Project Rodzina

Here are a few more chapters showing Ilian Jansen's evolution.

I hope you enjoy

Chapter 42: Stones and Scars

With breakfast finished, the energy in the cabin transformed into a flurry of quiet, organized activity. George, the clear logistical leader of the operation, began distributing tasks with his usual efficiency, while Richard and Arthur gathered the equipment scattered around the room. Fishing rods were inspected, boxes of colorful lures and tiny hooks opened and closed. There was technical talk mixed with friendly teasing about who would catch the biggest fish.

Ilian sat at the table for a few more minutes, observing the ritual. He felt like a spectator in a theater whose language he barely understood, but the atmosphere of shared purpose was contagious. When Richard approached him, he was already mentally preparing for the next step.

"Ready for the adventure, Ilian?" Richard asked, his eyes shining with the anticipation of sharing one of his passions. He looked at the thin jacket Ilian was wearing. "Hold on. That jacket won't cut it. It'll be cold near the water, especially if we're standing still for a long time."

Richard disappeared briefly into the shared bedroom and returned with a padded, dark green jacket, clearly one of his own. It was a sturdy coat, made for the outdoors. "Put this on. It'll keep you warm."

Ilian hesitated for an instant. He took the jacket. It was heavy, the outer fabric tough, the inner lining soft. He took off his own thin jacket and put on Richard’s. It was a little big in the shoulders and sleeves, but the warmth was immediate. The faint, familiar scent of Richard’s cologne was embedded in the fabric, an unexpectedly comforting presence. He felt more protected, not just from the cold, but from the world. He adjusted the cap on his head, feeling prepared.

"There we go," Richard said approvingly. He then picked up the lightest fishing rod he had set aside. "This one is for you. It's shorter, easier to handle." He handed it to Ilian.

Holding the fishing rod was a strange experience. The cork handle was light, but the rod itself, thin and flexible, felt alive in his hand. He held it awkwardly with his right hand, his left serving only as an unstable support, the cane now leaning against the chair.

Meanwhile, George and Arthur were putting on high rubber boots and waterproof waders that came up to their chests, preparing to enter the icy water. Ilian watched the transformation, finding the clothes strangely clumsy, almost comical.

Richard had brought an extra pair, thinking of Ilian. "Want to try these, Ilian? They keep your feet dry."

He looked at the bulky trousers, imagining the difficulty of putting them on, of moving in them. The idea of entering the cold water was intimidating. "Thank you, Professor," he replied politely. "But I think I prefer just to watch first. From the bank."

"As you wish," Richard said, accepting the decision without insisting. He knew every step for Ilian was a negotiation.

"Do we have everything?" Richard asked, looking around. "Bait? Hooks? Bucket for the fish?"

"And patience!" added George, smiling at Ilian. "Lots of patience!"

"Then let's go," said Arthur, already heading for the door with his own rod and a tackle box.

The group left the warm cabin for the invigorating morning air. The sun was higher now, shining brightly, but the air rising from the nearby river had an icy touch. Ilian, bundled in Richard’s coat and with the cap protecting his face, felt more prepared. He took his cane in his right hand and balanced the fishing rod in his left, feeling clumsy.

Seeing Ilian trying to balance the cane and the fishing rod, George intervened with his usual practicality. "Leave that to us, Ilian." He took the fishing rod from Ilian’s hand carefully. Arthur, without a word, picked up Richard’s rod which was leaning against the wall and a small tackle box. "We'll carry the tools," George said with a wink. "You two just focus on getting down there in one piece."

George and Arthur went first, carrying the four fishing rods and other gear, descending the porch steps with ease. Richard stood beside Ilian, ready to offer his arm, but hesitated, remembering the young man's determination the night before.

Ilian looked at the two steps and then at the rustic wooden railing. With silent determination, he reached out his left hand and grasped the railing precariously, using it as a stable balance point. He firmly planted the cane with his right hand on the first step below.

He descended slowly, right leg first, then left, the movement requiring all his concentration. Richard remained by his side, ready to intervene if he faltered, but respecting his need to do it alone. Once on firm ground, Ilian took a deep breath.

They continued descending gently toward the now clear sound of running water. The path was covered by a soft carpet of dry pine needles that muffled their steps. For Ilian, the descent was a challenge. The uneven terrain demanded total concentration. The cane probed the path ahead, the left leg bore the weight, and the right dragged with an effort that sent stabs of pain through his hip.

Richard walked beside him in silence, his presence a discreet reassurance. He didn't offer help, allowing Ilian to navigate the terrain at his own pace, but Ilian knew he was there, ready to catch him if he stumbled. George and Arthur were a little further ahead, their heavy boots snapping dry twigs, their conversation a low murmur mixing with the sounds of the forest.

The smell of cold water and damp earth intensified.

They reached the bank. The river was even more vivid under the full morning light. The water was incredibly clear, running over a bed of smooth stones and colorful pebbles, creating small bubbling waves in some places. Sunlight danced on the surface, shattering into a thousand bright points.

There, built along a calmer and more accessible stretch of the bank, was a simple dark wooden platform, a deck extending a few meters along the edge, allowing easy access to the water without needing to step on slippery stones.

George and Arthur were already on the deck, unloading the equipment, opening small folding canvas chairs. The spot was clearly set up for fishing.

