remained on the sofa, drifting between a light, feverish sleep and long periods of wakefulness where the only reality was the dull ache in his muscles and the wave of nausea in his stomach. He had gotten up a few times, an agonizing pilgrimage to the bathroom or the kitchen for water, but every movement exacted a price in energy he barely possessed. The silence of the house was a balm, his only consolation.

It was close to lunchtime when a light, hesitant knock sounded at the front door. The sound was so soft he almost ignored it. But it was followed by another knock, equally delicate. With a groan, he sat up, his head spinning slightly. He didn't want to see anyone.

The door opened slowly. It was Elara. She held a small tray with a covered bowl. Upon seeing his state, curled up on the sofa, her expression immediately turned to silent concern.

"Sorry," she whispered, closing the door behind her. "I knocked, but..."

"I heard," he replied, his voice hoarse.

She approached. "My mother sent some soup. She thought maybe you could eat something light. Can I leave it on the kitchen counter for you, or... here on the little table?"

"I don't want to eat. Thank you very much," he said, the quickest and most honest answer his exhaustion allowed.

Elara paused, the tray in her hands. Her gaze fell on an empty glass on the coffee table beside Ilian. "Excuse me..." she said, in a practical tone, finding a way to be useful. "Can I take your glass? Can I bring more water?"

He simply nodded. She set the tray in the kitchen, took the glass, brought it to the sink, filled it with fresh water, and brought it back, placing it within his reach. Then, instead of leaving, she did something that surprised him. She sat down, but not close. She sat in the armchair on the other side of the small table, the same one where her father had spent the night, creating a respectful distance.

"Dr. Evans said that probably by the end of the evening, you'll feel better," her voice a calm murmur. "My father was worried, but my mother forced him to rest. He had lunch and is sleeping."

She asked no questions. She just gave him information, filling the silence with facts, not demands. Ilian relaxed a little. He didn't need to answer.

Elara stayed silent for a moment, and then made a move to get up. "Well, the soup is in the kitchen if you change your mind." She paused, and then, in a gesture of simple kindness, reached into her coat pocket. "My mother sent the soup..." she said, "...but this is mine."

She pulled out a small brown paper package, tied with string, and placed it on the table near the glass of water.

"They're ginger biscuits," she explained, not looking directly at him, perhaps feeling the weight of her own boldness. "I made them this morning. Ginger... helps with nausea."

And then she stood up and left, without waiting for a thank you. "Get well soon, Ilian."

The door closed, and silence returned.

Ilian stared at the small package. A gift. Not from Helena, the maternal figure, but from her. A gift that wasn't just a gesture of kindness, but an act of perception. She knew about his nausea, had heard, and had thought of a solution.

He felt uncomfortable around her in a way he didn't with Richard or Helena. Her presence was sharper. More direct. He couldn't figure out why, but her proximity made him tense, on alert. But this gesture... this small package of biscuits... was different. An attempt at friendship. A small opening.

He didn't move. His body still ached, his head still throbbed. But later, much later, when hunger finally spoke louder than nausea, the first thing he ate wasn't the soup. It was a small ginger biscuit.

Chapter 30: The Taste of Recovery

Ilian woke slowly, as if rising from a great depth. The fog of fever had dissipated, leaving behind a fragile clarity. He opened his eyes. The room was bathed in the soft light of late afternoon. He looked at his body. The cold sweat had dried, but his skin still felt sticky. The muscle aches were still there, a dull reminder of the previous day, but the sharp nausea, his tormentor throughout the day, had vanished.

In its place was a new sensation, one he barely recognized, it was so rare: hunger. A deep hunger, crying out from his empty stomach.

With an effort that made every joint protest, he sat up. The world spun for an instant, then stabilized. He was weak, completely drained, but the storm in his body had passed.

His first need was to feel clean. The walk to the bathroom was slow, every step a reminder of the previous day's exertion, but his purpose was clear. The hot shower was a ritual of restoration. The water washed away not just the fever sweat, but the misery of the day. Stepping out and dressing in clean clothes, his usual armor of dark trousers and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he felt fragile, but human again.

Guided by hunger, he limped straight to the kitchen. On the counter, still on the tray where Elara had left it, was the bowl of soup. He picked it up, the cold ceramic a contrast to his skin, still warm from the shower.

He heated the soup in the microwave. As the plate spun, the gentle aroma filled the silent house. It was the smell of care.

With the steaming bowl in his hands, he sat at the kitchen table. He picked up the spoon, his hand still trembling slightly from weakness. The first spoonful was hesitant. The broth was hot, rich, and incredibly flavorful. It went down his esophagus, a warmth that seemed to spread through his entire body, chasing away the last traces of the chills.

He took another spoonful, and then another, with a hunger he hadn't felt in a long time. He wasn't just eating, he was replenishing himself, rebuilding himself from the inside out. It was in this moment of quiet and recovery that he heard a light knock at the door.

Before he could even think about getting up, the door opened softly. "Ilian?" Richard’s voice called out.

The professor entered, his face a mask of worry, perhaps expecting to find him still prostrated on the sofa. He stopped at the threshold of the kitchen, and his expression changed.

He saw Ilian. Not lying down, not sick. But sitting at the table with an almost empty bowl in front of him. Ilian was pale, yes, and there were shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, but he was better, and he was eating. The relief that flooded Richard’s face was so visible, so deep, it was almost palpable. The tension in his shoulders disappeared. A genuine, warm smile spread across his lips.

"Ilian..." he said, his voice full of an emotion he didn't try to hide. "Seeing you sitting there, eating... is the best thing I've seen all day."

Ilian looked at the professor. He didn't need to explain that he felt better. He didn't need to assure him he was okay. The simple act of being there, nourishing himself, had communicated everything. He set the spoon down beside the bowl and, in response to the relief on his protector’s face, managed to offer a small, tired smile.

