Project Rodzina

Here are a few more chapters about my beloved Ilian Jansen.

Thank you for the feedback.

Chapter 34: Routine and Curiosity

Tuesday morning arrived with a silent promise. Ilian woke with the sunlight, his body still aching, but his mind was calm, anchored by the routine he was beginning to build. The hot shower to loosen his muscles. The black coffee. And, a novelty becoming a habit, an apple eaten slowly at the kitchen table, while his body learned to accept morning nourishment.

He took his usual medications, a mechanical ritual, and then his first "duty" of the day called him. He went to the living room window, where the small pot of amaryllis rested. The flower bud was still firmly closed, a green and tense secret. He touched the soil with the tip of his finger. It felt dry to him. But what was too dry? What was moist enough? An anxiety he hadn't expected took hold of him. The idea of failing that small life was unbearable. He needed to ask Mrs. Anderson.

With this small mission giving him purpose, he prepared for his walk. He grabbed his cane and stepped out into the sunny morning.

The trail was no longer enemy territory. It was still a challenge, but a familiar one. He walked with a confidence he hadn't possessed days earlier, his pace slow but steady. His senses, now more awake, picked up the details: the smell of pine, the way the light filtered through the leaves. He reached the clearing and the fallen log. He sat for a few minutes, not out of exhaustion, but for pleasure. He just breathed, feeling the sun on his face, the sound of the forest.

The walk back was easier. Upon returning to the garden, instead of immediately retreating into the house, he made a decision. Driven by his doubt about the plant, he crossed the lawn slowly and went to sit in the "circle of chairs," Helena’s spot, hoping to find her.

He sat down, his leg throbbing with the effort, and waited. Time passed. He watched the clouds moving slowly across the sky. After perhaps twenty minutes, he saw her.

Helena emerged from a small glass structure at the back of the garden, a place he had never noticed before. A greenhouse. She wore an apron over her clothes and carried a small basket. She walked among her flower beds, her presence a natural part of the landscape.

Ilian felt his heart beat a little faster. It was his opportunity. With a deep breath to calm his nerves, he stood up, leaning on his cane.

Ilian’s walk across the lawn was slow, every step a battle between his curiosity and his instinct to retreat. Helena watched him approach, a small watering can in her hand, a genuine smile lighting up her face. She didn't move toward him, allowing him to make the journey at his own pace.

When he finally got close, he stopped, a little out of breath, not knowing exactly what to say.

"Ilian! So good to see you out here," she said, her voice as warm as the morning sun. "Did you come to see my sanctuary?" She gestured toward the small glass building.

He simply nodded. "The plant..." he began, his voice low.

"Ah, yes! Come, come inside," she said, guiding him to the greenhouse door. "Let's talk about it."

He followed her. Upon crossing the threshold, a wave of heat and humidity enveloped him. The air was thick, heavy, and charged with the overwhelming smell of wet earth, green leaves, and the sweet scent of flowers he couldn't name. The light, filtered by the glass and the plant leaves, was soft, diffuse, green. For a man accustomed to sterile environments and artificial light, it was like entering another world, a living, pulsing world.

The greenhouse was Helena’s organized chaos. Wooden benches were crowded with pots of all sizes, gardening tools, bags of soil, and small handwritten identification tags. Vines climbed the walls, and baskets of ferns hung from the ceiling.

"So," Helena said, turning to him. "Your amaryllis."

"Mrs. Anderson... the plant... how should I water it?"

The question, in its almost clinical simplicity, made Helena smile. "That is the most important question," she said. "Come, I'll show you."

She guided him to a bench where there was another amaryllis, slightly larger. "The best way to know is to feel." She looked at his left hand, the hand he always tried to hide, and with infinite delicacy, her voice a gentle invitation rather than an order, she said, "Give me your hand."

And for some reason he didn't understand, he obeyed. Before his brain could erect its walls of shame, before his instinct to hide could take control, his arm moved. Disarmed by the unconditional kindness on her face, he simply extended his hand, not quite knowing how.

It was only when his left hand, with its scars, its poorly healed bones, and its incomplete form, was exposed under the green light of the greenhouse, that the wave of panic and shame hit him. He wanted to pull back, to hide it, but it was too late.

Helena took it before he could hesitate. Her hands weren't soft, they were the hands of a gardener, warm, strong, and stained with earth. She wasn't wearing gloves and didn't seem to notice the scars, or if she did, she didn't show it. With a natural gesture, she covered his hand with hers, a cocoon of warmth and acceptance, guiding it gently to the pot.

"Feel it," she whispered, lightly pressing his fingers against the dark soil.

The touch was overwhelming. Not the clinical touch of a doctor, not the violent touch of a guard. It was a maternal touch, firm, unconditional. And beneath it, the sensation of the earth, cold, damp, and alive.

"Do you feel it?" she continued, her voice a calm murmur. "It's moist, but not soaked. If you squeeze, the soil holds together, but water doesn't drip out. That's how it likes it. You only need to add a little water when you feel the surface is dry."

She let go of his hand. Ilian stood looking at his own fingers, now with a bit of black soil on them, the ghost of Helena’s touch still on his skin.

"The amaryllis is a creature of patience," Helena said, her voice taking on a philosophical tone as she inspected a leaf. "You plant it, and for a long time, it seems like nothing is happening. Just leaves. But underground, in the dark, strength is being gathered."

She looked at him, her eyes full of gentle wisdom. "You cannot rush it. You cannot force it to bloom. You just... create the right conditions. Giving light, a little water, and trust. And then, one day, when it is ready, it will give you a show."

Ilian listened, understanding that she wasn't just talking about plants.

Ilian stood there, in the warmth and humidity of that small glass room, surrounded by the smell of life. He looked at his dirt-stained hands. He hadn't just learned how to care for a flower. He had learned a lesson about patience, about trust, and about the beauty of waiting for things to bloom in their own time. An impulse to withdraw, to return to his safe solitude, began to rise, but it was fought by a stronger desire: to remain in that refuge.

Helena, with her maternal intuition, sensed his hesitation, his reluctance to leave. She saw a curious calm in his eyes. And she wanted to prolong that moment for him.

"Ilian," she said softly. "Would you give me a hand? I need to fill these small pots for the autumn seedlings."

The question surprised him. She was asking for his help. The idea of being useful, of contributing to that sanctuary of life, filled him with a silent pleasure. He gave a firm nod, a "yes" that needed no words.

"Great," she said, her face lighting up. She guided him to a long workbench at the back of the greenhouse. She found a tall, rustic stool for him. "Sit here, make yourself comfortable." In front of him was a stack of small terracotta pots and a large bag of potting soil, dark and rich. Helena picked up a small garden trowel. "Here, use this. It's easier."

Ilian took the tool. The wooden handle was smooth and worn from use. The task was simple. He dug the small trowel into the bag. The sound of the soil being shifted was soft and pleasant. He lifted the first scoop of earth, feeling its weight on the tool, and poured it carefully into one of the terracotta pots. The sound of the soil falling into the pot was hollow and satisfying.

He worked in silence, completely absorbed in the task. His mind, accustomed to complex equations, delighted in the simplicity of that act: scooping the soil, placing it in the pot, pressing lightly. There was no rush. Each pot was a small project, an act of creation.

As he worked, Helena moved through the greenhouse, tending to her other plants, and her voice became a constant, soothing presence. She asked him no questions. She just talked, sharing her world with him.

"These here are Richard’s orchids. He gives me one every now and then. They are temperamental, need constant attention, just like him," she said with a soft laugh. "And these little roses were my mother’s favorites. They remind me of her."

Her voice was a soft murmur, weaving stories around every leaf and every flower. She spoke of a seedling’s struggle to find the sun, of the resilience of a plant that survived a harsh winter. Ilian listened, his slow, repetitive task allowing his mind to absorb not just the words, but the feeling behind them. The love. The patience. The dedication.

He felt happy. A calm, deep happiness that didn't come from a victory or a compliment, but from a sense of belonging. That morning, in that warm greenhouse, with his hands dirty with soil and the sound of Helena’s voice wrapping around him, he wasn't an agency asset, he wasn't a survivor. He was just a young man, helping a mother in her garden. And he prolonged the moment as long as he could, filling each pot with reverent care, wishing that morning would never end.

Ilian filled the last pot, smoothing the dark earth with his fingers. He looked at the row of small terracotta containers, now ready to receive new lives. A feeling of silent satisfaction warmed him from the inside. He had done something. He had contributed.

Helena approached, her face wearing a radiant smile. "They look perfect, Ilian. Thank you very much." The compliment, so simple, left him with a warmth in his chest.

She looked at the sun, which was already high in the sky. "It's almost noon. Richard is coming home for lunch today." She turned to him, her eyes inviting him to be a part of her world even more completely. "Why don't you stay and eat with us? Richard should be arriving any moment."

The invitation was genuine, a natural continuation of the intimacy they had shared. A part of Ilian, the newly awakened part that had delighted in the conversation and working side by side, wanted to say yes. But another part, a much older and deeper part, felt a sudden and overwhelming exhaustion. His social battery, which barely existed, was completely drained. The idea of another meal, another conversation, however gentle, seemed like a mountain too steep to climb. He needed silence. He needed his refuge to process the torrent of new sensations from the morning.

He struggled to find the words, not wanting to be ungrateful or rude. "Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. Truly," he began in his low voice. "But... I need to rest a little."

The excuse was real, his body ached, but the reason ran deeper. Helena, with her empathetic wisdom, seemed to understand. She didn't insist. Her smile didn't waver. "Of course, my dear. I understand perfectly. You did a lot this morning. Go rest."

The goodbye was warm. Ilian left the damp, living cocoon of the greenhouse and returned to the crisp autumn air. The walk back, skirting the main house and crossing the lawn, was longer than he remembered. Now that the distraction of work and conversation had ended, the physical cost of his morning hit him hard. His right leg was a throbbing ember. His breathing became shorter, more labored. Every step was an effort.

When he finally reached the guest house door and closed it behind him, he leaned against it, panting, but happy. His mind was at peace.

After resting for a long time on the sofa, hunger called again. He limped to the kitchen, heated his meal, and ate in silence at his small table. Solitude was no longer a synonym for abandonment, it was a necessary space to recharge. It was peace. He ate well, his body crying out for the energy he had spent.

Satisfied and in control of his own pace, he knew exactly what he needed to do next. He went to the sofa, retrieved his secret notebook. It was time to record the morning. It was time to draw.

Chapter 35: The Two Notebooks

The guest house was silent, the outside world a calm painting on the other side of the glass. He opened the notebook, not to the pages filled with equations, but to a blank sheet. He needed to process, to record what had happened in the greenhouse.

He picked up a pencil, but he didn't start writing. He began to draw. His right hand, now more confident, moved over the paper, his mind focusing on the most powerful image in his memory. He didn't draw Helena’s face, nor the flowers. He drew his own hands, without the scars and in their complete form, resting on a mound of dark soil in a pot. And, over his, covering, protecting, Helena’s hand.

He concentrated on the details with an almost feverish intensity. The texture of her skin, marked by fine lines from a life of working in the garden. The way her fingers curved gently over his, in a gesture of total acceptance. It was the most intimate drawing he had ever made, a record not of an image, but of a feeling: the feeling of being touched without judgment.