Ilian reached the start of the deck, pausing for a moment, leaning on his cane. He breathed deeply the cold, damp air rising from the river. He looked at the clear running water, at the trees on the other bank, at the sunlight shining on everything. He felt ecstatic.

Richard approached and stopped beside him, also watching the river. "What do you think? Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, his voice calm.

Ilian couldn't formulate a complete answer. He gave only a slow nod, eyes fixed on the dance of the water. A murmur escaped his lips. "Yes. Very."

George turned to them from his set-up chairs. "So, boys? Shall we stop admiring the scenery and start fishing?" He smiled at Ilian. "Ready for your first lesson?"

Richard and George spent a few minutes showing Ilian the different types of lures, small colorful imitations of insects and tiny fish, and even a jar with live worms. They briefly explained how to hold the rod, how everything worked, the basic idea of casting the line. Ilian listened with focused attention, his mind absorbing the mechanics, the physics of the process.

"Want to try casting?" Richard asked encouragingly.

Ilian looked at the rod, at the water, at the three men watching him with friendly expectation. It was too much. "I think... I'll just watch a little first," he said, retreating to one of the folding chairs Arthur had set up for them on the deck.

"No problem," Richard said. "Make yourself comfortable. When you want to try, just say so."

Richard, George, and Arthur, already in their waders, carefully entered the icy water, which reached perhaps mid-thigh at the deepest part. They positioned themselves some distance from each other, finding spots where the current looked promising. Silence settled in, broken only by the sound of the water and the soft swish of lines being cast in graceful arcs over the river.

Ilian sat in the chair, his own rod resting beside him, and watched. The rhythm was slow, meditative. The men stood almost motionless, attentive to the slightest tug on the line, the subtle movements of the water. The sun warmed his back through Richard’s coat. The sound of the river was constant, hypnotic. He began to relax, the tension of descending the steps dissipating in the tranquility of the place.

Perhaps half an hour passed. Then, Arthur, the quietest of the three, raised his rod suddenly. "Aha!" he exclaimed, a rare glimpse of excitement in his contained voice. The rod tip bent dramatically, the taut line cutting the water. After a brief struggle, he lifted the fish from the water, a silver trout thrashing, shining in the sun.

Arthur walked carefully through the water to the deck. Ilian, moved by curiosity, stood up from the chair with difficulty and approached as Arthur climbed the makeshift steps. With experienced hands, Arthur held the fish firmly, removed the small hook from its mouth, and placed it in a bucket of fresh water they had prepared there.

Ilian leaned over the bucket. The trout swam in tight circles, its scales shining, the dark spots well-defined. It was beautiful, wild, vibrant. He was fascinated.

Arthur smiled seeing his interest. "Beautiful, isn't it? A rainbow trout."

Ilian just nodded, still watching the fish. He returned to his chair, but the experience had changed him. Passivity gave way to a more active curiosity. He no longer wanted to just watch from afar.

The chair now seemed like a barrier. Carefully, he slid down to the wooden floor of the deck, sitting closer to the edge, his right leg bent and the left stretched out in front of him, feeling the rough texture of the planks beneath him. His gaze dropped to the clear water running under the edge of the deck. The riverbed there was shallow, covered with smooth stones and pebbles of various colors, gray, pinkish, almost white, polished by centuries of current.

A sudden impulse, a pure, childlike curiosity, took hold of him.

With intense concentration, he leaned carefully over the edge of the deck, almost lying down. He rolled up the long sleeve of Richard’s coat and hisT-shirt, exposing his forearms, resting his left elbow on the wood for balance. He reached out his right arm, hesitating for an instant before plunging his hand into the icy water.

The shock of the cold was sharp, making him hold his breath, but the sensation was... alive. Real. His fingers felt the smooth, stony bottom. He grabbed an oval, dark gray stone and pulled it out, cold water dripping from his fingers and wrist. He examined it in the sunlight. It was perfect. Smooth, heavy, solid. With almost reverent care, he placed it on the deck wood beside him.

He repeated the process. He dipped his hand again, ignoring the cold starting to numb his fingers, and found another, this one lighter, almost white with dark veins. He placed it next to the first. And a third, smaller, of a reddish hue. He was completely absorbed, lost in that simple act of discovery, the world reduced to the cold water, the smooth stones, and the silent satisfaction of finding those small treasures.

"Got one!" Richard’s voice, coming from the middle of the river, broke his total concentration.

Ilian raised his head. He saw the professor smiling, reeling in the line firmly, and starting to walk through the water toward the deck, bringing his own silver fish.

Completely immersed in the joy of his discovery, oblivious to the cold, oblivious to himself, Ilian turned on the deck as Richard approached. A genuine, open, almost childlike smile, a smile Richard had never seen before, lit up his face. His sleeves were still rolled up to his elbows, completely exposing his scarred forearms under the clear morning light.

He raised his wet right hand, holding the last stone he found, the reddish one, showing it to Richard with contained but unmistakable enthusiasm. "Professor! Look!" his voice was louder, clearer than usual. "They are so smooth! It is incredible!"

Richard stopped halfway up onto the deck, the silver fish thrashing forgotten at the end of the line. His gaze fixed, not on the scars he already knew, but on the smile. That smile. It was like seeing the sun break through dark clouds after an endless storm. It was so unexpected, so pure, so full of simple, childlike joy, that it took his breath away. For an instant, the horror of Ilian’s past, which he now knew, collided with the beauty of that present, and the emotion almost choked him, an overwhelming mix of pain, anger, and a protective tenderness so intense it hurt.