The smile Richard offered back was so genuine it warmed the small space of the kitchen. "Don't stop on my account. Please, continue," he said, pulling out the other chair and sitting at the table with Ilian. "I've already had dinner, but I'll keep you company."

Ilian, in the professor’s calm presence, felt able to continue. He picked up the spoon again and ate the rest of the soup, slowly, each spoonful an act of recovery. Richard didn't speak, just shared the silence, his presence proof that Ilian wasn't alone.

When the bowl was empty, Ilian set down the spoon. The warmth of the soup had spread through his body, fighting off the chill of the fever. He felt weak, but lucid. And in that lucidity, there was an immense gratitude and a need to connect, to return the care he had received.

He looked toward the living room, at the armchair where Richard had spent the night, and at the book still resting on the coffee table. He took a deep breath, gathering the courage to break the silence.

"Professor..." he began, his voice low, but clear enough to cut through the quiet.

Richard waited with his attentive, patient expression.

"The book," Ilian said, his gaze still on the living room. "That you were reading to me yesterday. I heard it."

Richard was visibly surprised. He leaned in a little, his curiosity piqued. "You heard? I thought you were asleep, or feeling too ill to pay attention."

"I know the book. I liked it very much too." He finally raised his eyes and met Richard’s. "I read it a long time ago, an old edition, at the orphanage."

"The cover was torn," Ilian continued, now that the door had been opened, the memory flowing with unexpected clarity. He paused, and then shared the most intimate confession. "Your voice... is different from the voice I imagined in my head when I was a child. It's... better."

The compliment, so unexpected and so deeply personal, hit Richard with immense force. He was speechless for a long moment, his heart squeezing with an emotion he could barely identify. It was a mixture of joy and an overwhelming sadness for the lonely child Ilian had been.

The conversation flowed from there, with Ilian sharing a little of his admiration for the ideas in the book, for the way the astronomer connected science to "greater things." Richard listened, fascinated, seeing a new facet of this young man: not the fragile patient, but the young philosopher, the lover of stars.

The connection between them, born in the silence of a vigil, was now being cemented by the universal language of science and wonder. And in that moment, hearing the quiet passion in Ilian’s voice, Richard had an idea. An idea much better than a simple car ride.

He leaned forward, his eyes shining with a new enthusiasm, his own passion for science coming to the fore. "Ilian, the university... we have an observatory. It's not far from here, in the hills, away from the city lights. It's not big, but it has an excellent telescope."

Ilian stared at him, his own eyes widening slightly.

"When you're feeling stronger, how about we go up there? On a clear night," Richard continued, his voice full of excitement. "So you can see these 'greater things' up close."

The offer was more than Ilian could have dreamed of. To see the stars, not just with the naked eye, but through a real telescope. The possibility was so vast, so wonderful, that he was rendered completely speechless. He couldn't formulate an answer, couldn't say "yes."

But the shine in his eyes, a shine of pure, childlike wonder, said everything Richard needed to know.

After a long moment of silence, Ilian gave a nod. Slow, but firm. Definitive.

Richard smiled, a wide, satisfied smile. "Great. It's a plan, then."

Seeing that Ilian, though lucid, still looked incredibly tired, Richard knew it was time to end the evening. He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, a gesture that brought the real world back into the small, intimate bubble they had created.

"It's getting late," the professor said, his voice soft. "And tomorrow is a new day." He stood up, and Ilian, by instinct, made to stand as well, but Richard stopped him with a gentle gesture. "No, stay seated. Rest."

He walked to the door but stopped before leaving. "Ilian, just so you know our plan. Tomorrow is Sunday. In the morning, Helena, Elara, and I have our church service, and afterward, we're having lunch at some friends' house from the community." He paused, his gaze full of gentle meaning. "That means you will have the guest house and the garden all to yourself for the entire morning and a good part of the afternoon. To rest in peace, without interruptions."

For Ilian, the offer of guaranteed solitude was a gift as great as the invitation to the observatory. The idea of having hours of silence, without the anticipation of a doorbell ringing, was a luxury he could barely conceive.

"But," Richard continued, "I would very much like you to join us for dinner. I'll stop by in the late afternoon to see how you are, and if you're feeling up to it, Helena would be very happy to have you at our table again."

The invitation to dinner, now, didn't sound like a frightening test, but like part of a routine. A routine that included care, space, and, at the end of the day, company. The anxiety was minimal.

"Yes, Professor," Ilian replied, his voice clear. "I will come."

With a satisfied smile, Richard gave a final nod. "Good. Get some rest, Ilian."

The door closed, and Ilian was left alone in the silence. He was exhausted, his body still a map of aches, but his mind was calm. He had a plan for the next day: silence. And, in the end, the promise of a return to the warmth of that family. And that was more than he had had in his entire life.

Chapter 31: The Conquest of the Trail

Sunday morning arrived like a silent promise. Ilian woke with the sunlight, his body still aching, but his mind surprisingly calm. The conversation with the professor the night before, the promise of a future dinner, the trip to the observatory, all of this had planted a seed of normalcy that seemed to bloom in the silence of the morning.

He followed his routine: the hot shower to loosen his muscles, the black coffee, taking his usual medications. Then, he prepared for the day. He remembered David’s recommendation: the daily ten-minute walk. And his own failure in trying to pick up the pinecone. Today, driven by Richard’s new strategy, he felt a cold determination. The trail was no longer a place of fear, it was a training ground.

He took his cane and went outside. The air was crisp, and a bright autumn sun painted the garden in vibrant colors. He didn't stop in the courtyard. He crossed the damp lawn, his pace slow but steady, until he reached the start of the trail. He stood there for a moment, on the border between light and shadow. Then, he took the first step inside.

The world changed. The sunlight was replaced by a verdant gloom, the air became cooler, with the rich smell of earth and decaying leaves. The path was narrow and uneven. Every step was a challenge. His mind, accustomed to calculations, was now entirely dedicated to the primal physics of walking. The cane probed the ground, his left leg served as an anchor, and the right was dragged with conscious effort.