Then, on the same page, he wrote in Polish. Not about the facts, but about the sensations. The warmth. The absence of judgment. The earth. The patience. The promise of a flower.

Satisfied, he flipped through the notebook, passing the drawing of the duck, his analysis of the chess game, and reached the pages where, in a fit of creativity, he had sketched Projekt Rodzina. He looked at the calculations, at the ideas. And he felt a dissonance, a break in harmony.

This notebook, he realized, was his diary. It contained his small victories, the drawing of Helena’s hands. It was personal.

Projekt Rodzina was something else. It was his secret work. His mission. His act of redemption. It was methodical, it was technical, it was dangerous. It needed a space of its own, a sanctuary separate from his heart.

With new clarity, he stood up. He went to the closet where the box of agency supplies was kept. Inside, untouched, was another black-covered notebook, identical to the first. He took it and sat back down. He opened the new notebook. The smell of new paper, a blank canvas for his purpose. On the first page, with his most precise and technical handwriting, he wrote the title:

Projekt Rodzina

With methodical concentration, he began to transfer, recreate, and expand his ideas. The sketches of the rescue drone. The equations for the low-frequency radar. The theories on detecting signs of life. The new notebook contained no emotions, it contained only logic, physics, and the architecture of hope.

The afternoon passed in productive silence. Ilian worked in his new notebook with fierce concentration. When the clock struck three in the afternoon, he stopped. He stored his two secret notebooks in the sofa hiding place and began his preparation routine.

The hot shower helped relieve the persistent ache in his muscles. He dressed, combed his hair. And this time, in an act of anticipation and confidence that would have shocked him a week ago, he didn't wait inside the house. He took his cane and went out into the garden, watching the golden late-afternoon light painting the leaves of the trees.

When Richard came out of the main house, his face lit up upon seeing Ilian already waiting for him outside, enjoying the afternoon sun. He approached, a warm smile on his face.

"Ilian! Look at that, today the weather is on our side. A beautiful day without rain, perfect for going back to that lake park." He looked at Ilian, who seemed calmer, more present.

"Yes, Professor. It is really beautiful."

The return to the park was different. The familiarity of the route was comforting. This time, Richard parked near an empty wooden bench that faced the most beautiful view of the lake. He turned off the car but didn't speak immediately.

"How about we get out for a bit?" he asked, his voice calm. "Just to sit on that bench."

Ilian looked at the bench, then at the professor. Getting out of the car. Being outdoors, in a public space, without the protection of metal and glass. His heart began to beat a little faster. But he remembered his victory on the trail, his new determination. He gave a nod.

Getting out of the car was an effort, but he managed it. The cold autumn air hit his face, more real, more intense than through an open window. Richard accompanied him to the bench, and he sat down with a sigh of relief, his leg protesting the morning's exertion.

"Wait here," Richard said.

Ilian watched him walk to a small kiosk and return with two brown paper bags. He handed one of the bags to Ilian. It was warm. The smell emanating from it was simple, toasted, and wonderful.

"Popcorn," Richard said. "Unsalted, as Dr. Evans would recommend."

Ilian opened the bag. The warmth spread through his cold fingers. He took a piece of popcorn and brought it to his mouth. It was the first time. The texture, at once soft and crunchy, the mild flavor of the corn. And the warmth. It was the simplest and most delicious thing he had ever tasted. With disarming sincerity and without a shred of self-pity, he spoke.

"It is the first time I've eaten warm popcorn."

The sentence, so innocent, hit Richard. He stopped eating his own popcorn and just looked at Ilian, who was now watching the ducks on the lake, completely absorbed in his new experience. The professor’s heart squeezed with painful tenderness. After a moment of silence, he made a paternal observation.

"It's incredible," he said. "I imagine your total dedication to your studies, from such a young age, didn't give you much time for... simple things like this." He shook his head, looking at the lake. "Still, it's surprising. You seem to have missed so much in life for someone who is already 34 years old."

Ilian, absorbed in the happiness of eating his warm popcorn while watching the ducks, replied automatically, correcting a simple factual error without realizing the magnitude of what he was saying.

"I am 25."

The short, casual sentence hung in the air for an instant before falling into the afternoon silence. Richard froze. His hand, halfway to his mouth, stopped. Twenty-five. The number echoed in his mind, shattering everything. Twenty-five. The agency's lie, so casual, so cruel. His own secret connection to Ilian, based on the age his late son would have been, revealed itself as a manipulation. And the youth. The unbelievable youth of that young man, who already carried the weight of several lifetimes of suffering. His compassion transformed into something fiercer, darker: a cold fury.

While Richard’s world crumbled silently, Ilian, oblivious to the emotional storm, continued enjoying his moment of peace. His mind, finally free from hypervigilance, was focused only on simple sensations: the warmth of the popcorn bag, the taste of the corn, the beauty of the lake. He pointed to a group of ducks taking flight.

"Look, Professor," he said, his voice holding a tone of pure childlike curiosity, not noticing the lack of response. "The 'V' formation. To reduce aerodynamic drag for those behind. It is... efficient."

He continued eating the popcorn, a small smile on his lips, lost in the beauty of the natural world's physics, completely unaware of the heavy silence beside him, of the pallor on the professor’s face, of the clenched jaw.

Richard needed to get away. He needed a moment to breathe, to hide the shock and fury that were surely stamped on his face. He stood up abruptly. "I think the popcorn made me thirsty. I'm going to get some water. I'll be right back."

"Alright," Ilian replied, without even turning around, his gaze still fixed on the ducks.

Richard turned and began walking back toward the kiosk, his steps fast and rigid. And as he walked, his mind was a whirlwind, the pieces of the Ilian puzzle fitting together with horrible clarity.

Twenty-five.

The agency had said thirty-four. The age of his lost son. A coincidence, they said. Now, the coincidence looked like a cynical and cruel manipulation.

The official story began to unravel in his mind. They told him Ilian Jansen, a PhD from the Technical University of Munich, was a prodigy who already led projects in Germany. A precocious genius, yes. Richard had always found the timeline a bit... compressed. Someone at 34 having that resume was remarkable. But at 25? It was impossible. His academic career, his degrees... were a fraud.

And the accident. A tragic workplace accident. A fall from a platform during a field test. It explained the leg. But it didn't explain what he had seen earlier. The fine, white, perfectly parallel lines on Ilian’s forearm. The small round, aligned scars. That wasn't shrapnel. That wasn't a fall. That was method. That was torture.

And his behavior. The requests for permission. The chess story, playing to lose to appease "people" who didn't like being beaten. Those weren't the habits of an eccentric academic colleague. They were the reflexes of a prisoner. He reached the kiosk, bought two bottles of water in a trance, barely seeing the person in front of him. The truth hit him with the force of a wave.

He wasn't helping a fellow scientist who had suffered an accident. He was harboring a young man who had been broken, exploited, and tortured since he was a child.

His anger against Miller, against the agency, against the system that had used him, solidified, transforming from a hot emotion into a determination as cold as ice. As he walked back, his decision was made. The project, the deadlines, his career... none of it mattered anymore. His mission, from that moment on, was to protect that young man. Not in memory of a dead son, but for the sake of the young man who was alive, sitting on that bench, oblivious to the silent war that had just been declared in his name.

When he returned, his face no longer showed shock. It was calm, but it was a different calm. A harder, more resolute calm. He sat down and handed the bottle of water to Ilian, who accepted it with gratitude, still happy and floating in his newfound peace.

The sun began to set, painting the sky orange and purple. Richard, now with his decision made, knew he couldn't ruin that rare moment of peace for Ilian. "The sun is going down, Ilian," he said, his voice calm, though a little tense. "I think it's time we head back."

The trip back was made in a silence unlike any other. For Ilian, it was a comfortable, end-of-day silence. He was tired but happy, watching the city lights come on. But gradually, he began to notice something. The professor’s silence wasn't relaxed. He saw the way Richard’s hands gripped the steering wheel with unnecessary force, the tension in his jaw, the distant and somber look in his eyes when he thought Ilian wasn't looking.

Ilian didn't understand the cause, but he recognized the symptom. That was the look of a man carrying a burden. His logical mind reached the most obvious conclusion: the professor was exhausted. The day had been long for him too. Ilian felt a pang of guilt.

They arrived at the guest house. Before Richard could turn off the car, Ilian, in an act of social courage, turned to him.

"Professor..." he began, his voice low but clear. "You seem... very tired."

Richard was caught off guard by the direct observation. "It's been a long day," he replied evasively.

"Tomorrow..." Ilian continued, "you don't need to worry about me. I already have a plan. Just... read a little, enjoy the quiet of the house." He paused, his offer coming out with hesitant sincerity. "It would be better for you to take the time to rest a little. Be with your family." He added, to reassure him, "Don't worry. Tomorrow I have physical therapy. I intend to rest well tonight."

Richard was completely disarmed. He was trying to protect Ilian from his own turmoil, and in response, Ilian was, innocently, trying to protect him from his "tiredness." That act of reciprocal care, of empathy, coming from that young man the world had tried to dehumanize, was deeply moving.

His voice came out a little thick. "Thank you, Ilian. That is... very thoughtful of you. Maybe you're right."

The goodbye was short. Stepping out of the car, Ilian felt satisfied, not just about his day, but about having managed, perhaps, to help a little. Richard watched him enter the house and then returned to his own, the weight on his heart now a little lighter, but his steely resolve even stronger.

Chapter 36: The Price of Victory

Wednesday began with the same cold determination as Monday. Ilian woke up, his body already tense in anticipation. Nine in the morning was his battle hour.

He followed his new routine with almost military discipline. The hot shower to loosen his muscles. The black, bitter coffee. And again, an apple eaten slowly in the kitchen, an act of nourishing the body for the effort to come. Then, his silent, daily rebellion: at the sink, he separated the two "extra" pills from the agency and watched them disappear down the drain before taking his usual dose.

When David and Ben rang the doorbell, Ilian was already waiting for them in the living room, dressed in his partial armor: the long-sleeved T-shirt and shorts. He received them with a mute nod and followed them to the physical therapy room.

The next hour and a half was a hell of controlled pain. Faithful to his new strategy, Ilian didn't fight the therapists, he fought his own limits. He embraced the pain as a necessary price. Every stretch that made him hold his breath was the cost to be able to bend down one day. Every minute on the treadmill that made his legs burn was the payment for the freedom to walk in a forest. He was cooperative, focused, and silent, turning the pain into fuel.

When the session ended, he was completely demolished, soaked in sweat, but he hadn't broken. David, satisfied with the progress and cooperation, gave him a nod of approval. "Good work, Mr. Jansen. On Friday, we increase the resistance."

They left. Ilian was left alone in the room. He dragged himself to the sofa, applied ice to his knee and hand, and closed his eyes, his body vibrating with exhaustion, but his mind strangely at peace. He had paid the day's price.

After resting, hunger returned. He ate a good lunch and felt his strength returning slowly. The rest of the afternoon was his. He didn't pick up the agency project material. He went straight to his sanctuary on the sofa and took out his second notebook. Projekt Rodzina.

He worked for hours, happy, completely absorbed in his world of logic and hope. Physical pain became background noise, irrelevant. His only focus was the challenge of creating.

Late in the afternoon, Ilian was so immersed in his calculations that he barely heard the light knock at the front door. It was only on the second knock, a bit firmer, that he raised his head, his mind returning slowly from the world of equations.