He forced himself to react, to mirror the joy, to protect that precious moment. He climbed quickly onto the deck, set down the rod and the thrashing fish, and knelt beside Ilian, his gaze intentionally focused only on the stones and the young man's radiant face.

"Well, well! What beautiful finds, Ilian!" he said, his voice warm and genuine, hiding the inner turmoil. "They really are very smooth. The water and time rolling the stones against each other for years and years." He picked up one of the stones Ilian had placed on the deck, the white one with veins. "This one here is truly special!"

At that moment, George and Arthur, also having been successful, approached the deck, bringing their trout. They climbed up and saw the scene: Ilian sitting on the wooden floor, sleeves completely rolled up, excitedly showing a wet stone to Richard, who was kneeling beside him. And they saw the arms. The fine, parallel lines. The round marks.

George stopped for an instant, his smile faltering, a shadow of shock and confusion passing through his eyes before he quickly masked it. Arthur, behind him, simply stopped, his practical face becoming an expressionless mask, his eyes registering the information without comment. They exchanged a quick, significant look with Richard over Ilian’s head. Richard returned an almost imperceptible look, a silent plea for normalcy.

"This reddish one is beautiful, too!" he said, his tone light, actively diverting attention from the scars. He laughed softly.

Arthur just gave a nod, placing his fish in the bucket with the others, his usual silence serving as a shield.

Ilian, still floating in the euphoria of his discovery and Richard’s warm validation, remained completely oblivious. He didn't notice the exchanged glances, nor the brief tension. He turned his attention back to his three precious stones, now resting in a row on the dry wood of the deck, shining in the morning sun. The world, in that moment, contained only him, the river, and those small, smooth, perfect treasures. The fishing continued around him, but something fundamental had changed, silently witnessed by three men under the clear October sky.

The small stir caused by the arrival of the fish and the discovery of the stones subsided. George and Arthur, after exchanging those significant looks with Richard and receiving his silent plea for normalcy, returned to the water with their usual concentration. Richard, after validating Ilian’s joy with the stones, also resumed his position in the river, casting the line with experienced gestures, though his gaze now frequently returned to the figure sitting on the deck.

Ilian remained sitting on the wooden floor for a while longer, the three stones now safe in the deep pockets of Richard’s coat. He felt the warmth of the sun on his back and on the wood beneath him. The constant sound of the river running over the stones was a soothing melody. He watched the men fishing, their slow, patient rhythm, the way they seemed to merge with the landscape. The tension he had felt upon arriving there had completely disappeared, replaced by a deep calm.

The sun was hot on the deck planks. In an impulse born of pure comfort and a total surrender to the moment, Ilian moved carefully, lying down slowly on his back right there, on the warmed wood. He used his forearms as an improvised pillow under his head, the cap protecting his eyes from the direct sunlight.

He closed his eyes. The world became a tapestry of sensations. The warmth of the sun on his face and hands, sleeves still rolled up. The smell of dry, heated wood mixed with the cold, damp scent rising from the river. The enveloping sound of rushing water. And above it all, the silent vastness of the blue sky, glimpsed through half-closed eyelids and the brim of his cap. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs. It was peace. A peace so simple and so absolute it was disconcerting. He didn't think about the past, didn't worry about the future. He was just there, lying in the sun, listening to the river.

Time passed, perhaps an hour, maybe more. It was George’s satisfied voice that brought him slowly back to the surface. "Well, boys, I think my quota is met for today! I'm already hungry!"

Ilian opened his eyes and sat up slowly, leaning on his elbows, blinking against the light. He saw George and Arthur coming out of the water, both with satisfied smiles.

Richard looked at Ilian, lying peacefully in the sun, and then at his friends. "I think I'll stay just a little longer," he said. His intention was clear: to give Ilian more time in that refuge.

George and Arthur climbed onto the deck, beginning to take off their wet gear. Ilian sat up fully, watching them with curiosity. George picked up one of the larger trout they had caught, still thrashing weakly in the bucket.

"Before taking this to the kitchen, want to see how to prepare one of these for the grill, Ilian?" he offered, practical as always, already picking up a sharp knife and a wooden board from his tackle box.

Ilian, moved by curiosity, nodded.

With quick, precise, and unpretentious gestures, George demonstrated the cleaning of the fish right there on the deck. He briefly explained the process as he worked, his voice calm and factual. Ilian watched closely, his mind registering the anatomical details, the efficiency of the movements, without any sign of disgust or revulsion. It was just a process, a transformation.

"And done!" George said, cleaning the knife and placing the now-cleaned fish in a plastic bag. "Straight for lunch." He and Arthur gathered the bucket with the other fish, some rods, their tackle boxes.

"We're heading up to the cabin, light the grill, and start lunch," George said to Richard, with a wink. "No rush down here, enjoy yourselves."

They said goodbye to Ilian with a friendly wave, their voices fading until they disappeared.

Richard and Ilian were left alone on the deck. Silence returned, more intimate now. Richard came out of the water, took off his fishing waders, and sat in the folding chair near Ilian, who had gotten up from the floor with difficulty and sat in the other chair.