A gust of wind made the trees sway harder. Ilian froze, his body tense. But then, Richard’s voice echoed in his mind. He forced air in and out of his lungs. It was just the wind. Just trees.

He continued, the pain in his leg a constant flame. He stopped, leaning against the rough trunk of a large tree to catch his breath. His heart beat fast. He was tired, but not defeated. He looked ahead and saw it: a few meters away, the trail opened into a small clearing, where rays of sunlight managed to pierce the canopy of leaves. In the center, a large fallen log, covered in moss, looked like an invitation. With a final effort, he limped over to it, his destination for the moment.

He reached the fallen log and, with extreme care, sat down. The relief of taking the weight off his leg was so profound that an audible sigh escaped his lips. He leaned back against a higher part of the log, stretched his right leg out in front of him, and allowed himself to relax.

Ilian closed his eyes.

And the world, without the need to analyze it or defend against it, invaded his senses.

First, the sounds. The sound of the wind passing through the leaves in the treetops, a constant, soft whisper. The song of a bird. The low hum of an insect passing near his ear. And, underneath it all, the sound of his own breathing finding a calm rhythm.

Then, the sensations. The warmth of the morning sun on his face, a gentle, intermittent caress filtering through the leaves. A cool breeze. The rough, damp texture of the moss under his fingers resting on the log.

And the smells. The smell of earth, of wood, the sweet scent of decaying leaves. It was the smell of life and death, of the forest's cycle.

This sensory flood, of things so simple and so real, triggered an emotion in him he hadn't felt since he was a child looking at ducks in a canal. Happiness. Pure, calm, and overwhelming. The happiness of simply existing in a place, without being watched, without having to produce, without being in danger. It was the happiness of freedom. A freedom earned with every painful step that had brought him there.

He opened his eyes, his gaze wandering unfocused, until a movement near his feet caught his attention. A dark, pulsating line was moving over the moss covering the log. Ants.

With his body still aching, he leaned forward as much as he could, resting his elbows on his knees. And he watched.

To him, they weren't just insects. It was a system. A miniature society functioning with perfect logic. He saw one carrying a piece of leaf ten times its size. He saw two stopping to touch antennas, exchanging invisible information. He saw how they navigated an obstacle, a small stone, not with panic, but with collective efficiency, finding a new route.

And the memory came, not with pain, but with a gentle nostalgia. He saw himself, a small, lonely boy in the courtyard of the orphanage in Poland. Lying on his stomach, chin resting on his hands, his face inches from a crack in the cement, watching exactly the same scene. For a child with no control over his own world, the ordered, purposeful universe of the ants was a refuge of logic. They were a spectacle that never disappointed him.

But as he watched, another image superimposed itself on the peaceful forest scene. The memory came, cold and sharp. He was no longer in a wood in Boston, but in the sterile courtyard of the military base in Germany. He was perhaps fourteen. He was exactly like now, fascinated by a single ant trying to carry a breadcrumb. The world had disappeared. There was only him and that small miracle of perseverance.

A shadow fell over him.

"Ilian."

Professor Kessler’s voice wasn't angry. It was worse. It was cold, disappointed. Ilian stood up slowly.

"What are you doing?" Kessler asked, his gaze dropping to the ant and then back to Ilian’s face.

"I... was just observing, Professor," the boy murmured.

Kessler sighed, a sound of pure impatience. "Your mind is a precision instrument, Ilian. It was designed to solve problems others cannot even conceive. Do not waste it on trivial sentimentalities. Ants do not solve differential equations." He gestured toward the laboratory. "Return inside immediately. Your time is more valuable than this."

Ilian remembered the shame. The feeling of having been caught doing something wrong, childish. The lesson was learned: curiosity, admiration for the natural world, was a defect. A weakness to be suppressed.

The memory faded, leaving a cold trail. Ilian blinked, the sound of the wind in the trees bringing him back to the clearing in Boston. He was still leaning forward, looking at the ants. For an instant, his instinct, trained by Kessler, screamed at him to get up, to go back to being "productive."

But then, the voice of another professor, Richard’s voice, echoed in his mind. Rest. Everything in its own time.

And, in a small act of silent defiance against a ghost from across the ocean, Ilian didn't move. He remained there, seated, and continued watching the ants, reclaiming for himself that small, precious moment of curiosity.

The sun moved across the sky. The shadows of the trees slid slowly across the forest floor. Time passed, perhaps more than an hour, but Ilian didn't notice. He was completely absorbed, enchanted, his mind admiring that living algorithm, and his heart rediscovering one of its few lost joys.

Finally, hunger, an almost forgotten sensation, began to manifest in his stomach.

It was time to go back. He stood up, his body stiff and sore, but his mind was light. He looked one last time at the ants, his small, efficient engineers. And with a sense of peace, he picked up his cane and began the walk back, out of the forest.

Ilian emerged from the forest shadow into the sunlight, blinking, panting. He was soaked in sweat, his T-shirt sticking to his back, his right leg trembling with fatigue so deep it barely supported him. But beneath the pain and exhaustion, there was a vibrant new feeling: triumph. He had faced the trail, found a moment of pure peace, and now he was returning on his own.

The crossing back across the lawn was the hardest part, but now he was driven by a new purpose. Hunger. Real, sharp hunger that churned his stomach. His mind was focused on the image of the bowl of soup Elara had brought him the day before, waiting for him in the refrigerator. It was more than just food; it was a prize, a symbol of the care awaiting him.

With his heart pounding from both exertion and anticipation, he opened the guest house door.

And stopped.

The smell. It was the first thing that hit him. Not the familiar smell of the house. It was a sharp, chemical, sterile smell. The smell of detergent.

The morning's happiness began to turn into a cold apprehension. His gaze swept the room. It was impeccably clean. The floor shone. There wasn't a speck of dust in sight. His work table, his personal chaos of schematics and notes, had been "tidied" into perfect, geometric piles. His mind, his most intimate space, had been invaded and organized by strange hands.