He stored the notebook in his hiding place and, body stiff from sitting so long, limped to the door. It was Elara. She wasn't bringing dinner this time, she held a rectangular package, carefully wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with string.

"Ilian," she said with a small, hesitant smile on her face. "Sorry to bother you. I was at a bookstore downtown, sorting out some things for the university..." She hesitated, as if she were nervous. "I saw this and... well, I thought of you."

She held out the package.

Ilian froze. A gift. Wrapped. For him. His brain couldn't process the information. He didn't know what to do.

"It's just a small token. I hope you like it," she said softly.

He took the package clumsily, the touch of the rustic paper and the weight of the object inside strangely real. He remained at the threshold of the door, his body creating the usual barrier, unable to invite her in.

She turned and left. Ilian closed the door, feeling a mix of relief that the interaction was over and a strange, uncomfortable feeling of guilt for his own coldness.

He stood in the middle of the silent room, looking at the package in his hands. Then, moving to the kitchen table with clumsy slowness, using mostly the fingers of his right hand, he undid the knot of the string with great difficulty. The brown paper opened, revealing a book. The cover was a deep blue, and the title was embossed in silver letters: "Celestial Atlas: A Field Guide to the Northern Constellations."

The air rushed out of his lungs.

The stars. Elara... had heard, remembered, and acted.

He opened the book. The pages were thick, filled with beautiful illustrations of star maps and color photographs of nebulas. It was an incredible gift.

The guilt for how he had treated her at the door hit him hard. She had made a gesture of pure, thoughtful kindness, and he had received her with a wall of coldness. He didn't understand why her presence made him so tense, so awkward, in a way that Richard and Helena didn't. But in that moment, holding the book, he made a silent promise to himself: Next time, I will try to do better.

Before sitting back down, his daily routine called him. He went to the small pot of the amaryllis in the window. With his finger, he touched the soil. It was dry on the surface. Following Helena’s instructions, he went to the kitchen, filled a small glass with water, and with extreme care, gave his plant a drink.

Then, finally, he sat on the sofa with Elara’s gift. He began to leaf through it, his mind recognizing the familiar patterns of Orion, and a small, genuine, calm smile formed on his lips. In that moment, surrounded by silence and stars, he felt at peace.

Chapter 37: The Anxiety of Waiting

Thursday dawned peacefully. It was a day without physical therapy, a day of rest that Ilian planned to enjoy. He woke up, his body still aching from the previous day's session, but his mind was calm.

He followed his new routine with silent discipline: the hot shower to loosen his muscles, the black coffee and an apple, and his daily ritual of rebellion at the sink, discarding the two extra pills from the agency before taking his usual dose. He took his walk on the trail, returned, and after a solitary lunch, dove into his two sanctuaries: first, the "Celestial Atlas" Elara had given him, feeling again that pang of guilt for his coldness, and then, his more serious work, Projekt Rodzina.

The day passed productively and peacefully. Ilian was grateful for the silence he himself had asked of Richard. He assumed the professor was simply enjoying a well-deserved rest.

But when the clock on the kitchen wall passed four in the afternoon, a new sensation began to infiltrate his concentration. A restlessness of anxiety. It was the time the professor usually appeared for their drives. Ilian tried to focus on his calculations, but his gaze kept drifting to the window, to the gravel path.

The hours dragged on. Five o'clock. Then five-thirty. The house was too quiet.

His logical mind began to analyze the facts. The professor had looked exhausted in the park on Tuesday. His reaction to the popcorn had been strange. His departure, abrupt. And he hadn't visited him at all on Wednesday. Ilian’s worry wasn't about himself, it wasn't a fear of abandonment. It was genuine concern. The professor had looked so tired. Was he sick? The idea that the professor, his only protector, might be ill because of him filled him with a cold dread.

Close to six in the evening, the anxiety was almost unbearable. He limped to the front door and looked at the main house, now with lights on against the growing darkness. He thought about going over there, knocking on the door, just to see if everything was okay. But the fear of crossing that boundary uninvited, of being a burden, paralyzed him. He retreated.

It was then that he saw him. A figure leaving the main house and walking slowly across the lawn toward him. Richard.

Ilian didn't wait. He opened the door and stood on the threshold, relief flooding through him.

Richard approached, holding a heavy, old book. His walk to the guest house had been deliberate. He had, in fact, avoided Ilian for a while. He had needed more than a day to process the shock. Twenty-five. Ilian’s casual revelation had detonated a bomb in his life. The anger he felt at the agency's manipulation, using his dead son’s age as a cynical tool, had settled, transforming into a determination as cold as ice. He was no longer a host; he was a protector.

Upon reaching the porch, he saw the relief on Ilian’s face and realized, with a squeeze of his heart, that his necessary absence had been, for the young man, a source of anguish.

"Professor!" Ilian said, his voice a little louder than usual. "I... was worried. I thought you were sick."

"Sorry for my absence, Ilian," his voice calm as always, the gentle lie already prepared. "Today was very complicated at the university." Richard indicated the book by Kessler he was carrying. "But I didn't forget our conversation." He looked toward the kitchen, smelling an unmade meal. "Have you had dinner? I can wait."

"No. I... would you accept one of my 'astronaut rations'?"

The invitation, the second time Ilian had made it, made Richard smile, breaking the tension. "I accept with pleasure."

The following scene was one of quiet domesticity. Ilian limped to the kitchen, and Richard followed him, sitting at the small table like a patient guest, placing Kessler’s book on the table. Ilian prepared the two meals in the microwave, his movements still clumsy but deliberate, as he set out the plates and cutlery.

When Ilian finally sat at the table, they began to eat. The silence was easy now, filled only by the sound of silverware. It was Richard who broke it, his voice gentle, that of a father testing the waters.

"So," he said, "how did you spend your day off? Did you manage to rest?"

"It was... peaceful," he hesitated, and then, remembering his promise to "try to do better," made an effort to continue. "Elara brought me a book. An atlas of the stars."

Richard’s face lit up with a genuine smile. "Ah, yes, the 'Celestial Atlas'! She showed it to me before bringing it over. She was worried, didn't know if you would like it."

Ilian felt that familiar pang of guilt for his coldness at the door the day before. "It was... very kind of her."

Richard put down his fork. His tone became more serious, more intimate. "She cares about you, Ilian. She just... doesn't quite know how to connect." He paused, choosing his words with the care of a surgeon. "The other day, the night you had a fever, she told me you are like an oyster. That she is afraid of forcing the shell. But that she is very curious to know what you protect."

Ilian fell silent, processing the metaphor. An oyster. It was a perfect description for how he felt, the need to close up tight at the slightest sign of danger. He understood, for the first time, that his barrier wasn't just felt by him; it was felt by her too.

Seeing that Ilian was thoughtful, Richard decided it was time to change the subject. He pointed to the old book resting on the edge of the table.

"Now that we've eaten," he said with a glint of academic anticipation in his eyes, "can we start our hunt for this 'inconsistency' in Kessler’s work?"

Ilian looked at the book. The dark cover, the author’s name embossed in faded gold letters. The weight of that name. The mere sight of the object was a trigger. The cozy kitchen disappeared.

He was fourteen years old. He was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a windowless room at the German military base. In front of him, Professor Albrecht Kessler, a man of vibrant energy, moved like a storm in front of a whiteboard covered in complex equations about electromagnetic wave propagation. Kessler’s voice was firm, filling the small room, speaking for hours on end, without pause, without questions, just the torrent of his own genius.

Ilian tried to keep up. His mind absorbed the math, saw the patterns, but he was exhausted from not being able to disagree, not being able to inquire. The monotony of the voice, the lack of fresh air, the discreet hum of the fluorescent lights... his attention began to waver. His gaze drifted to his own hand, resting on the table, and he began to trace a grain in the laminated wood with his finger, lost for an instant in the simple geometry of a natural pattern.

Something hit his arm hard. He jumped in his chair, heart racing, his startled gaze fixing on the object now on the floor beside him: a whiteboard eraser.

Kessler was standing still, face red with fury, breathing heavy. "You were not paying attention!" The accusation was a roar.

"I... sorry, Professor, I..." the boy stammered, his arm throbbing where the eraser had hit him.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Kessler sneered, approaching the desk, his imposing presence looming over the cowering boy. "Do you understand the privilege you have? Having private lessons with me? Your mind is a valuable resource, Ilian, but discipline is essential! Getting distracted by... nothing! It is an insult!" He pointed to the door. "Get out. Go to your room. I don't want to see you anymore. No dinner for you tonight. Perhaps hunger will help you value the knowledge I offer."

Ilian stood up quickly, fear and humiliation burning on his face, and left the room, the sound of Kessler’s voice still echoing behind him.

"...Ilian?"

The gentle voice pulled him back from the cold past to the present. He blinked, disoriented. Richard was watching him from across the table, his brow furrowed in an expression of pure concern. Kessler’s book was open between them, but the professor wasn't looking at the book. He was looking at Ilian.

"Are you okay?" Richard asked, his voice low, cautious. "You seemed very far away. Do you want to stop for today?"

The genuine concern on Richard’s face, the offer to stop without any sign of irritation, was the opposite of Kessler’s fury. The contrast was so shocking that Ilian felt his throat tighten. Instinct, trained by years of abuse, screamed for him to apologize profusely.

"Sorry, Professor," he said quickly, his voice a little shaky. "I... got distracted. I didn't mean to be disrespectful."

Richard waved a hand, dismissing the apology. "Don't worry about that, Ilian. It wasn't disrespectful at all." He gave a small, understanding smile. "I recognize a distant look when I see one. I've seen it plenty in my own classes." His lightness normalized the moment, removing the weight of Ilian’s "failure." "But are you sure you want to continue? We can leave it for another day."

Richard’s kindness gave Ilian the strength to compose himself. He didn't want to run away. He wanted to play his game. He took a deep breath, finding his academic composure again.

"I'm sure, Professor. Thank you." He looked at the book, using it as an anchor. "Kessler... yes. I had some 'classes' with him." He used the word with a slight hesitation Richard didn't catch, but which for Ilian was loaded with meaning. "The way he presented certain concepts could be... dense. Not always easy to follow the reasoning."

Richard’s face lit up with genuine interest. "You had classes with him? What a privilege!" His voice was full of admiration. "I only had the opportunity to meet him briefly, years ago. He gave a memorable lecture here at the university. A man of imposing presence and an intelligence... truly admirable." Richard paused, connecting with Ilian’s observation. "Although, I agree, his rigor could make his explanations quite... challenging."

Ilian seized the cue, the perfect opportunity for his intellectual game. "'Challenging' is a good word, Professor," he agreed, validating Richard’s perception and, subtly, his own difficulty, though for very different reasons. "And that is precisely why, perhaps to ensure we are starting from exactly the same point..." He made the request sound like a need for alignment between colleagues, not a student’s question. "...could you revisit with me his central premise on Doppler shift? The way he approaches it fundamentally?"

Richard looked at him, perhaps a little surprised by the request coming from someone he already considered an intellectual peer, but his passion for teaching spoke louder. "Of course, Ilian. With pleasure!" He turned the book again so both could see the equations, entering his professor mode with enthusiasm. "Well, Kessler’s dogma is elegant because it is simple. He postulates that harmonic resonance, generated by the wave’s interaction with atmospheric particles, is, in essence, background noise, an artifact. Therefore, his entire system relies on creating extremely efficient filters to eliminate this resonance and isolate the 'pure' signal of the Doppler shift caused by the object's movement..."