"So," Richard said gently, "the river is all ours. How about trying now?" He picked up the light fishing rod leaning beside Ilian.

With Ilian still sitting for greater stability, Richard explained again, with more detail and patience, how to hold the rod with both hands, the right firm, the left just supporting lightly near the reel base, how to release the line from the reel with the right index finger, the smooth and controlled movement of the wrist and forearm to cast the lure. He demonstrated slowly, the movement fluid and experienced.

"Your turn," he said, handing the rod to Ilian.

Ilian took the rod, intense concentration furrowing his brow under the cap's brim. He tried to imitate the movement. His left hand was little more than dead weight, and his right shoulder was stiff. The first cast was hesitant, the line went out a mere few meters and the lure, which Richard, for safety, had replaced with a small hookless one, fell into the water with a disappointing plop near the bank.

"It doesn't matter," Richard said calmly. "It's normal. Try again. More fluidity in the wrist."

Ilian tried again. This time, the line went a little further, but veered to the side, almost hitting the opposite bank.

"Almost there," Richard encouraged. "Think of the movement like a gentle whip. Back and up."

On the third attempt, Ilian, perhaps trying to apply more force to compensate for the lack of technique, made the backward movement a little too fast before casting forward. The line came off the reel, but instead of flying over the river, it whipped backward. Ilian stopped, confused. Richard felt a sudden tug on the back of his padded coat.

Both looked back simultaneously. The fishing line was taut, and the small colorful lure was firmly snagged in the thick fabric of Richard’s coat, near the shoulder.

The situation was so unexpectedly absurd, so comical, that something inside Ilian let go. A sound escaped him, a surprised gasp, almost a choke, which transformed into a short, breathy, almost silent laugh. It was more a sound of escaping air than a guffaw, but it was unmistakably genuine.

Richard, hearing that precious sound, that tiny miracle of joy, completely forgot the lure snagged in his coat. A wave of warmth and happiness flooded his chest, so intense it almost took his breath away. He didn't laugh out loud, fearing to break the moment, but a wide, radiant smile full of tenderness lit up his face. He looked at Ilian, at the eyes shining behind the surprise, at the remnant of that stifled laugh.

"Well," he said, his voice full of contained, affectionate amusement, as he began trying to carefully free the lure from the fabric. "I think you caught a professor!"

While Richard, still smiling, busied himself freeing the line, Ilian watched him, the remnant of his own laughter still on his lips, an expression of lightness and perhaps a bit of embarrassment Richard had never seen. It was an open window to the boy behind the walls.

Richard stopped for an instant, the lure almost free. He looked at Ilian, then at the scenery around them, the sun shining on the water, the autumn trees, the tranquility of the place. He felt a pressing need to keep that moment as a celebration.

"Ilian..." he began, his voice soft, hesitant. Ilian looked up, his expression expectant. "This moment... you here, the sun, the river... our first fishing trip together." He paused, searching for the right words. "It is... special. Would you let me take a picture? Just to remember this day?"

The request hung in the air. Ilian was caught off guard. A photo of him? The idea made him feel suddenly exposed, self-conscious. His first instinct was to retreat, say no. He touched the brim of his cap, a nervous gesture. But then, he looked at Richard’s face, at the open sincerity in his eyes, at the warmth of his smile. He trusted Richard.

Ilian gave an almost imperceptible nod. "If you wish, Professor."

The relief and gratitude on Richard’s face were evident. "Great! Just a second." He finally freed the lure, took his cell phone from his pocket, and activated the camera. He didn't point it directly at Ilian immediately. "Keep looking at the river. The light is perfect."

Ilian turned his face back to the water, feeling less observed that way.

"Perfect. Thank you, Ilian," Richard said, putting the device away with a satisfied smile. That small act of asking and receiving permission had further cemented the trust between them.

He handed the rod back to Ilian with an encouraging smile. "Ready. No damage. Want to try again, with a little more care this time?"

A precious instant, saved.

Ilian, feeling strangely light, accepted. They continued for a while longer. He managed to make a few casts that actually reached the middle of the river, the line unrolling smoothly. No fish bit, but the small sense of learning was a reward in itself.

The sun was already high, warming the air. The smell of grilled fish began to drift from the cabin, carried by the gentle breeze. Richard checked his watch. "Well, I think our fishing lesson is over for today. And my stomach says George must have worked his magic. How about we head up?"

Chapter 43: The Taste of Conquest

The climb back up the trail was a silent ordeal. Every upward step demanded greater effort. Ilian’s right leg, which was already protesting against the uneven terrain, now seemed to drag an invisible weight. He focused only on the next step: planting the cane in the soft earth, steadying his left leg, and then, with an effort of will, dragging the right one.

Richard walked by his side, carrying the two fishing rods and the tackle box. He didn't speak, didn't offer unnecessary help, just adjusted his pace to Ilian’s. His silent presence was a form of support more powerful than any word of encouragement, it was the certainty that if he faltered, he wouldn't fall alone.

When they finally emerged near the cabin, Ilian was panting, cold sweat mixing with the icy air on his face. The smell that greeted him was almost overwhelming: wood smoke and the delicious, rich, slightly oily aroma of grilled fish.