A wave of cold ran through his body. The agency. They had been there.

Stomach tightening, he limped to the kitchen. His destination was the refrigerator, his soup. But his gaze landed on the sink. And his heart sank.

There, among other dishes, was Helena’s glass container. Clean. Empty. Shining.

He opened the refrigerator door, a futile hope fighting against the cold certainty that had already settled in. The soup wasn't there. They had thrown it away. To them, it was just leftovers. To Ilian, they had thrown away Helena’s care. They had erased a moment of connection and replaced it with their own sterile efficiency.

Hunger vanished, replaced by a cold, silent indignation. It was a violation. They didn't just control his work, his health, and his space; they now erased the traces of kindness he received.

Ilian stood before the sink, his indignant gaze fixed on the empty container. A heavy sigh escaped his lips. That simple act of "cleaning" opened a floodgate in his memory.

He was back at the military base in Germany. He was fifteen. He was sitting in his small room, exhausted after working for nearly twenty hours straight to meet an impossible deadline set by Professor Kessler. He had fallen asleep over his calculations. A loud bang on the desk made Ilian wake with a start. It was Professor Kessler, with a look of disappointment.

"Drowsiness, Ilian?" Kessler had said, his voice cutting. "The deadline was eight in the morning. It is eight-fifteen."

"I... I'm sorry, Professor. I just..." the boy stammered, his mind still foggy.

Kessler ignored him. He saw the dinner tray from the night before, which Ilian hadn't had time to eat, still resting in a corner. With a deliberate movement, Kessler picked up the tray. "Lack of discipline has consequences. If your mind cannot fulfill its duties, then your body does not need fuel." He turned and left, taking the food. That day, Ilian didn't have lunch. And he didn't have dinner. Hunger was his punishment for the weakness of being human.

A sharp pang of pain in his right leg pulled him back to the present. The pain was an anchor, reminding him that although the walls were different, the rules seemed to be the same. He turned to the counter. It was time for his midday medications. He picked up his pill organizer. And froze.

Inside the compartment were not his usual pills. There were two extra. Two small white pills he didn't recognize. A new order. A change, implemented without a word, without an explanation. Not only had they taken something away, but they had added something, tampering with his internal chemistry as if he were a lab experiment.

It was the last straw.

With deliberate movements, he picked up the pills. He went to the sink. With the fingers of his right hand, he separated the ones he knew. He put them in his mouth and swallowed them with water. Then, he looked at the two extra white pills in the palm of his hand. The intruders. The symbols of their control.

With terrifying calm, he opened his hand over the sink drain and turned on the tap. The water carried away the two small white pills, which disappeared into the darkness.

It was his rebellion. Silent. Invisible. They could invade the house, throw away his gifts, change his prescriptions. But they couldn't force him to swallow. In that small act of defiance, he had reclaimed a tiny but precious part of control. His body, his prison, was also his last stronghold of resistance.

Chapter 32: Project Rodzina

He felt a chill in his stomach, the adrenaline of his rebellion starting to fade, but beneath it was a strange and fierce satisfaction.

The hunger was still there, a hole in his stomach. He looked at the refrigerator, now perfectly stocked with agency food, and felt a wave of revulsion. Helena’s food had been discarded. Touching anything they had put there felt like surrender, an acceptance of the violation. He decided to ignore the hunger. It was a familiar sensation, one he knew how to control.

He couldn't stand still in that sterile kitchen. The whole house felt contaminated by the smell of cleanliness and impersonal order. He needed a refuge. His gaze swept the room and landed on the sofa. His secret sanctuary.

With renewed determination, he limped over to it. He reached into the gap behind the back cushion. His fingers found the hard cover of his notebook. Pulling it out, he felt immense relief, like a soldier recovering his weapon in enemy territory.

He didn't go to the work desk, now impeccably tidied by strange hands. That was their territory.

He opened the notebook to a clean page. His mind traveled to the past, not with the fear of a nightmare, but with the cold precision of an engineer deconstructing a machine. Project Falke (Falcon). His targeting algorithm. His teenage masterpiece of destruction.

A question burned in his mind, a matter of pure physics and morality: How would I reverse it?

His hand, driven by purpose, began to move. He didn't draw a drone, he drew a concept. The Falke algorithm was designed to isolate the signal of a human being from the "noise" of a battlefield to eliminate it. The new project would do the opposite. The "noise" would be the chaos of a disaster, rubble, earth, snow. And the "signal" would not be a target, but a victim. A life.

He began to scribble equations, his mind working with feverish clarity. He thought of the conversation with Richard. Waves. Propagation. Attenuation. He sketched a system that would use low-frequency radar waves to penetrate debris, but not looking for shapes. Looking for micro-movements. The rise and fall of a breathing chest. To this, he added the theory of acoustic sensors, calibrated to filter out everything except the muffled sound of a heartbeat.

He was no longer reversing a project. He was creating its antithesis. A system not to hunt, but to find. Not to destroy, but to rescue. A system whose sole purpose would be to return people to their families.

And in that moment, he stopped. He looked at the page full of calculations and sketches, the blueprint of a machine of hope. He thought of the word Richard had taught him, not with his lips, but with his actions. Family.

With reverent calm, he turned to a new page, a perfectly blank sheet. At the top, with precise, angular handwriting, he wrote two words in his mother tongue:

Projekt Rodzina

He looked at the title. Project Family. It was the opposite of everything he had been forced to create. It was his new purpose.

The chapter in Kessler’s book about Doppler shift compensation, his flawed theory... Ilian’s mind seized it, turned it inside out, and began to use it for a new end. The hunger was forgotten. The invaded house was forgotten. His physical pain became background noise, irrelevant. The only thing that existed was that universe he was creating on the page, a universe where his mind was not a curse, but a tool of salvation. For every system of death he had been forced to create, he would now, in secret, in his sanctuary, build a system of life.

The sun began to set, the light in the room diminishing, but he didn't notice. He was completely absorbed in a new world rising from the ashes of the old.