"But why?" Ilian interrupted, his question deliberately simple, planting the first seed of doubt with the calculated innocence of a strategist. "Why does he treat it as noise? What was his experimental basis for discarding that information?"

Richard stopped, his explanation interrupted. The question, though it seemed basic, touched on the core of the theory's acceptance. He looked at Ilian, no longer as a professor to a student, but as a scientist confronted by another. His smile became thoughtful. "Well, that is the genius of the theory, Ilian. He proved mathematically that the resonance contained no useful information for the trajectory. The math is robust..."

"The math describes the model," Ilian countered, his voice calm, but with a firmness that surprised Richard. "But what if the model is incomplete? What if the 'noise' he filters... contains the key to predicting the anomalies in the shift that his theory cannot explain?"

Richard stopped completely. Intellectual admiration replaced any remnant of "lecture" mode. Ilian’s question was no longer basic, it was fundamental. He looked at the young man, at the unexpected depth of that line of reasoning. Their intellectual "chess game" had resumed, but at a much higher level than he expected.

The discussion that followed was intense, lasting almost two hours. Ilian, with consummate skill, offered no answers, only questions. He pointed out small anomalies in published data, cited from memory obscure articles that subtly contradicted Kessler’s premises, forcing Richard to defend the theory, to revisit its foundations, to confront his own academic certainties. Ilian was planting seeds, watering them with logical doubts, satisfied to see Richard’s brilliant mind begin to work on the problem in a new way.

When they finally took a break, the small kitchen was charged with the energy of intellectual discovery. Richard was visibly stimulated, his eyes shining with the challenge.

"Incredible, Ilian," he said, closing the book with a soft snap. "You've given me a lot to think about." He looked at his watch. "Look at the time! I really need to go."

Richard stood up, but stopped at the door, his mind clearly still working on the problem. He turned to Ilian, a new plan forming in his eyes. "By the way, about tomorrow." He paused, his expression becoming a little more serious. "I've been thinking. One night at the cabin seems... rushed. Too little time to really relax." He looked at Ilian attentively. "I spoke with George and Arthur, and they agreed. We decided to extend it a little. We'll leave tomorrow after your physical therapy session, as planned, but we'll return only on Sunday late afternoon. We'll have a whole day of peace at the cabin, no rush."

Ilian fell silent, absorbing the information. The change was abrupt. One night away was already a huge leap out of his comfort zone. Two nights, three days... His mind calculated the variables: the absence of his routine, the constant presence of strangers. Fear, a cold and familiar instinct, began to creep beneath the anticipation. Although his face remained relatively neutral, there was an almost imperceptible hesitation in his eyes, a slight stiffening of his shoulders that didn't escape Richard’s watchful gaze.

The professor noticed immediately. He softened his expression, his voice becoming gentler, more reassuring. "I know it's a last-minute change, Ilian. And it's a bigger step." He moved a little closer to the table again, closing the physical and emotional distance. "Listen, the idea is just to relax. Fresh air, silence. George and Arthur are calm people, just good company. But...", and here his voice took on the weight of an unshakable promise, "...if at any moment, for any reason, you don't feel comfortable, if you want to come back, we come back. Immediately. No questions, no explanations. You tell me, and we get in the car. Understood?"

The offer of the "escape valve," the guarantee of control over his own situation, was what Ilian needed. The pressure eased. The fear didn't disappear, but it became manageable, outweighed by the trust he placed in this man. He looked at Richard, seeing the sincerity and quiet strength in his eyes.

"Thank you very much," he said, and this time, the firmness in his voice wasn't just a facade, but a reflection of the safety Richard had offered him.

Chapter 38: The Box and the Battle

Sleep had been an elusive visitor, disturbed by an undercurrent of anxiety. Ilian woke long before sunrise, the darkness of the room still dense and silent. His body ached with the familiarity of muscle exhaustion, a constant reminder of the price of his new determination. But it wasn't physical pain keeping him awake. It was anticipation. Today was physical therapy day again, the last battle of the week. And then... the trip. Three days away. The biggest incursion into the outside world since his arrival.

He lay there for a while, listening to the silence, his mind already going over the challenges. The session with David and Ben. The interaction with Richard’s friends. The very logistics of being away from his refuge for so long. The anxiety was a constant restlessness beneath the surface of his forced calm.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore, he began the slow and painful process of getting up. The hot shower helped relax him a little. Then, dressed in his usual uniform, he went to the kitchen. He ate his ritual apple, the flavor a welcome contrast in the quiet of the dawn. He drank his coffee, the bitter liquid warming his insides. And finally, he fulfilled his routine at the sink: discarding the two extra pills before swallowing his prescribed dose. Every act was a step in his silent preparation.

With the morning routine complete, the practical task remained: packing. He limped to the wardrobe. The view was monotonous, a sea of gray and black. Gray long-sleeved T-shirts, dark trousers, black or white socks. Functional, anonymous clothes provided by the agency. He picked out two changes of clothes, enough for three days. He folded them with almost military precision on the bed. He added his few personal hygiene items: toothbrush, toothpaste, comb. And, most importantly, he went to the kitchen counter where his weekly pill organizer sat. Carefully, he detached the sections corresponding to the next three days—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—his portable and rigidly controlled pharmacy.

Everything was there, a small pile of basic necessities on the comforter. And then, he realized. He had nowhere to put his belongings. No suitcase, no backpack. A flash of memory surfaced: the small dark canvas bag the agent had given him at the airport, the one containing his initial arsenal of pills and bottles, the one Richard had carried. Where was it?

He looked quickly around the room. In the back of the wardrobe? No. He opened the dresser drawers, finding only more of the same—agency clothes, still folded. The bag had disappeared. A cold certainty settled in. Harris. Or the cleaning crew must have taken it, deemed superfluous, an item not listed in the inventory. Just another small piece of his arrival, of his transition, erased by the agency's impersonal efficiency. He owned nothing that hadn't been given to him recently, nothing linking him to a past, however fragmented.

His gaze swept the room again, frustration giving way to weary resignation. It was then that he saw, in a corner, the cardboard boxes, still stacked. Some contained diagrams and technical documents he hadn't yet bothered to study—remnants of the work awaiting him. They were sturdy boxes, labeled with barcodes and impersonal acronyms.

He approached and chose one of the smallest. With a resigned sigh, he removed the rolls of schematics and folders of documents from inside. The box was now empty. Carefully, he placed the folded clothes inside the box. The hygiene items. The medicine bottles, cushioned so they wouldn't break. He closed the flaps of the box. He didn't seal it. It was his "suitcase."

He set the cardboard box on a small table near the front door. He looked at it. That object, containing his life for the next three days. It was a perfect symbol of his existence: functional, improvised, out of place.

He looked at the clock. Time was running out. The hour for physical therapy was approaching. He took a deep breath, pushing the image of the box to the back of his mind. There was a more immediate battle to be fought first.

The doorbell rang a little before nine. David and Ben entered with their usual efficiency. Ilian was already waiting for them in the living room, prepared in his shorts.

The session was brutal. Just as promised, David increased the intensity. The treadmill exercises were longer, the resistance on the pulleys heavier. Ilian fought. He pushed his body to the absolute limit, the pain a constant, blinding presence. Even though he groaned several times, he didn't complain. He just grit his teeth and continued, turning the agony into fuel.

When the session ended, he was on the verge of collapse, muscles trembling, sweat dripping onto the floor. But he hadn't given up. David, although his face remained impassive, gave him a brief nod. "Good progress, Mr. Jansen. Monday, we’ll continue."

As David collected his tablet, Ben, who was putting away one of the handheld devices, hesitated for an instant and then looked at Ilian, who was still trying to catch his breath. His expression was more neutral than David’s, perhaps a little less harsh.

"Have a good weekend fishing, Mr. Jansen," Ben said, his voice calm.

The words hit Ilian with a small shock. Fishing? How did he know? For an instant, he felt his privacy violated, his small escape exposed. But the surprise was immediately swallowed by a cold wave of resignation. Of course he knows. He thought. They know everything. He didn't reply, just gave a nod, his gaze returning to the floor.

David and Ben left. Ilian was alone, struggling to catch his breath. The worst was over. He barely had time to stand up when he heard the doorbell ring again.

A low groan of frustration escaped his lips. There was no truce. With a monumental effort, he composed himself minimally, grabbed his cane, and made the slow, agonizing walk to the door.

It was Dr. Evans. His expression was professional, but there was a touch of sympathy in his eyes upon seeing Ilian’s state, pale, soaked in sweat, clearly suffering.

"Ilian," the doctor said, entering without waiting for a formal invitation. "Sorry to show up like this without notice, but the agency requested it."

The agency. The word confirmed what Ben’s mention had already insinuated. They knew everything. They controlled everything. Ilian just stepped back, giving way, resigned.

"I just need to do a quick check-up and take a blood sample," the doctor explained as he placed his bag on the coffee table. "Standard protocol. They need my formal clearance before your fishing trip this weekend." He said the last part with a neutral tone, but the look he exchanged with Ilian contained a silent understanding of the bureaucracy governing the young man’s life.

Ilian sat on the sofa, offering minimal resistance. The trip. The clearance. It was just another formality, more proof that he was an asset to be monitored.

Dr. Evans was quick and efficient. He checked Ilian’s pulse, briefly listened to his lungs, asked a few questions about how he felt after physical therapy, to which Ilian responded with monosyllables. Then, the doctor prepared the blood collection materials.

"Left arm, please," he requested.

With the same weary resignation, Ilian extended his arm and pulled up his sleeve. He felt the familiar prick of the needle. He watched his own blood, dark and vital, fill the small tubes, a clinical violation that had already become routine.

"All done," the doctor said, withdrawing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the spot, finishing with a small bandage. He stored the tubes carefully. "From what I see, everything looks stable enough for a quiet weekend." He met Ilian’s gaze, his voice taking on a more personal, careful tone. "Remember to take your medication organizers, Ilian. All of them. And please, try to keep to the schedule as closely as possible, even while away. It is important."

He paused, observing the tension in Ilian’s shoulders, the way he avoided prolonged eye contact. "I know meeting new people can be... draining," the doctor said, his voice soft, without any condescension. "If you feel anxiety rising, remember what you were taught in the hospital: breathe in slowly through your nose, count to four, hold for a moment, and then exhale slowly through your mouth, counting to six. Do this a few times. It helps calm the nervous system, to focus on the present. It's a simple tool, but it can make a difference."

"I'll remember," Ilian replied.

He packed his things quickly. "Well, you're cleared for the fishing trip. Have a good weekend." With a final professional nod, the doctor left, leaving a heavy silence behind.

Alone again. The house was quiet. Ilian felt completely drained, his body a battlefield after two invasions, the physical and the medical. He had no strength to move. He just stayed there, curled up on the sofa. He needed to rest before the trip, but his body was too agitated by pain and violation.

It was a movement outside the large glass door that pulled him from his stupor. He raised his head in time to see Dr. Evans stop on the gravel path, intercepted by Richard, who was coming from the main house. The two men stood talking for a few minutes. Ilian couldn't hear the words, but he watched the exchange of gestures, the serious expression on Richard’s face as he listened to the doctor, who gestured toward the guest house. Richard nodded gravely, and then the two said goodbye. The doctor went to his car, and Richard resumed his path toward Ilian.