George and Arthur were already on the porch. Taking advantage of the bright midday sun, which created a pocket of warmth sheltered from the wind, they had set up a small table. Beside them, at a grill, George commanded lunch, flipping the fish with a spatula.

"Look who’s back!" George exclaimed, his smile wide. "Are there any fish left in the river, or did Richard catch them all?"

"Save the jokes for lunch, George," Richard replied, laughing, as he climbed the steps. He helped Ilian sit in the wooden chair already positioned in the sun, ensuring he was comfortable and stable.

Lunch was served with rustic simplicity. George placed the grilled trout on a platter. "Straight from the river to the plate," he announced proudly.

He served a generous piece to Ilian. "Try this, son. I made it without salt for you, but with plenty of lemon."

Ilian looked at the fish. His hunger, real and sharp after the morning’s exertion, overcame any hesitation. He picked up his fork. The white meat flaked apart easily, steam rising from it. He brought the first piece to his mouth. The flavor was completely different from anything he had ever tasted. It was fresh, clean, with the smoky taste of the grill and a touch of lemon. It was wonderful.

Perhaps it didn't have the comforting complexity of Helena’s fish, which for him tasted of care, but this had the taste of nature, of conquest. It was real.

He ate in silence, but with gusto. He just listened. The conversation of the three friends flowed around him, a comfortable murmur of old stories, teasing about who used the wrong bait, and plans for the afternoon. They included him without pressuring him, as if his silent presence were the most natural thing in the world.

But when he finished eating, and the warmth of the sun began to penetrate deep into his body, the adrenaline of the morning vanished. The price of that extraordinary day arrived all at once. The challenging hike on the trail, the sensory and social overload... everything converged. The slight nausea he knew so well, his constant companion, returned to hover in the pit of his stomach. The exhaustion became a crushing force, weighing on his eyelids. He needed to lie down.

He waited for a lull in the conversation, his heart beating a little faster with the need to ask, to break the circle.

"Professor..." he began, his voice low, directed at Richard. The other two men fell silent out of courtesy. "Excuse me... do I have permission to retire? I need to rest."

A brief silence fell over the table. Richard, who had already noticed Ilian’s growing pallor, replied immediately, his voice gentle. "Of course, Ilian. Go rest, you deserve it. It was quite a morning."

George and Arthur, though clearly surprised by the formality of the request for "permission," quickly masked it.

Ilian began the slow process of standing up, his body stiff and sore. He looked at George. "Thank you," he murmured, the thanks encompassing the food and the hospitality. "It was perfect."

As Ilian turned slowly toward the cabin door, leaning on his cane, Richard spoke again, his tone casual. "Ilian, we're going to stay around here a little longer and then, later, I think we'll go back to the chairs down on the deck, enjoy the rest of the afternoon by the river." He paused, ensuring Ilian heard him. "If you wake up and feel up to it, you know where to find us. No pressure at all."

Ilian stopped at the threshold and looked back. The information was a gift, an anchor for when he woke up. He wouldn't be lost. He knew where they would be. He gave a tired nod of thanks.

The cabin’s interior offered immediate relief, its silence and shadow washing over him after the bright sun. He retreated down the hall to the shared bedroom, closing the door softly to leave the world behind. Still wearing Richard’s coat, he limped to the bed, sat briefly to remove his shoes, and collapsed sideways onto the plaid comforter. The exhaustion was total, absolute. Before he could even process the morning's events, darkness swallowed him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 44: The Fourth Chair

The light in the room had changed. The intense brightness of midday had given way to a soft, golden hue that painted the pine walls with long shadows. Ilian woke slowly, emerging from a heavy, dreamless darkness. He lay still for a long moment, just listening. The cabin was silent.

He sat up slowly. His entire body ached, a map of dull muscle pains. But the nausea had vanished. The crushing exhaustion had been replaced by physical tiredness. He felt better. Lighter.

He remembered Richard’s last words: "You know where to find us... on the deck... No pressure."

His first instinct, the instinct of a lifetime, was to stay there. In the safe room. Where no one could see him, no one could demand anything of him. The idea of inserting himself into an already formed social group was terrifying.

But then, other images surfaced. George’s genuine smile. Arthur’s practical handshake. Richard’s laughter on the deck. And the memory of the invitation, not an order, but information, a choice. You know where to find us.

He looked out the window. The late afternoon light was beautiful, soft, inviting. Curiosity and a faint desire to belong were stronger than fear. He made a decision.

With slow, deliberate movements, he put his shoes back on and stood up. He splashed cold water on his face in the bathroom to chase away the last traces of sleep. He combed his hair with his fingers. He adjusted the cap on his head. He checked that Richard’s coat was zipped, feeling the comforting weight of the three smooth stones in the pocket.

The main room was empty, warmed only by the lit fireplace. The front door was closed but not locked. He turned the heavy handle and stepped out into the crisp late-afternoon air. The smell of pine and damp earth was more intense now.

He stopped at the top of the two porch steps, the physical obstacle between him and the rest of the world. He gripped the rustic wooden railing as best he could with his left hand. It was firm, solid. He placed the cane on the first step, then lowered his trembling right leg, feeling a pang of pain in his hip. He steadied himself, all his weight on the railing, the cane, and his good leg. He repeated the agonizing process for the second step.

When his feet finally touched the packed earth of the clearing, he released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He had done it. Alone. With a sense of small victory, he adjusted his cap and began the slow descent toward the sound of the river.