When it grew dark, the guest house was plunged into the soft, artificial light of the lamp. Ilian remained on the sofa for a long time, his secret notebook already put away, but the ideas of Projekt Rodzina still swirling in his mind with feverish energy. The silent fury of the afternoon had transformed into a cold, clear purpose. He felt exhausted, but in a different way. It was the tiredness of a real day’s work, a productive tiredness.

He looked at the clock. Dinner time was approaching. Richard’s promise. A part of him, the old, scared part, screamed for him to stay, to avoid the complexity of another social interaction. But another part, a new and stronger part, born from conversations in the park and his own silent rebellion, refused to yield. He wanted to go. He wanted the warmth, the normalcy, the peace he knew awaited him across the lawn.

With renewed determination, he began his nightly routine. The hot shower was a relief for muscles tired from the walk. He shaved with renewed care, the act of grooming no longer a novelty but a ritual of respect for himself and for those who would receive him. He put on his usual armor of dark trousers and a long-sleeved T-shirt and waited.

The knock on the door came punctually. It was the professor, his face wearing a warm smile.

"Ready, Ilian?" he asked.

"Yes, Professor."

"How are you feeling?" Richard asked, his voice full of subtle concern. "Did you manage to eat well?"

Ilian looked at the professor. He could tell him everything. The invaded house, the discarded soup, the extra pills, his anger. But he saw the genuine worry on Richard’s face, and he made a decision. He would not contaminate this night with the agency's poison. This night would be theirs. He chose peace.

"I am better, Professor," he replied, and it was the truth. "Much better. And, to be honest, I am hungry."

The simplicity of the answer made Richard’s smile widen. "Excellent! That is the best news I've heard all day. Then let's go. Helena is eager."

They walked slowly, side by side, through the darkness of the garden toward the island of light that was the main house. Upon reaching the three steps to the kitchen, before Ilian could even think about how he would climb them, Richard was already at his side, offering his arm.

"Here," he said, the gesture now familiar, natural.

Ilian looked at the offered arm, and then at the professor’s face. This time, there was no shame, no hesitation. With quiet confidence, he accepted the support. The climb was still an effort, but it was a shared effort, an act of partnership.

The scene in the kitchen was one of cozy domestic warmth. Helena and Elara were finishing setting the table, their voices in animated conversation that stopped as soon as they entered.

"Ilian!" Helena said, her face lighting up with genuine joy. "So good to see you! We were waiting."

Elara smiled at him, a small, sincere smile. "Good evening, Ilian."

His mind, already overloaded by the effort of crossing the lawn and climbing the steps, registered the direct greeting. He looked away almost immediately, awkward, but managed a small, stiff nod in Elara’s direction, a minimal, almost imperceptible acknowledgment. His full attention turned to the safer figure of Helena and the overwhelming smell of food.

The smell filling the kitchen was divine. It was the smell of fish with herbs that Helena had promised. They sat down, and Helena placed the steaming platter in the center of the table.

And then, before anyone else could speak, Ilian, driven by real hunger and a new, fragile courage, looked at the food, then at Helena. His voice was low but clear in the expectant silence.

"Mrs. Anderson..." he said. "The smell is wonderful. And I am really hungry."

A small silence fell over the table, a silence of pure, happy surprise. It was the first time he had initiated a conversation at their table, a voluntary comment full of positive anticipation. Helena’s eyes filled with joy. Elara gave a surprised and genuine smile. And Richard looked at Ilian with a pride so immense it was almost palpable.

"Then help yourself, my dear," Helena said. "Help yourself as much as you like."

The family's reaction to his comment was so warm that Ilian felt a blush rise up his neck, but it was a good warmth. He focused on his plate, savoring the fish, which was even more delicious than he remembered. He didn't feel like an intruder at the table, but like a welcomed guest.

They began to eat. The conversation was light, Richard and Helena talked about their day. Ilian listened, his presence silent but less tense than before. After a few minutes, Elara, who was watching him with gentle curiosity, spoke.

"Dad, did you tell Ilian about our conversation last night? About the observatory?"

Richard smiled. "I haven't had the chance yet."

Elara turned, a glint of excitement in her eyes. "My father told me he intends to take you there. I've been there a few times and liked it very much." She smiled at the memory. "The view of the stars from there is incredible, without the city lights. Maybe I can go with you, if you don't mind."

The offer was made with genuine friendliness. But for Ilian, it was as if a door had slammed shut. The image his mind had created, a silent, contemplative night, just him and the professor sharing the universe, was suddenly replaced by a more complex, noisier image. A third person. Her.

His stomach tightened. It wasn't that he disliked Elara. It was that her presence demanded something he didn't have. With Richard, silence was comfortable. With Helena, care was unconditional. With Elara, he felt inadequate, exposed. Would there be pressure to talk? The idea was exhausting. Mentally, without his face showing more than a slight neutrality, he retreated.

He just gave a small nod, his gaze back on his plate, his little bubble of comfort violated.

Richard, with his sharp perception, noticed the shift. He saw the way his shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. He understood. It was too much, too soon. With the skill of a conductor changing the orchestra's tone, he intervened to relieve the pressure.

"We'll see, honey. One thing at a time," he said to Elara, before turning to Ilian with a new topic. "Speaking of outings, I had good news today. I called my two friends, George and Arthur."

Ilian looked up, grateful for the change of subject.

"They are childhood friends of mine," Richard continued, his voice warm with the affection of a long friendship. "George owns a hardware store, a man with a heart of gold. And Arthur is the best car mechanic in Boston; he can fix anything with a piece of wire and a bit of stubbornness." He laughed. "They were very excited about the idea of our fishing trip. We are thinking of going next Friday, after your physical therapy session. We'd leave in the afternoon, spend the night at the cabin, and return late Saturday afternoon. What do you think?"

The idea was daunting, a night away, new people. But it was different. They were older men, friends of his protector. The environment seemed less demanding, less intimidating. And above all, it was a direct invitation from Richard, an invitation into his world. Trusting him was becoming an instinct.