Ilian watched him approach, his heart beating with a mix of exhaustion and the anticipation of departure. He made no move to get up. Richard knocked lightly on the door but opened it immediately, entering with a familiar calm.

"Sorry to barge in like this, Ilian," he said, his voice low and full of concern upon seeing Ilian’s state on the sofa. He carried a covered plate in one hand. "I saw you through the window, I didn't want to make you get up. Robert told me the morning was... demanding." He approached and revealed the contents of the plate: scrambled eggs, simple and looking soft, still steaming slightly. "Helena made this for you just now. Protein, easy to digest. She insisted you eat something substantial before traveling."

Ilian looked at the plate. The gentle smell of simple food reached him, a comforting contrast to the smell of rubbing alcohol from the doctor’s visit. The simple sight of care, the fact that Helena had cooked specifically for him in that moment, hit him. He lifted tired eyes to Richard.

"Thank you, Professor," he murmured, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. He paused, gathering strength. "Please... thank Mrs. Anderson for me. It looks very good." The gratitude was genuine, though veiled by his immense fatigue.

Ilian’s small effort to respond, to give thanks, made Richard smile softly. "I will tell her. She'll be happy to know." Seeing that Ilian had accepted the food, he continued with his practical plan. "I'm just going to get a spoon for you." He went quickly to the kitchen, the sound of his familiar footsteps a brief interlude in the silence, and returned with the utensil.

He placed the spoon next to the plate, his gaze meeting Ilian’s, full of silent understanding. "Eat this slowly. Then take a hot shower, if you can manage it. Relax your muscles. I need to sort out a few last things at home. I'll be back to get you in... let's say, two hours. Does that give you enough time?"

Two hours. Time to eat. Time for a shower. Time to breathe. It was an unexpected gift of recovery. Ilian felt a wave of gratitude for the professor’s perception and care. He managed a tired nod.

"Great," Richard said. "See you in a bit, then. The trip is a little long and you'll be able to rest more in the car, we'll take our time."

With a final worried but encouraging look, Richard left, closing the door softly behind him. Ilian was left alone with the plate of warm eggs and the promise of a brief rest before his great adventure began. The trip. The temporary escape.

Chapter 39: The Departure

The two hours passed in a limbo of forced recovery. Ilian ate the scrambled eggs slowly, the warmth and substance calming his rebellious stomach. Each spoonful was an act of will, an investment in the energy he would need for the trip. Then, the slow pilgrimage to the bathroom.

The hot shower was more than cleansing, it was a balm. He let the water run over his tense shoulders, over back muscles that screamed silently, over the leg that throbbed with the memory of physical therapy. He looked at himself in the steamed-up mirror. The ritual, now familiar: he shaved with care, the blade gliding over his skin. He combed his damp hair back.

He dressed in his usual armor. There was one last task. He went to the small table near the window and picked up the small pot of amaryllis. The soil was dark and damp from the day before. He carried it carefully to the front door and placed it on the small table, next to the cardboard box containing his belongings. A silent request. He left the door slightly ajar, an invitation, before returning to the sofa.

The wait began. He sat on the sofa, body heavy, mind floating between exhaustion and a vibrating anxiety. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was the tension of the unknown. He listened to the distant sounds of the property—a bird's song. The silence inside the house was absolute. The sound of firm footsteps on the gravel announced Richard’s arrival. Ilian didn't get up immediately.

Richard entered. His gaze found Ilian on the sofa, already dressed and ready, though visibly exhausted. A smile of relief and approval appeared on the professor’s face.

"Ah, Ilian, ready already! Good," he said with a smile. "Don't worry about being tired now. You'll be able to rest plenty in the car, we're in no rush." He looked around, noting the order in the house. "Well, then I guess we're ready to go." His gaze searched for some luggage. "Where is your bag?"

Ilian began the slow process of standing up, leaning on his cane. His voice was low, almost a murmur, as he gave a slight nod toward the entrance. "It's all there. In the box."

Richard followed Ilian’s gesture. His gaze landed first on the small pot of amaryllis, carefully placed on the table near the door. The understanding of Ilian’s silent request hit him immediately, warming his heart. "Ah, the amaryllis! Good idea, Ilian," he said, his voice full of tenderness. "I'll make sure Helena takes care of it while you're away."

It was only then that his gaze fixed on the object next to the plant. A cardboard box, medium-sized, with the flaps simply folded, not sealed. A box identical to those that contained Ilian’s work materials. It took a second for Richard’s brain to process it. That. That was the "bag."

A wave of sadness almost wiped away his smile. The image of Ilian, alone in that house, emptying a work box to be able to carry his few clothes and medicines... it was an image of a loneliness and a lack of resources that left him momentarily speechless. Anger against the agency, against their impersonal negligence, simmered silently beneath the surface. He understood, once again, the extent of the dehumanization this young man had been subjected to.

He took a moment to compose his expression, forcing a neutral tone so as not to alarm Ilian, who was now standing, waiting patiently. With a care that was almost reverent, Richard leaned down and picked up the plant pot first, and then the cardboard box.

"Right," he said, his voice a little hoarser than usual. "Helena and Elara are waiting for us outside to say goodbye. Shall we?"

The mention of them waiting increased Ilian’s anxiety a little, but he just nodded, leaning on his cane. Richard waited patiently at the open door, holding the improvised "bag" and the plant with a care that contrasted with the nature of the objects.

Together, they stepped out into the early afternoon. The walk to the car, parked on the main driveway, was slow. As they approached the car, they saw the two women waiting near the open back door of the vehicle. Helena had a warm smile, but her eyes were full of worry as she observed Ilian’s slowness and pallor. Elara was a little further back, a small smile on her lips, but her quick glance darted to the cardboard box in her father’s hands, a wrinkle of curiosity furrowing her brow for an instant before disappearing.

Richard placed the amaryllis pot carefully on the ground first, near the car wheel, and then deposited the cardboard box in the trunk with an almost reverent delicacy.

Helena turned to Ilian, who had stopped a few steps away, leaning on his cane. "Ilian, dear, take care, yes? Eat well. And try to rest. You'll like the place very much; it's beautiful." She hesitated, clearly wanting to hug him, but held back, offering only a smile full of affection. "And bring Richard back in one piece!"

"Safe travels, Dad. Safe travels, Ilian," Elara said, her voice clear. Her gaze met Ilian’s for a brief second, a flash of genuine sympathy, before looking away.

Ilian felt his face heat up under the focus of their attention. He managed only to murmur an almost inaudible "Thank you very much," giving a slight nod to both.

Richard picked up the amaryllis pot and handed it to Helena, saying an affectionate goodbye to his wife and daughter, then opened the passenger door for Ilian. Getting into the car was an effort, the fatigue and pain of the morning taking their toll. Once Ilian was settled, Richard closed the door. Then, he walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat.

The car pulled away from the property, the soft sound of tires on gravel giving way to the glide of asphalt. Ilian rested his head on the soft leather of the seat, the morning’s exhaustion weighing on him like a lead blanket. The pain was a constant presence, a dull throb in his leg, a general stiffness in muscles that had been pushed to the limit.

He looked out the window. The familiar trees of the property gave way to the quiet streets of the neighborhood, with their imposing houses and manicured gardens, bathed in the strong light of the early afternoon. He observed the architectural details of an old house, the way the light hit the bricks. His mind, hungry for stimuli that weren't pain or work, absorbed everything with silent curiosity.

Richard drove with experienced calm, hands steady on the wheel. He cast a discreet glance at Ilian. He saw the tiredness, but also noticed the silent interest with which he watched the landscape. Wanting to make the trip as comfortable as possible, Richard broke the silence.

"If you want to listen to some music..." he began casually, his hand moving to the sound system control panel. "Any preference?"

Ilian turned his face from the window, his expression neutral. The answer was low, but absolute, with no room for interpretation. "I don't like any kind of music, Professor. I prefer silence."

The total refusal caught Richard by surprise. It wasn't a question of musical genre, it was a complete rejection. Strange. He felt a pang of concern, a curiosity about the origin of that aversion, but Ilian’s answer had been clear. He didn't insist. He withdrew his hand from the panel, perhaps his disappointment or surprise showing minimally in his expression for an instant. "Silence, then," he said, accepting the preference without question, though the strangeness of the answer remained in his mind.

Ilian, noticing the slight change in the professor’s tone, or perhaps the shadow of a question on his face before he looked away, felt an unexpected need to explain himself, not to let that abrupt refusal create a barrier. He hesitated, searching for the words.

"It's not personal, Professor," he murmured, his voice still low. "Music does not please me. But..." - he paused, gathering courage for the confession - "...I like listening to you talk."

Richard turned to him, completely surprised by the honesty. A slow, genuine, and deeply moved smile spread across his face. That young man continued to surprise him, offering small glimpses of a sensitivity hidden under layers of trauma. "Well, I'm happy to hear that, Ilian," he said, his voice warm. "Still, I'll try not to talk too much."

The small tension dissipated, replaced by renewed warmth. Richard turned his attention back to Ilian’s physical comfort. "Look," he said, pointing to a small set of buttons on the side of the passenger seat. "This one here controls the backrest recline. You can adjust it however you want. Lean back a little, get more comfortable to rest."

Ilian looked at the buttons, then at Richard, a slight hesitation on his face. He never would have thought of touching the car's controls. But the invitation was clear. With the tip of his right index finger, he pressed the indicated button. The seat back glided smoothly backward, allowing his body to find a more relaxed position. The tension in his shoulders decreased instantly.

The combination of the car's smooth motion, the unexpected comfort of the reclined seat, and the overwhelming exhaustion of the morning were stronger than his curiosity. The colors of autumn outside began to blur. Ilian’s eyelids grew heavy. He fought for a few minutes, his mind trying to cling to consciousness, but the battle was lost. His breathing became slower, deeper, and he fell asleep, his head finally still against the seat's side support.

Richard looked over and saw Ilian asleep. A deep relief washed over him. That young man desperately needed rest, a moment of peace where his defenses could come down. But seeing him there, so vulnerable in sleep, his pale face now relaxed, looking even younger without the usual mask of tension, the anger and pain returned to Richard with full force.

Twenty-five. That number echoed in his mind. How could he have been so blind? So easily deceived? Looking at Ilian now, it was obvious. Thin, yes, marked by life in a terrible way, but undeniably young. The agency had lied blatantly. Thirty-four. The age Michael, his son, would have been. A "coincidence," they said. Now, it sounded like the cruelest and most cynical of manipulations, a lever used to secure his cooperation.

And everything else? The impressive resume? PhD in Munich, working with Kessler? Ilian had mentioned "classes," but the way he had said it... had it been real? Or just part of the facade built by the agency? The broken young man beside him was now a black hole of questions.

And the scars. The image of Ilian’s arm, the parallel lines, the cigarette burns, returned to his mind with nauseating clarity. Torture. There was no other word. That completely destroyed the story of the "accident." What had really happened? What was in those medical records Dr. Evans had said were so confidential, classified above his own clearance? Where had Ilian really been since he was taken from the orphanage? Germany? What hells had he survived to get here, asleep on the seat next to him?

The agency had lied about everything. His age. His career. The "accident." They weren't asking him to host a colleague, they were using him to manage a valuable and deeply damaged asset, a walking secret.