The walk felt different. Calmer. Without the presence of others to watch or accompany him, he could stop when his leg protested, breathe the icy air. He noticed things he hadn't seen before: the intricate pattern of lichen on a fallen log, the vivid red of a small mushroom growing among the roots.

The golden light of near-sunset hit the river. On the wooden deck were the three men. They weren't fishing. They were simply there, sitting in folding chairs, facing the water, mugs in hand, talking in low voices. And in the circle they formed, there was a fourth folding chair. Empty. Facing the river, as if waiting for him.

The soft sound of his cane on the dry leaves made Richard look back. A wide, pure, welcoming smile lit up his face.

"Ilian! I'm so glad you came!" His voice was calm but full of satisfaction.

George and Arthur turned. "Look at that!" George exclaimed, his tone warm. "We saved a spot for you! Come, sit here. The view is spectacular."

Ilian limped slowly across the deck, the sound of his steps muffled by the wood. He walked to the empty chair and, with his usual care, sat down.

He said nothing. He just looked at the river, at the sun beginning its descent behind the trees. And he felt, in a strange and deep way, that he was exactly where he was meant to be..

The conversation resumed, light and spaced out. After a long, comfortable silence, Arthur, who had been quiet beside Ilian, stopped fiddling with a small piece of pine wood in his hands. Examining it for a moment with his practical eyes, he blew off the fine sawdust and, without ceremony, held it out to Ilian.

"For you," he said, his voice raspy. "A souvenir from the river."

Ilian looked at the extended hand and took the object. It was a small sculpture, simple, rustic, but made with obvious skill. Arthur had carved, with surprising detail, the shape of a small trout, the lines fluid, scales suggested by small precise cuts, the light wood perfectly sanded until smooth to the touch.

Ilian was stunned. He looked from the small wooden trout to Arthur’s practical face, who had already turned back to the river, as if the gesture were of no importance. He ran his thumb over the smooth curve of the fish. A gift. Made for him. For no apparent reason. The simplicity and depth of the gesture left him completely speechless.

Richard, watching the scene in silence, felt his throat tighten. He saw Ilian holding the small wooden fish, looking at it with almost religious reverence. He saw George grinning broadly at Arthur, and Arthur trying to hide his own quiet satisfaction.

"Nobody move," Richard said suddenly, his voice a little thick. The conversation stopped. "This right here is our quartet remade. David would have loved it."

He took out his phone. "Guys... Ilian... do you mind if I take a picture?"

There was a murmur of agreement. Richard balanced the phone on a fishing rod holder nearby and set the timer. He ran back to his spot next to George.

The photo captured the scene on the deck at sunset: George laughing openly at the camera; Arthur, beside him, with his rare, dry smile; Richard, with his arm on the back of George’s chair, his face full of deep peace. And Ilian, sitting a little straighter in his chair, Richard’s coat and cap shading his eyes, holding the wooden gift with both hands, and on his lips, a small, hesitant, but genuine smile.

The climb back from the deck was silent, done in the gloom of twilight. The dinner that followed was held in the cabin kitchen, substantial and warm, eaten without ceremony at the large wooden table. The three friends' conversation flowed in a low, comfortable murmur of shared stories and simple plans for the next day. Ilian ate in silence, the social energy he had gathered with such effort now at its absolute limit.

Shortly after dinner, while George and Arthur cleaned the kitchen, Ilian asked Richard to be excused, who nodded immediately. The hot shower was a sharp relief, the water loosening muscles protesting the effort of the walks and the tension of learning to fish. Back in the bedroom, dressed in fresh clothes, he sat on the edge of the bed.

He picked up the hiking boots he had worn. His body was tired, but it was a good tired. With the boot resting on his good knee, he began to tie the laces to keep them tidy for the next morning. His right hand moved with hypnotic speed and precision, agile fingers creating a complex knot quickly, while his stiff and weak left hand served only to stabilize the boot.

The bedroom door opened softly. Richard entered, already in his sleepwear, holding his toiletry bag. He stopped for a moment, watching Ilian’s silent ritual.

"You know," Richard said, his voice casual and low so as not to disturb the peace of the room, "I've seen you do that before, and I find that knot impressive."

Ilian stopped, fingers still on the loop. He felt suddenly self-conscious, as if caught doing something strange.

"I've never seen anything like it," Richard continued, sitting on the other bed, facing Ilian, creating a space of equality. "It's incredibly fast... especially with just one hand."

Ilian looked at the boot in his hands. "I learned it in a book," he said, his voice low. "It had a chapter on knots." He hesitated, then added the practical explanation, as if it were an engineering problem. "I needed an efficient way to tie... using only my right hand."

Richard absorbed the information in silence. The image of Ilian studying scout knots, not for fun, but to survive a limitation. He kept his voice calm, paternal. "It was a good day today. I'm very happy you came with me."

The simple comment, added to the safety of the room, the kindness of those men, and the emotional exhaustion of the day, seemed to open a floodgate in Ilian. He set the boot slowly on the floor.

"Professor..." he began, his voice suddenly unsteady.

Richard waited, motionless.

"Today..." Ilian swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his own hands. "Today was the best day of my life."

The confession was so direct, so stripped of any artifice, that Richard felt his own eyes burn. "The best day, Ilian?" he asked softly, his voice a gentle invitation for him to continue.