After a moment of hesitation, he replied, his voice low. "I think so, Professor."

"Great!" Richard exclaimed, satisfied. The plan was set. The dinner continued, the conversation flowing around him. Ilian returned to his silence, but his mind was working, processing the invitations and his own complex barriers.

The dinner continued, conversation flowing around Ilian. And he ate. He truly ate. Driven by genuine hunger and the welcoming atmosphere, he ate a full portion of the fish, savoring every bite. The feeling of being satisfied, of having a comfortably full stomach, was a long-forgotten luxury.

Helena watched him with a smile that was pure maternal joy. When everyone finished, Elara began to help clear the table, and Helena stood up. "Ilian. Wait just a moment. I'm going to prepare a container with some of this for your lunch tomorrow. I don't want you eating that packaged food."

The gesture, so simple and so full of continuous care, moved Ilian. He only managed to murmur a "Thank you, Mrs. Anderson."

As he sat there, feeling the warmth of the meal and the company, a subtle, familiar sensation began to rise from his stomach. A slight unease. A wave of nausea, very faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. It wasn't the nausea of illness, but the chemical reminder of his own body. It was late. It was time for him to go, to fulfill his routine, to take the last essential batch of nightly medications that kept the pain and the worst symptoms under control.

"I think... I need to go rest," he said, beginning the slow process of standing up.

"Of course, my dear," Helena said, approaching. "But first, I have a small gift for you."

She disappeared for an instant and returned, holding a small terracotta pot. Inside was a plant with dark green leaves and a single, prominent flower bud, firmly closed.

"Elara told me you liked the garden," she said, holding the pot out to him. "This is one of my favorites, an amaryllis. It should bloom in a few weeks, maybe a month. I want you to see it open. It's a beautiful process."

Ilian took the pot. It was heavy, the soil damp, the promise of life contained in that small bud. The idea of caring for something, of waiting for something beautiful, was a new and overwhelming concept. He looked up, his gaze passing from Helena’s gentle face to Elara’s, who watched in silence.

"Mrs. Anderson... Elara..." he said, his voice low but charged with sincere emotion. "It's... it's very kind. Thank you very much."

Hearing her name included in the thanks, a genuine, bright smile appeared on Elara’s face.

Helena then handed him the container with the leftovers. Ilian found himself in a complicated situation: the cane in one hand, the flower pot in the other, and now the food container. Richard, who had stood up, saw his difficulty. "Wait, Ilian. That's too much." He approached and, with a calm gesture, took the container and the pot. "I'll carry it for you. Come, I'll walk you back."

Ilian felt immediate relief. Together, they walked to the kitchen door, which opened onto the dark porch. And there, was the mountain in reverse: the three steps to the garden.

Ilian paused at the top, his gaze measuring the distance, calculating the effort and pain of each step down. Richard, anticipating his hesitation, carefully set the pot and container on the counter near the door, freeing his hands.

Without a word, he positioned himself beside Ilian and offered his arm, just as he had done before. The gesture was no longer that of a stranger helping, but of a friend.

With a confidence similar to what he had felt upon arrival, Ilian rested his hand on the professor’s steady arm. Together, slowly and controlled, they descended. One step. A pause to steady his footing. The second. Another pause. The third. Upon stepping onto the soft grass, Ilian let go of Richard’s arm, the descent completed without the agony and shame of the first time.

Richard picked up the items again.

They went out into the cold night, walking slowly, side by side, across the dark lawn. The silence between them was comfortable.

"Ilian," Richard said as they walked, "tomorrow morning is your physiotherapy session at nine. Unfortunately, I won't be able to be here. I have an important meeting at the university that I couldn't postpone."

Ilian felt a pang of disappointment but understood.

"But," the professor continued, "I thought that in the afternoon, around four, if you're feeling up to it after the session, we could take another drive. What do you think?"

The promise of an escape after the torture of physical therapy was an offer of balance, of care. "Yes, Professor. I would like that," he replied.

They reached the guest house door. Ilian opened it and entered, expecting the professor to hand him the things at the threshold. But Richard followed him right inside.

He looked around the living room. "Where can we put this?" he asked, referring to the plant. His gaze landed on a small side table near the glass door, where it would catch the morning sun. Carefully, he placed the flower pot on the table.

Then, he turned to Ilian and handed him the container of food. "There. Now you only need to worry about resting." He walked to the door. "Get some rest, Ilian. See you tomorrow afternoon."

With a final gentle smile, the professor left, closing the door softly.

Ilian stood in the middle of his silent living room, holding the still-warm container with tomorrow's meal. His gaze went from the food in his hands, a gesture of care, to the new plant on the table, a promise of the future. The house no longer felt so empty. It was filled by the echo of Richard’s laughter and the new resolve burning in his chest.

Tomorrow would be a day of pain. Physical therapy awaited him, a challenge. But he felt no fear. He felt ready. Armed with a new purpose and the certainty that he was no longer alone, he took a deep breath. And, feeling genuinely okay, prepared to rest and face the new day.

Chapter 33: The Price of Victory

Monday morning arrived, not with the cold apprehension of the previous week, but with grim determination. Ilian woke, his body still protesting with dull aches, a constant echo of his physical battles. But his mind was clear. Today was physical therapy day, and he rose not as a victim on the way to slaughter, but as a soldier preparing for the training ground.

His morning routine changed. After the hot shower, upon reaching the kitchen, he didn't head just for the coffee machine. Driven by real hunger, a sign that his body was beginning to heal, he went to the fruit bowl on the counter. He picked up an apple. The fruit was cold and smooth in his hand. He ate it slowly, the sound breaking the silence of the house, the sweet flavor awakening his palate.

Then, it was time for the medications. On the counter, the pill organizer waited for him. Opening the "Monday, Morning" compartment, he saw them. His usual pills, and the two small white tablets, the intruders the agency had added without his consent. A cold, silent indignation ran through his body.