Seeing Ilian’s sleeping face, his silent promise solidified, turning to steel. His loyalty was no longer to a nebulous project or a faceless agency. It was to that young man. To protect him. To discover the truth, however dangerous it might be. And, somehow, to try to give him the chance to have something resembling a life. The image of the cardboard box, Ilian’s improvised "bag," was a screaming symbol of that need, of that negligence he now felt compelled to fight.

He continued to drive, now immersed in these dark and resolute thoughts. They left the residential neighborhoods behind, entering a highway that wound through forest-covered hills. Autumn was at its peak there, the trees a tapestry of gold, red, and orange under the bright sun. Time passed, marked only by exit signs and the discreet hum of the engine. Richard also felt the week’s fatigue, the tension of the last few days. A break would be welcome for both of them, and would give Ilian the chance to wake up calmly before they reached the cabin.

After nearly two hours of driving, he saw a sign indicating the small historic town and a rest area where he had planned to stop. He exited the main highway, following a secondary road lined with old stone walls and imposing trees. He found the small café with a patio and some tables outside, overlooking a wooded valley. He parked the car in a spot near the entrance.

Before waking Ilian, Richard picked up his cell phone. He dialed George’s number. "George? It's me. Yes, everything's fine. We're on our way, just took a quick break for coffee... That's right, we should be there in another hour, maybe a little more... Great. See you soon." He hung up. Practical. Efficient.

Then, he turned to Ilian, who hadn't even moved. He reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. "Ilian?" he called, his voice low.

Ilian startled, his first reaction a flash of confusion and alarm. Where was he? What was happening?

"Easy, Ilian. It's me," Richard said, his voice reassuring. "Everything is fine. We just stopped for a bit to stretch our legs and have a coffee. We're in a quiet place."

Ilian blinked, his mind struggling to orient itself. He looked out the window, seeing the picturesque café, the trees, the blue sky. The memory of the trip returned. He was safe. He was with Richard. The tension in his shoulders relaxed.

"Do you need to use the restroom?" Richard asked, anticipating the practical need after two hours of travel.

Ilian simply nodded.

Getting out of the car was a challenge. Ilian’s muscles were stiff from sleep and physical therapy. He leaned heavily on his cane. They walked slowly, Richard at his side, entering the café. The interior was cozy, smelling of roasted coffee. There were only a few customers, talking in low voices. Richard pointed out to Ilian where the restrooms were and then chose a small table in a corner, near a window overlooking the valley, to wait for him to return.

Richard ordered two coffees and two slices of cake. When Ilian returned, he sat down slowly and stared out the window, absorbing the tranquility of the place. The warmth of the sun came through the window, warming his face. It was so different from the guest house, so different from any place he had ever been.

The coffees arrived, steaming in thick ceramic mugs, accompanied by two generous slices of golden cake. The aroma was sweet and comforting. Ilian took the mug with both hands, feeling the heat penetrate his fingers. He took a sip. The coffee was strong and flavorful. Then, he tried a small piece of the cake. It was soft, moist, with the sweet and slightly tart taste of apples.

"Is it good?" Richard asked, watching him with a gentle smile.

Ilian managed a small smile back, more open and less hesitant than before, and nodded. "Yes. Very good. Thank you." He looked around, at the sunlight streaming through the window, at the peaceful view of the valley. "It is a calm place." The spontaneous observation, a small comment on the environment, surprised Richard and filled him with a silent warmth. It was a sign.

They stayed there for a while longer, finishing the coffee and cake in a comfortable silence. It was no longer a tense or exhausted silence, but a shared quietude, a peaceful interlude on the long road. Ilian looked visibly better. Some color had returned to his pale face, and his eyes, though still tired, no longer had that haunted, distant look; they watched the gentle movement of the trees outside with quiet curiosity.

When they finished, Richard looked at Ilian, satisfied with the improvement. "Feeling a little better?"

Ilian gave a firmer nod this time. The break, the sleep in the car, the coffee, the cake, the quiet... had made a notable difference. The pain was still a backdrop, but the fog of exhaustion and malaise had lifted considerably.

"Great," Richard said, standing up. "I just need to use the restroom quickly. I'll be right back."

As Richard walked away, Ilian remained seated, observing the quiet movement of the café. It was the first time in his life he had been in a place like this. A "café."

His gaze swept the place, cataloging methodically. Two employees behind the counter. Smell of burnt beans. Three occupied tables. No one seemed interested in him. No visible threat. His mind found nothing but... normalcy. And that was the strangest thing of all.

People simply... sat. Drank hot liquids from ceramic cups. Ate sweets in the middle of the afternoon. There was no purpose, there was no order, there was no protocol.

Richard returned a few minutes later, a small paper bag in his hand that Ilian didn't notice immediately. "Ready?" he asked. "While you were sleeping, I called George and he's already there."

They left the warm café and returned to the cool autumn air. The walk back to the car was a little less arduous for Ilian. When they reached the vehicle, as Richard unlocked the doors, he turned to Ilian and held out the small paper bag.

"I saw this inside," he said casually, to downplay the importance of the gesture. Inside the bag was a simple cap, dark canvas, with a small discreet embroidery of an autumn leaf. "It'll be useful for the sun."

Ilian stood still, looking at the cap, then at Richard, completely surprised. A gift. Something bought for him. Hesitantly, he reached out and took the cap. The fabric was soft. It was a simple, normal object.

"Thank you, Professor, it is very nice," he managed to say. He held the cap, not quite knowing what to do with it, not putting it on his head.

Richard just smiled, understanding the hesitation. "Let's get going."

They got into the car. Ilian placed the cap on his lap, his fingers brushing the fabric occasionally during the first few minutes of the trip. It was one more small piece of normalcy, offered unexpectedly that day. They resumed the road, leaving the quiet refuge behind, toward the next stage of their journey: the cabin.

Chapter 40: Arrival at the Cabin

The road was narrower now, flanked by dense forest that plunged quickly into the gloom of late afternoon. The sun was already hiding behind distant hills, painting the sky with brushstrokes of orange and purple reflected in the car windows. The air was noticeably colder.

Ilian, awake and recovered after the interlude at the café, watched the landscape, a succession of dark trunks and the occasional glimpse of a stream shining in the dim light. The feeling of moving away from civilization was palpable, a mix of isolation and a strange tranquility.

Richard drove with his usual calm but kept up a gentle conversation, pointing out invisible landmarks in the growing darkness, sharing small stories about the region, keeping Ilian anchored in the present, aware of his constant presence.

"We're almost there," Richard said, turning into a discreet entrance, almost hidden by vegetation, which led onto a gravel path. The car began to rock gently over the uneven terrain.

And then, in a clearing surrounded by tall pines, the cabin appeared. It was sturdy, made of dark, solid logs, with a stone chimney from which a wisp of white smoke rose against the sky. Warm yellow light spilled from the windows, illuminating a welcoming porch that ran the entire length of the front of the building. Beside it, already parked, was a rugged pickup truck.

On the porch, under the entrance light, stood a male figure. George Peterson was waiting for them and waved with a broad smile as soon as the car’s headlights swept across the clearing.

Richard parked next to the pickup and turned off the engine. For an instant, the only sound was the soft ticking of the cooling engine and the murmur of the wind in the pines. "We're here," he said, a tone of contentment in his voice.

Richard got out first, stretching visibly after the long drive. George descended the two wide porch steps with agility, going to meet his friend. The greeting was effusive, a strong hug, almost clumsy due to the height difference, followed by genuine laughter and a few slaps on the back. Even while hugging George, Richard kept his attention on Ilian, watching him begin his slow, careful process of exiting the car, first leaning on the door, then steadying himself on the cane.

"Richard, my old friend!" George exclaimed, his voice a warm, resonant baritone. He pulled back from the hug but kept a hand on Richard’s shoulder, his face lit by genuine joy. "It's so good to have you here. And to bring a new member... to remake our old quartet!" There was a momentary shadow of emotion in his eyes as he said the last sentence, quickly replaced by his open smile.

Ilian, now standing beside the car, felt the cold night air on his face. Instinctively, perhaps to protect himself from the cold or to create a small barrier against the unknown, he reached up and put on the dark cap Richard had given him at the café. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but a sign of his attempt to adapt.

Richard made the introductions. "George, this is my colleague, Ilian Jansen, whom I told you about." He turned to Ilian. "Ilian, this is George Peterson, childhood friend, owner of the best hardware store in the region, and our generous host."

George, a man of solid build, with an open face and intelligent eyes that softened his practical appearance, dressed in a thick flannel shirt and dark trousers, turned to Ilian with the same welcoming smile. He extended a large, calloused hand.

Ilian froze. The social gesture. The extended hand. He instantly remembered the hangar, his paralysis in front of Richard. His right hand, the only functional one, was, as always, firmly gripping the handle of his cane. His immediate instinct was to retreat, look down, fail again.

But then, he felt Richard’s gaze beside him. That calm, patient look that didn't demand, but waited. Richard had brought him here, introduced him as a "colleague." Failing this simple ritual in front of the professor's friends... suddenly felt like a betrayal, a disappointment he didn't want to cause.

He made a decision. He made a conscious effort.

With a quick movement, Ilian shifted all his body weight to his left leg, steadying it. Then, in a fluid motion, he lifted his right arm slightly, pinning the cane handle between his left arm and his ribs, holding it there by pressure.

It was a maneuver that left him momentarily precarious, balancing only on his good leg, but it worked. Now, his right hand was free.

Ilian extended it, perhaps a little slower than normal, toward George.

George, who had watched the quick and ingenious juggling act with silent admiration, showed no strangeness. His grip was firm, warm, and surprisingly strong, but brief, without any hint of awkwardness or evaluation. "Finally! It's a pleasure to meet you, Ilian," he said, his voice full of disarming sincerity. "Richard wouldn't stop talking about your arrival. Welcome to our humble cabin. Make yourself completely at home."

The genuineness of the welcome, so different from anything he had known, left Ilian momentarily speechless. He managed only to murmur a "Thank you very much, sir," his voice almost lost in the cold night air.

George turned to the back of the car. "Well, we have work to do! I'll unload the gear." He rubbed his hands together, ready for action. "Richard, why don't you take Ilian inside? Show him the cabin, and leave this to me."

"Perfect," Richard agreed readily. He opened the trunk and took only Ilian’s cardboard box, holding it carefully. George, already busy removing a heavy cooler, didn't even seem to notice the peculiarity of the luggage.

Richard guided Ilian toward the porch. They reached the two steps. They were wide, solid, and the rustic wooden railing looked firm. Richard stopped to the side, holding the box, giving Ilian space. Ilian assessed the steps. He gripped the railing with his left hand, even without full dexterity, the wood rough but secure. He rested the cane on the first step with his right. With visible effort, he lifted his left leg, then his right. He repeated the process for the second step. He made it. Alone. A small gasp escaped his lips, but it was a sound of effort, not defeat.

Richard opened the cabin door. Warmth and light spilled over them. "After you," he said.

Ilian entered. It was like stepping into another world. The air was warm, thick with the rich smell of burning wood and something fainter, perhaps coffee. The light was soft, amber, coming from lamps and the dancing glow of flames in a large stone fireplace that dominated one wall. The floor was wide planks of dark wood, covered here and there by thick, colorful rugs. There were comfortable leather sofas and armchairs, with wool blankets folded over the arms.