"Since... since I can remember," he said, the words coming now in a low, hurried flow, as if fearing the door would close. "All these days... since you picked me up at the airport. The dinner at your house... the park... the chess." He looked up, meeting Richard’s eyes, his vulnerability an open wound. "And today. Your friends. They are like you. They are kind."

He looked at the small wooden trout Arthur had given him, now resting on the bedside table.

His voice cracked for an instant, and he looked at his scarred hands, the map of his history. "Professor... I have done many things. Things I didn't want to." His gaze became distant, somber. "My work... my projects... they weren't used for good things. They hurt people. I know they hurt people. They were used to attack, not to defend. And I did that."

"Ilian..." Richard interrupted, his voice firm. "That is not..."

"I just wished I could do things to help," he continued, as if he hadn't heard him, the need to confess stronger than his fear. "Not to destroy. I just wanted a simpler life." He looked around the small wooden room. "Sometimes, I imagined myself in a normal life. With a normal job. Where I wasn't... this." He gestured vaguely to his own head. "Not a tool. Maybe... like Arthur. Someone who fixes things."

His voice dropped to a whisper, the final confession. "Sometimes I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a family. To be normal. Where people just talk. Like you and George."

He lowered his head, suddenly exhausted by his own openness. "I could live the rest of my life like this. Just with days like this."

Richard was silent for a long moment, his heart heavy and overflowing. The oyster had opened. And there was the pearl: not just the pain, the guilt, and the trauma, but a purity of desire, a longing for goodness, for normalcy, for redemption. It was the most incredibly moving thing he had ever witnessed.

He didn't respond with a quick paternal gesture. He responded to that soul confession with his own truth, his voice thick with emotion but absolutely steady.

"Ilian... what you just shared..." he began, "is an unimaginable weight for a man to carry. Especially for someone so young." He paused, choosing every word. "What was done to you, and what you were forced to do, does not define who you are. An instrument is not to blame for what it is forced to do. Your mind is a gift, Ilian. And what you wish to do with it... your desire to help, to build, to improve... that, Ilian... that is who you are. That is the truth."

He leaned slightly forward, his presence filling the small room. "And this normalcy... this peace you felt today... this is not a dream. This is the real world. This is what we live for. Not for complex projects or people's demands. But for this." He gestured to the silent room. "For a good day of fishing. For a shared meal. For a gift given without reason. You don't have to be a 'genius' to be valued, Ilian. You don't have to 'produce' anything to deserve your place."

Richard’s voice became a promise. "You deserve to have days like this. And I... I will do everything in my power to ensure you have more days like this. This is the goal now. One day at a time. This is the new normal."

A deep, transforming silence settled between the two. Ilian looked at him, overwhelmed, Richard’s words falling upon years of guilt and fear. He couldn't speak. He just nodded, once, slowly, a movement sealing a pact.

Finally, Richard stood up. "Now, rest. You had a long day and you deserve every second of peace."

He went to the switch and turned off the main room light, plunging them into a soft gloom, lit only by the crack of light from the hallway.

"Thank you, Professor," he said, his voice coming from the darkness.

"Sleep well, Ilian."

Richard lay down, he couldn't speak anymore, he needed to absorb that glimpse Ilian had given him.

Ilian lay down, eyes open in the darkness, the small wooden trout inches away on the nightstand. He didn't think of Miller. He didn't think of Kessler. He replayed the day in his mind: the sound of the river, the warmth of the sun on the wood, the smooth stones in his hands, and the sound of his own surprised laughter. He fell asleep not just feeling safe, but feeling genuinely happy and hopeful.

Chapter 45: The Lost Son

Sunday dawned cold and crisp. Everyone woke early, in a hum of quiet activity. George, the head early riser, already had coffee steaming and a skillet of eggs on the stove when Ilian and Richard emerged from the bedroom. The plan was to make the most of the last morning of fishing before packing everything up and heading home after lunch.

Breakfast was quick, eaten around the large kitchen table, the three friends in animated conversation about who would catch the best fish today. Ilian, feeling genuinely rested and safe after the previous night’s conversation, ate well, watching the camaraderie with interest.

Preparation was faster this time. Ilian put Richard’s dark green coat over his clothes, the gesture now familiar, and placed the cap on his head. When they reached the porch, Richard, as always, positioned himself to help him on the steps. George and Arthur were already ahead, carrying the rods and the tackle box.

The descent was a little easier. Ilian’s body still protested, but his mind was calm. They reached the wooden deck, bathed in the low, golden light of the morning sun. Mist still clung to the surface of the river, making the scene ethereal and silent, broken only by the sound of clear water running over stones.

Arthur, pragmatic as always, prepared his rod and entered the water, finding his favorite spot downstream. George and Richard, however, were focused on Ilian.

"Today is the day, Ilian!" Richard said with genuine enthusiasm.

"No doubt," agreed George, opening a box of colorful lures. "Now, theory is important. The sun is low, the water is cold... I'd use something with a bit of shine, like this lure here..."

Richard shook his head. "No, no, George. Too flashy. For this water, he needs something more natural. This one here..."

Ilian watched the two men, both over sixty, debating the merits of small insect imitations with the seriousness of engineers discussing a schematic. He realized, with sudden clarity, that fishing was just a pretext. The real reason they were there was this: the discussion, the company, the ritual. The friendship.