With almost surgical precision, he tilted the container over his palm. He separated the two white pills with his thumb. His gaze fixed on them for an instant, the symbols of the agency's control. Then, he walked to the sink, opened his hand, and let them fall into the drain, the sound almost inaudible. He turned on the tap, and the water carried them into the darkness. Afterward, he swallowed his normal dose. His rebellion was silent, invisible, but for him, it was a declaration of war.

He put on his shorts and long-sleeved T-shirt and waited in the living room. When the doorbell rang at nine, he was ready.

David and Ben entered, their expressions professional as always. If they expected another scene of confrontation, they didn't show it. They found Ilian already dressed for the session, his face pale, but his eyes holding a glint of cold determination they hadn't seen before.

"Mr. Jansen," David said with a nod.

Ilian didn't reply. He just turned and limped toward the physiotherapy room.

The next ninety minutes were controlled pain. True to his new strategy, Ilian didn't fight the therapists, he fought his own limits. He embraced the pain, not with resignation, but with purpose. Every stretch that made him groan silently was the price for being able to bend. Every repetition with ankle weights that made his leg tremble was the cost of stability.

He turned the pain into fuel. The image of the pinecone, four inches away, was his focus. Richard’s voice, saying "It's your weapon," was his mantra. He cooperated with every instruction, pushing his body to the threshold of collapse, but not crossing it. He didn't give them the satisfaction of a complaint, nor the weapon of a refusal.

When the session finally ended, David, making his notes on the tablet, looked at Ilian, who was sitting on the edge of the therapy table, soaked in sweat, trembling.

"Good work today, Mr. Jansen," David said. His voice was neutral. "Keep it up."

They left. Ilian was alone in the room. He hadn't been defeated. He had fought. And thinking about the next session on Wednesday, he didn't feel anxiety. He felt something dangerously close to anticipation.

His first task was to follow orders. Ice. He limped slowly to the kitchen, every step a stab of pain. He opened the refrigerator and took out two gel packs. He returned to the living room, sat on the sofa, and carefully placed one gel pack on his right knee and another on his left hand. The intense, sharp cold was a shock, but gradually it began to numb the burning in his inflamed tissues.

He lay there, with the ice doing its work, his body trembling involuntarily, and waited. His mind, however, wasn't quiet. He replayed the session. The pain, yes. But also the feeling of having endured, of not having broken. It was a small victory, but it was his.

The hunger, the same real hunger he had felt the day before, returned with force. It was his body crying out for fuel to repair itself. When the ice time was up, he went back to the kitchen. He heated the food Richard had left him the day before. He ate at the kitchen table, not with the pleasure of a family dinner, but with the efficiency of a soldier replenishing his energy for the next battle. Food was fuel. And he needed fuel.

After lunch and his midday dose of medication, his body begged for sleep. But his mind, agitated by the morning's victory, refused to stop. There was another kind of work to be done. He went to the sofa, retrieved his secret notebook, and returned to his desk.

He dove into Projekt Rodzina. If the morning had been dedicated to the brutal work of the body, the afternoon was dedicated to the elegant work of the mind. The physical pain became background noise. He was completely absorbed, his mind flying free.

Time passed. Occasionally, he looked at the clock on the wall, the anticipation for the four o'clock drive growing. It would be his reward for the day of pain.

Around three, he decided it was time to get ready. He put away his secret notebook carefully and, with effort, stood up. The walk to the bathroom was slow, every step a reminder of the physical therapy effort, but his mind was focused on the promise of the drive. A hot shower would help loosen his muscles before going out.

He entered the bathroom, and as he prepared to turn on the shower, he noticed a change in the light. The brightness of the day was diminishing rapidly. He looked out the bathroom window and saw that the sky, previously a pale blue, was now covered by a blanket of heavy, dark clouds. The wind began to blow harder, the tree branches dancing violently.

He felt a pang of disappointment. The first drop of rain hit the windowpane with a small tap, then another, and within minutes, a strong, steady rain began to fall. The drive, he knew, wasn't going to happen.

Despite the disappointment, he didn't alter his plan. The hot shower was still a necessity for his aching muscles. The hot water was a relief, washing away the sweat and some of the tiredness from his body. It was no longer preparation for a reward, but an act of maintenance, a necessary ritual to keep functioning.

He dried himself and dressed slowly. He put on his dark trousers and a clean long-sleeved T-shirt. He combed his hair. He was ready, even if he knew they weren't going anywhere. It was a matter of respect, for the professor’s invitation and for himself.

He returned to the living room, now dark because of the weather outside. He turned on the small lamp beside the sofa, creating an island of warm light. He looked at the front door. And, in a gesture that surprised him, he went to the door to leave it just slightly ajar, a small crack open to the rainy afternoon. It was a signal. An invitation.

He went back to his desk. If the professor came, he would be ready. If he didn't, his mind would already be occupied. He sat down and opened his secret notebook, the Projekt Rodzina one, his mind diving back into calculations, into his refuge of logic.

Time passed. The sound of the rain was a constant drumming on the roof. The clock struck four. Then ten past four. Ilian didn't look. He was absorbed, his hand gliding across the paper. At four-fifteen, he heard a sound that wasn't the rain. The sound of shoes on the gravel path. He lifted his head. A dark figure, protected by a large umbrella, was approaching his porch.

Ilian didn't rush. Slowly, he set down his pencil and began the process of standing up, his body protesting.

When he reached the door, the figure was already on the porch. Richard Anderson, his hair slightly damp and the old chessboard tucked under his arm, was about to knock.

He opened the door wider.

"Ilian!" Richard said, surprised. "Sorry I'm late."

Ilian looked at the professor, at the kind face, at the chessboard, the promise kept. He replied in a low voice, but full of unshakable certainty.

"I knew you would come."

The sentence, so simple and so charged with trust, hit Richard with a force that left him momentarily speechless. A genuine smile spread across his face.