Ilian’s gaze was immediately drawn to the fireplace. Above the solid wood mantel hung an oil painting. It depicted, with impressive realism, two large animals, their muscular bodies tense, their imposing antlers locked in a silent struggle or perhaps a ritualistic greeting, frozen in a moment of brute strength and wild beauty against a backdrop of autumn forest.

George entered at that moment, carrying a fishing tackle box, and saw Ilian’s gaze fixed on the painting. "Impressive, isn't it?" he said, setting the box down with a dull thud. "It was a gift from David, our fourth musketeer." He smiled with affection and a tinge of longing.

Ilian didn't know who David was, but thought it best not to ask.

Richard took Ilian’s box down a short hallway leading off the main room. "I'm just going to put this in your room."

George gestured toward the armchair closest to the fireplace, a worn and inviting leather chair. "Ilian, if you want, you can sit here, close to the fire. Dinner is already ready, and as soon as I finish up, we can eat."

Ilian, after long hours in the car, hesitated before accepting the invitation to sit. He looked at the hallway where Richard had disappeared. "Excuse me," he said, his voice low, addressing George but perhaps waiting for confirmation from Richard, who was returning from the hallway at that moment. "Could I use the bathroom?"

"Oh, of course, son!" George said promptly, pointing to the same hallway. "First door on the left. Make yourself comfortable." Richard reappeared in the hallway at that exact moment.

"Exactly," Richard confirmed. "Go ahead, Ilian. I'll wait."

Ilian gave a nod of thanks and limped in that direction, disappearing for a moment down the hall. Richard and George exchanged a silent look, a mix of understanding and patience.

When Ilian returned a few minutes later, moving with the same careful slowness, Richard met him at the start of the hallway. "Before you go back to the living room, I want to show you where we'll be sleeping."

Richard guided Ilian down the short hall. "The cabin has two bedrooms," he explained in a low voice. "George and Arthur stay in that one there," he pointed to a closed door, "and the two of us share this one here. It's simple, but comfortable."

He opened the other door. The room was small but cozy. There were two simple single beds, covered with thick comforters. A small window looked out onto the darkness of the forest outside. On one of the beds, Richard had placed Ilian’s cardboard box.

He smiled gently. "Feel free to settle in, rest a bit if you need to. We'll be in the living room whenever you want to join us. No rush at all."

With those words, Richard left, closing the door softly behind him, granting Ilian a moment of privacy.

Ilian stood in the middle of the room. Silence. He limped to the window and rested his forehead against the cold glass. Outside, he saw only deep darkness between the tree trunks, perhaps the distant glimmer of a star through the branches. The air seemed to vibrate with the silence of the forest.

Is this real? The contrast with the cramped cells, the military base dorms, the sterile hospital room... was almost painful. He thought of Richard’s consistent kindness. And George... he barely knew the man, but the image of the warm, unreserved hug he had given Richard upon arrival - that demonstration of genuine, uninhibited affection between two men - was something Ilian had never witnessed. That, more than any word of welcome, made George seem safe, real. Kind people exist, he thought, the idea still fragile, almost unbelievable. It feels like a dream.

After several minutes there, absorbing the quiet, he heard the low murmur of Richard and George’s voices coming from the main room, punctuated by soft laughter. He didn't feel excluded. On the contrary, the sound was comforting, a backdrop of normalcy. Moved not by obligation, but by a quiet curiosity, a desire perhaps to be near that warmth, he stepped away from the window. He took a deep breath, leaned on his cane, and opened the door, ready to return to the living room.

The sound of the door opening made Richard and George, who were near the fireplace examining a collection of fishing lures in an open box, look up. Both smiled upon seeing him.

"Ah, there you are!" George said, his tone genuinely pleased. "We were just deciding which of these beauties is going to fool the biggest fish tomorrow." He abandoned the lures and walked toward Ilian, his presence filling the space with welcoming energy.

He guided Ilian to the small open kitchen in the corner of the room. He opened the door of a large and surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator. "Look at this," he said with jovial pride. "Water, juices, sodas, wine... and the secret ingredients for my famous lunch tomorrow." He closed the door with a soft thud and looked at Ilian with friendly seriousness. "Rule number one of the cabin, Ilian: make yourself at home. At any time, if you're thirsty or hungry, come here and help yourself. You don't need to ask. Agreed?"

Ilian, caught off guard by the direct informality and implicit trust, managed only to nod. "Agreed."

"Excellent!" George exclaimed. "Now, speaking of hunger... I think our dinner is ready!" He turned to Richard with an air of command. "Richard, my dear assistant, handle the table while I finalize the masterpiece."

Richard laughed. "Always at your command."

The two men began to move with a synchronicity born of years of practice. George went to a large old oven, from which he pulled a steaming platter that smelled wonderfully of roasted meat and herbs. Richard opened a cupboard and began taking out heavy ceramic plates and sturdy cutlery, placing them on the large solid wood dining table that occupied the center of the dining area.

Ilian stood still, watching them. The scene was one of relaxed and efficient masculine domesticity. For an instant, remembering his morning in the greenhouse with Helena, he felt an almost physical impulse to approach, to grab the glasses, to help in some way. But he hesitated. They seemed so in control, moving so familiarly. His own body was slow, clumsy. He feared getting in the way, breaking that harmonious rhythm. He retreated mentally, returning to his role as a silent observer.

Richard, however, seemed to notice his hesitation, the way he hovered uncertainly near the table. He stopped placing the silverware and turned to Ilian with a smile.

"Ilian, please, sit here," he said, his voice gentle but firm, dismissing any obligation to help. "You need to taste George’s cooking. His fame as a cabin cook is legendary across three towns." He gave a wink to George, who was expertly carving the meat. "Although," Richard added in a fake conspiratorial whisper, "I have to admit he still loses to Helena."

The friendly teasing made George put down the knife and let out a genuine laugh, a sound that echoed off the cabin’s wooden beams. Richard joined him, and for a moment, the room filled with the pure, uninhibited sound of shared joy.

Ilian watched them, and something inside him warmed more than the fire in the hearth. The ease. The affection. The total absence of tension. He felt a small smile form on his own lips, an involuntary reflection of their happiness. With a surprisingly light heart, he waited.

"Ready! The table is set, the meat is carved! I have a special piece for you, Ilian, unsalted but well-seasoned," George announced, bringing the steaming platter to the table. "Only Arthur is missing, but he can eat it cold when he gets here!"

Richard laughed again. "He wouldn't forgive you if you didn't save some." He gestured to Ilian. "Ilian. If you want to make a friend, as soon as you start eating, say immediately that it's the best roast beef you've ever had."

They gathered around the large rustic wooden table. George placed the steaming platter in the center, the delicious aroma of roasted meat filling the warm air of the cabin. Richard served generous portions of roasted potatoes and boiled vegetables steaming in ceramic bowls.

"Well, Ilian," Richard said, resuming his friendly teasing with a smile in his eyes, "remember the advice. It's now or never."

Ilian looked at George, who waited with an expression of fake theatrical suspense, arms crossed. He picked up his fork. The meat was incredibly tender, falling apart at the touch. He brought the first piece to his mouth. The flavor was rich, deep, the seasoning perfectly balanced. It was simple, rustic, and absolutely delicious. He closed his eyes for an instant, savoring it.

He swallowed and, before hesitation could take over, looked directly at George. His voice was low, but clear. "Mr. Peterson... the professor is right. It is the best roast beef I have ever eaten."

The sentence had the desired effect. George broke into a triumphant smile. "Did you hear that, Richard? The young man knows quality! Finally someone with good taste in this cabin!" He winked at Ilian. "You can call me George. No 'mister' around here."

Dinner proceeded in that light, relaxed atmosphere. Richard and George talked with the ease of sharing a lifetime of memories, recalling past fishing trips, the time they tried to fix the cabin roof and almost set it on fire. Their stories were told with easy laughter and genuine affection that Ilian watched with silent fascination.

George, at one point, pointed with his fork to a faded photograph on a shelf near the fireplace, four young men, smiling, holding a huge fish. "Look at us there. David was still with us back then." He smiled fondly. "He would have loved tonight. Probably would have tried to convince you to try his secret bait recipe, Ilian." The mention of the absent friend was made with longing, but without heavy sadness, just as a natural part of their story.

Ilian ate in silence, but didn't feel excluded. He felt... invisible in the best possible way. They didn't ask him direct questions, didn't put him in the spotlight. They included him with simple gestures, passing him the vegetable platter, offering more water, but allowed him to simply be there, absorbing the atmosphere. He ate well, his body accepting the hearty, tasty food, his mind relaxing in the absence of threat.

When they finished, Richard and George stood up and began clearing the table with the same natural efficiency. Ilian made a move to get up to help, but George stopped him with a friendly gesture. "Visitors don't work on the first night. House rule."

When they finished, and the warmth of the meal and the fireplace began to mix with deep muscle fatigue, Ilian felt his social energy, already limited, drain away completely. The pain in his leg, an echo of the morning’s physical therapy, began to throb with more intensity. The idea of prolonging the evening, even in that safe environment, was overwhelming. He needed silence, the solitude of the bedroom.

Ilian gathered his courage waiting for a pause in the conversation.

"Excuse me..." he began, his voice low, directed mainly at Richard but including George in his hesitant gaze. "Do I have permission to retire?"

George stopped immediately what he was doing and turned to him with an understanding and warm smile. "But of course, son! Go rest. The cabin is yours."

"Yes, Ilian. Go," Richard agreed, his voice gentle. "We'll take care of this."

The relief was immense. With a murmur of "Thank you" and a slight nod, Ilian began the slow process of standing up. Leaning on his cane, he limped toward the hallway, leaving behind the sound of resumed conversation and the clinking of dishes being stacked in the sink.

He entered the shared bedroom. He closed the door softly, and silence seemed to wrap around him like a blanket. It was a different silence from the guest house; it was a deeper, older silence, filled only by the sounds of the cabin itself, the distant crackle of wood in the fireplace, the soft creak of floorboards under his feet.

He opened the cardboard box and took out a change of clean clothes, a simple T-shirt and loose cotton pants that would serve as pajamas. He went to the shared bathroom in the hallway, did his nightly hygiene, and returned.

Back in the room, dressed for sleep, he stood for a moment near the small window, looking out at the impenetrable darkness. He could hear the low, steady murmur of Richard and George’s voices from the main room, punctuated occasionally by muffled laughter. The sound wasn't intrusive, it was strangely comforting. It was the sound of people feeling safe and at ease, a sound of normalcy that was completely new to him. Just... conversation.

He went to the small table where he had left his pill organizers and took his nightly dose with the water Richard had placed there for him. Then, he sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress was firm, the comforter heavy. He hesitated for an instant, then lay down, his body sinking into the mattress with a sigh of pure weariness. The pain was there, but it seemed distant, muffled by the safety of the moment.

He was almost asleep when he heard a light knock on the door, followed immediately by the door opening. The hallway light cast Richard’s silhouette.

"Ilian? Sorry," the professor whispered. "Just came to get my things. Don't want to disturb you."

He entered silently, moving in the gloom of the room. He went to the other bed, picked up a small toiletry bag and folded pajamas. Ilian watched him from his bed, eyes half-closed with drowsiness.

Richard saw that Ilian was still awake. He approached his bed. "Is everything okay? Need anything before I go?" His voice was a worried murmur.