"It seems our car ride will have to wait," the professor said, his voice a little thick with emotion. "But our challenge..." he said, lifting the chessboard, "...will not."

Ilian stepped back, opening the door wider for the professor to enter, then closing it against the sound of the rain and the outside world. The afternoon wasn't lost after all. It was just beginning. Richard set the large wet umbrella in a corner and placed the chessboard on the coffee table.

"Let me just take off this wet coat," his presence filling the room with a calm, welcome energy.

As Richard settled into the armchair, he looked at Ilian, who remained standing, watching in silence. "First of all, how are you? David called me. He said today's session was... intense."

Ilian thought of the pain, the sweat. But he also remembered his resolve. It's your weapon. He looked at the professor and gave an answer that was, in its own way, the most honest of all. "It was productive," he said calmly.

Richard nodded, satisfied. "I'm glad to hear that." He gestured toward the sofa. "So, let's get to our challenge."

Ilian sat down. Richard opened the board, and they began to set up the pieces in silence. The game began. Richard, now aware of Ilian’s strategy, played with a contained smile, watching not just the pieces, but the player in front of him. Ilian played his masterful defense, but for Richard, now, it was like seeing a ghost behind every move - the brilliant play not made, the attack deliberately withheld.

The match ended as Richard expected: with a subtle "mistake" from Ilian that gave him the victory.

As Ilian began to reset the pieces for a new game, Richard laughed, a low, amused sound. "A good game, Ilian. Your strategy of wearing me down and then making a mistake at the end to protect my fragile ego... is nearly perfect."

Ilian looked up from the board, and for the first time, there was no mask, no shame. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He said nothing, just continued setting up the pieces for the second match. This one was longer, more intense. Ilian, perhaps provoked by Richard’s teasing, revealed a little more of his true skill, forcing the professor to actually fight. But in the end, at the crucial moment, history repeated itself. Another "miscalculation," another victory for Richard.

The professor leaned back in his armchair with a smile. Ilian looked at him, and his own smile, the genuine and rare smile Richard had seen for the first time, reappeared, small and knowing.

"You know, Ilian," Richard said in a teasing tone, "if you don't start 'improving,' I'm going to have to find someone else to play with. Someone who really gives me trouble and manages to beat me once in a while." Ilian looked at him, the smile still in his eyes, and replied, his voice low but with a clarity and joviality that were entirely new.

"I think that will be difficult, Professor. Finding someone who can beat you."

The sentence made the professor let out a loud, genuine, happy laugh, a sound of pure joy and camaraderie.

In that moment, Ilian, feeling lighter and safer than ever, stood up. "Would you... accept one of my astronaut meals for dinner?"

Richard, still laughing, replied: "I'd accept with pleasure!" He was still marveling at the wit and boldness of Ilian’s joke. In that moment, the dynamic between them had changed forever.

Ilian, still with the ghost of his own smile on his lips, felt a surge of confidence he didn't know he possessed. He had taken the initiative. He had made the professor laugh. Driven by this new feeling, he got up from the sofa. "So... dinner?" he said, his voice a silent invitation.

He turned and limped slowly toward the kitchen. Richard followed him. The professor didn't offer to help. He seemed to understand that this was Ilian’s moment, his first act as a host. Instead, Richard simply pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down, a patient guest in Ilian’s territory.

Ilian opened the refrigerator. The cold light illuminated his face as he took out two identical vacuum-sealed packages of the meals provided by the agency. With a knife, he pierced the plastic film of each one, the sound tearing through the comfortable silence. He placed them, side by side, in the microwave, and the clinical hum of the appliance began.

While the food heated, he moved through the small kitchen. He opened a drawer, took out two sets of cutlery, and wrapped them in paper napkins. He took two plates. His movements with his left hand were still clumsy, but they were deliberate, full of a new purpose. He was setting the table for a guest. Richard just watched, silent pride in his eyes.

The microwave beeped. Ilian took out the hot plates and served them, placing one in front of Richard and the other at his own place. The food was the same as always, functional and soulless, but the act of sharing it, initiated by Ilian, made it different.

They began to eat. The silence was easy now, filled only by the sound of cutlery.

"You know, Ilian," Richard said, breaking the silence, his tone thoughtful. "Today, when David called me, I was in the middle of a meeting discussing a phase modulation problem. And to be honest, my mind kept going back to our conversation in the park. Your observation about wave attenuation... was impressively clear." He spoke with admiration. "It even made me reread some chapters of Kessler’s work this afternoon."

The direct mention of Kessler was the invitation Ilian didn't know he was waiting for. It was the perfect moment, not a confrontation, but the continuation of a conversation between colleagues. He put down his fork, his hesitation giving way to academic confidence.

"There is a small inconsistency," Ilian continued, his voice calm, academic, "in the way he calculates the compensation for atmospheric Doppler shift. The way he treats harmonic resonance, merely as noise to be filtered... has always seemed to me... incomplete. It has always intrigued me."

Richard stared at him, skeptical. The idea that there was a gap in Kessler’s work was almost heresy. "Incomplete? Ilian, that is... unlikely. Kessler’s theory has been the foundation of everything in this field for fifty years." He smiled, paternalistically. "You must have read a translation with some error. I have his main work in my library. I'll bring it tomorrow for you to take a look. The math is solid."

"The math is solid," Ilian agreed, "but the premise may be incomplete."

Richard was silent for a moment, looking at the young man before him. He saw the quiet certainty in his eyes. "I have the original edition," the professor said. "I'll bring it tomorrow for you to take a look. We can review the concept together."

Ilian didn't debate. He just listened, recognizing that tone, that unshakable academic certainty. It was the same wall he had hit with Kessler years ago. A direct confrontation would be useless, an act of juvenile arrogance. The game would have to be longer, subtler.

He simply nodded, his neutral expression hiding his true intention. "I would very much like to see the book, Professor."

The first piece of his new, long intellectual chess game had been moved. And for the first time, he felt he was playing not to lose, but to make someone win.