Ilian moved his head slowly on the pillow. "No, Professor. Thank you," his own voice heavy with sleep. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Ilian." Richard hesitated for a second. "I'm going to wait for Arthur to arrive out in the living room. Sleep well."

He left as silently as he had entered, closing the door completely.

In the main room, Richard and George were seated in comfortable armchairs, facing the dancing flames. The conversation flowed low and easy, the talk of men who had known each other since childhood.

George broke a moment of silence, his thoughtful gaze fixed on the fire, but his mind clearly on the dark hallway where Ilian had disappeared. "He is... more fragile than I imagined, Richard," he said, his voice grave. "Like he just got out of the hospital."

Richard nodded slowly. "Recovery has been slow," was all he said.

"And that request for 'permission' to retire?" George continued, shaking his head slightly. "That was strange, wasn't it? As if he needed authorization to take care of himself. He seems very... closed off." He paused, reflecting. "But he seemed to relax a little during dinner. The roast beef works miracles." A small smile touched his lips. "And his accent, for someone from Europe, is barely noticeable."

"He's been through a lot," Richard said, the sentence loaded with meaning George could only guess at. "The important thing is that he feels safe here."

"Absolutely," George agreed readily. "Fresh air, silence... this fishing trip will do him good." His expression became more practical. "But we have to take it easy tomorrow. No pushing. Those rocks on the riverbank can be treacherous, especially for someone unsteady on their legs." He looked around his cabin with a new eye. "I'm going to build a small ramp there at the entrance. Would make things easier for future visits."

Richard felt a wave of gratitude for his friend's practical empathy. "That would be great, George."

"You did well bringing him here," he said, his tone serious again. "I'm glad you trusted us." He smiled, a glint of fraternal warmth in his eyes. "It's good... to remake the quartet, even if just for a weekend. David would make a sarcastic comment about it, I'm sure."

"He would," Richard agreed, a nostalgic smile touching his lips. "Thank you, George. I knew I could count on you."

They sat in silence for a moment, the camaraderie between them a tangible presence in the heated room. It was then that a distant sound broke the stillness of the night, the noise of an engine approaching slowly up the gravel path. Seconds later, beams of light swept across the living room windows, casting dancing shadows on the wooden walls.

Richard and George exchanged a look. "Finally," murmured George, a smile forming on his face.

The engine sound cut off abruptly. They heard the slam of car doors in the cold night, followed by heavy footsteps climbing the porch steps.

Both rose from their armchairs, the moment of confidence ended, ready to welcome the last member of their group. They walked together toward the main entrance door as it opened to reveal the figure of Arthur Riley, bringing the chill of the night with him.

Hours later, when the cabin was completely quiet and the last traces of the fire in the hearth were just glowing embers, Richard entered the bedroom again, this time to lie down. He moved with utmost care, trying not to disturb Ilian’s sleep. But the creak of a loose board under his foot, or perhaps just the sound of his breathing in the silence, was enough.

Ilian startled in bed, eyes wide with panic in the semi-darkness, body tense as a violin string. "Are they gone?" the question came out in a hoarse, terrified whisper, his mind clearly trapped somewhere else, another time.

Richard froze, his heart squeezing as he witnessed that terror. He approached the bed quickly, his voice a calm, urgent murmur. "Yes, Ilian. They're gone," he replied, instinctively entering that narrative of fear to calm him. "Everything is fine now. You are safe here. It's just me, Richard."

He saw Ilian’s shoulders relax a little, his breathing still fast but less gasping. Ilian’s eyes focused slowly on Richard’s silhouette in the gloom.

"Sorry if I scared you," Richard whispered. "Go back to sleep. Everything is okay."

He waited a moment, watching Ilian lie back down,

Chapter 41: A New Dawn

Ilian woke slowly, emerging from a deep, dreamless sleep. The first thing he noticed was the silence, a silence different from the guest house, denser, woven with the subtle sounds of the forest outside beginning to creep in with the first light. He opened his eyes to the weak gray brightness filtering through the small bedroom window. He felt the stiffness in his muscles, the familiar ache in his right leg, but beneath that was a sense of genuine rest he hadn't felt in a long time.

He remembered where he was. The cabin. Richard. George. The safety of the night before. He felt surprisingly well.

He needed to use the bathroom. The idea of navigating the shared space was still intimidating, but the need was real. He sat up in bed and then stood. He grabbed his cane, but instead of letting it tap loudly on the wooden floor, he moved with calculated slowness, placing the rubber tip carefully with each step, making as little noise as possible as he left the room and went down the hall to the bathroom.

He entered the small bathroom. The hot water took a while to arrive, but when it did, it was an immense relief. He let it run down his back, feeling the heat penetrate his sore muscles. The steam filled the small space, creating a momentary fog that isolated him from the rest of the cabin. It was a functional shower, quick, but deeply comforting.

After drying off and feeling a bit more awake, he dressed as usual and combed his damp hair. He returned to the bedroom with the same silent care. He went to the small table where he had left his pill organizers. He swallowed his normal dose with a sip of water from the bottle sitting there and pocketed the two extra pills to discard later. His gaze landed on the dark cap with the embroidered leaf, resting on the bedside table. A gift. He picked it up and put it on his head. A small shield.

An impulse moved him. He wanted to see the outside in the morning light. He hesitated at the bedroom door, but curiosity was stronger. With the same care not to make noise with his cane, he crossed the hallway and reached the main room. It was empty. The fireplace was out, leaving only gray embers.

He went to the main door of the cabin. He turned the heavy handle carefully and opened it just enough to slip outside. He closed it silently behind him.

The morning air hit him like a shock. It was icy, cutting, much colder than he had anticipated. The sky was brightening rapidly, turning from dark gray to pale blue. He huddled inside his thin jacket, the same one he had worn for the trip, clearly inadequate for this morning chill, but he didn't retreat.

Leaning on his cane, he walked to one of the rustic wooden chairs on the porch and sat down. From there, the view he had barely distinguished the night before revealed itself in all its raw beauty. The cabin was situated on a small rise, and in front of it, the clearing sloped gently down to the bank of a river with clear, bubbling, seemingly shallow waters winding through the trees. A thin layer of white mist hung over the icy water, slowly dissipating as the light increased. The forest on the other side of the river was a dense wall of pines and trees, their autumn colors muted by the weak dawn light. The only sounds were the constant murmur of water rushing over stones and the sharp, solitary cry of a bird in the forest.

Ilian sat there, motionless, completely absorbed. He had never seen anything like it. It was vast, wild, untouched. A sense of peace, of childlike wonder, began to fill the void inside him. He watched the mist dancing over the water, the way the light began to touch the tops of the tallest trees. A small smile formed on his lips, involuntary, a pure reaction to the beauty of the landscape. The cold penetrated his jacket, making him shiver slightly, but he was too awestruck to care, too grateful for that moment of discovery.

After some time, the smell of strong coffee began to waft from the cabin, mixing with the cold, clean scent of the forest. Inside, the morning was coming to life. George, an early riser by nature, was already commanding the kitchen, while Richard stoked the embers in the fireplace, bringing warmth back to the main room. Arthur, equally early, sat at the table, organizing fishing gear with quiet concentration.

Richard had seen Ilian through the living room window. Sitting in one of the porch chairs, motionless as a statue, back to the door, looking at the river, the cap protecting his head from the cold. His breath condensed into small white clouds in the freezing air.

The professor grabbed a steaming mug of coffee from the pot and stepped out onto the porch. The cold was truly intense. "Ilian!" he called, his voice sounding loud in the morning silence. "Good morning! What are you doing out here in this cold? You'll freeze!"

Ilian turned in the chair. His face was red from the cold, but his eyes shone with a light Richard had never seen before. There was an unmistakable trace of a smile on his lips.

"It is very beautiful here," he managed to say, his voice in a very calm tone, making a vague gesture toward the river.

Richard approached, extending the mug. "Here, drink this. It'll warm you up." He looked at Ilian’s thin jacket. "That jacket is useless out here. You must be freezing." He noted the peaceful expression on the young man’s face, the absence of tension. "But it looks like the cold was worth it, wasn't it?"

Ilian took the mug with both hands, gratitude in his eyes. The warmth of the ceramic immediately penetrated his cold fingers. He took a sip of the strong, hot coffee. "Thank you. Yes, it was very worth it," he murmured, looking back at the landscape.

"Come inside," Richard said gently. "Breakfast is almost ready, and you need to meet Arthur properly."

Ilian hesitated for another instant, reluctant to leave the view, but the cold and the smell of food were strong arguments. He drank another sip of coffee and, with the help of his cane, stood up balancing the mug. He followed Richard into the welcoming warmth of the cabin.

The thermal shock was pleasant. George turned from the stove with a smile. "Look who decided to leave the scenery and come eat! I was wondering if we'd have to set the table outside!"

Arthur, sitting at the table, looked up from his handiwork as they approached.

"Ilian, this is my friend," Richard said. "Arthur Riley, our mechanical genius. Arthur, this is Ilian Jansen."

Arthur wiped his hand on his work pants before extending it. Ilian saw the outstretched hand. This time, he didn't freeze. He had already established a protocol for this. He placed the coffee mug on the table and with a movement now faster and more practiced, pinned the cane firmly between his left arm and his ribs, freeing his good hand. The grip was firm and direct. A solid contact, quick and straightforward, which Ilian found strangely easier to accept. "Good morning, Ilian. It's a pleasure to meet you. If you want anything fixed, just call me."

"Good morning," Ilian replied, feeling a small satisfaction at having navigated the social ritual successfully.

"Sit down, Ilian, sit down!" invited George, approaching from the stove. "The breakfast of champions is coming out!"

Ilian sat in the same chair as the night before. George approached and placed a steaming platter of scrambled eggs and bacon in the center of the table for Richard and Arthur. Then, with a practical gesture, he placed a smaller, separate plate directly in front of Ilian.

"And these are yours, Ilian," George said, with the same naturalness he would use to offer coffee. "Unsalted scrambled eggs, as Richard instructed me. But I put a little seasoning in there to liven it up. Hope you like it."

Ilian looked at the plate, made especially for him, and then at George, surprised. The realization that Richard had shared this information, and that George had accepted it with such simplicity, was almost as comforting as the warmth of the coffee.

"Thank you very much, George," he murmured, genuinely grateful.

Breakfast was plentiful and lively. George brought fresh bread, butter, jam. The three friends resumed their easy conversation, teasing Arthur about the state of his old car’s engine, discussing the best bait to use that day.

They included Ilian naturally. George asked, "So, Ilian... ever fished for trout before?"

Ilian shook his head, swallowing a piece of toast. "No, never."

The three men exchanged glances, a glint of shared excitement in their eyes. "Great!" exclaimed George. "Then today is your lucky day! You're going to learn from the best!"

"Or at least from the most stubborn," added Arthur, with a rare, dry smile.

"Don't worry, Ilian," Richard said reassuringly. "It's more about patience and watching the water than anything else. We'll teach you everything. It'll be relaxing."

The energy in the cabin shifted, becoming focused on the anticipation of the shared activity. They finished breakfast and began to get up, ready to gather their gear. Ilian felt a mix of nervousness at the novelty and the social interaction, but also a genuine curiosity and a bit of the contagious excitement emanating from his hosts. The day of fishing was about to begin.