"Let's let him decide," Richard said finally, laughing. "What do you think, Ilian? Want to try casting?"

Feeling a genuine desire to be part of that ritual, to please the professor, Ilian nodded. "Yes. I would like to try."

He sat in his folding chair on the deck for better stability. Richard helped him prepare the line, this time with a small hook and real bait. Under Richard’s patient guidance and George’s encouraging comments, Ilian began to practice casting. His movements were still clumsy, limited by his left hand, but there was visible improvement. The line flew further, landed in the water more frequently. He didn't catch anything. He didn't even feel a tug. But with each successful cast, he felt a small, silent wave of satisfaction.

"That's it, young man! Patience!" George said. "That's how it's done."

Satisfied to see him on his way, Richard and George finally picked up their own rods and entered the water, positioning themselves some distance away, leaving Ilian alone on the deck, practicing at his own pace. He stayed there for a long time, the rhythmic movement of casting and reeling in the line becoming almost meditative. He wasn't anxious about catching a fish. He was happy to be there.

It was the sound of Arthur returning to the deck that brought him back.. The quieter man brought another beautiful silver trout, which he placed in the bucket before returning to his post downstream. The sight of the fish reminded Richard of something.

"I forgot my other lure case!" he exclaimed suddenly, looking toward the cabin.

He started to leave the water, moving carefully over the stones. Passing George, who was closer, he spoke in a low voice, "George, I'm going up to the cabin. Keep an eye on him for me, please."

"Will do," George said, without taking his eyes off the water.

Richard left the river quickly, set his rod on the deck, and hurried up the trail.

Ilian continued his casting. George reeled in his line and left the water, climbing onto the deck. He sat in the chair next to Ilian with a satisfied sigh.

"Not bad, young man," he said, watching Ilian’s last cast.

"The professor is a good instructor."

"He is," George agreed, looking at the trail where Richard had disappeared. His voice became lower, more reflective. "He is a good man, Richard. Very protective." He looked at Ilian with a gentle gaze. "He is very protective of you."

Ilian just nodded, not knowing what to say.

George sighed, looking at the river. "He's always been a bit like that, the 'father' of our group. But... he became even more so after he and Helena lost Michael."

The name, "Michael," said so casually, made Ilian stop. He turned slowly to George.

George, perhaps sensing he had touched a sore spot but wanting to be honest, continued softly. "Their son. It was a long time ago, of course. The boy was only 9 years old." He shook his head. "A heart problem. It was a terrible blow."

George, realizing he had shared deep family pain, felt the need to lighten the moment. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, sad things in life. But look here," he said, his tone shifting skillfully, becoming practical and warm again, "since we're here waiting and the fish aren't cooperating, I'm going to show you a real secret."

He opened his own tackle box. "Richard likes those fancy lures, but this here..." he picked up a small lure that looked like a hairy, sick insect. "...this, Arthur thinks is ugly. But this is the one that catches the old, stubborn trout hiding under the rocks. The secret is in the way it..."

While George began to explain enthusiastically the theory of underwater lures, Ilian’s mind was miles away. The older man’s words flowed over him, but what he heard was: A son. Dead. 9 years old.

His processing was purely emotional, focused on the strength of the Andersons.

He thought of Helena, her radiant kindness in the greenhouse, her unconditional warmth. He thought of Richard, his infinite patience, his fierce defense against Miller, his hand cleaning blood from the floor, his voice reading about stars in the middle of the night. They went through that. The loss of a child.

And yet, they weren't bitter. They weren't cold or distant. They had opened their home, their family, to him, a complete stranger from another country. They could laugh. They could be kind. They could care. His admiration for Richard, which was already immense, transformed into something deeper, something bordering on reverence. The strength of those people wasn't in power, like Miller, or in genius, like Kessler. It was in the capacity to endure unimaginable pain and still choose kindness.

"Ilian? Are you listening?"

George’s voice brought him back. Ilian blinked, focusing on the man's friendly face. "Sorry."

"I was saying," George laughed, "that you're thinking too much. Fishing is for not thinking."

At that moment, they heard the sound of footsteps on the trail. Richard was returning. "Ready!" he exclaimed, arriving at the deck. He smiled at Ilian and George, oblivious to the revelation that had just hovered over the river.

Ilian looked at the professor, at his protector, and for the first time, he saw not just the man who had saved him, but the man who had survived. And his heart, which had spent a lifetime building walls, felt a little less alone in its own pain.

"Now maybe the fish will start biting." The professor smiled.

George laughed. "Not with those colorful lures, Richard. But you can try." He looked at the sun, which was already climbing high, warming the cold morning air. "Well, boys, I think my part is done for today. I'm going up to start lunch."

"I'll go too," said Arthur, approaching the deck, reeling in his line.

"We'll stay a little longer," Richard said, looking at Ilian. "Right?"

Ilian, grateful for a few more minutes of quiet before another social meal, simply nodded. George and Arthur went up the trail, their voices echoing relaxedly until they disappeared.

Richard returned to the water but stayed close. Ilian continued to cast his line, his movements now more rhythmic, though his mind was far away. He watched Richard, standing in the current, the embodiment of patience, and tried to reconcile the image of that calm man with the pain of a father who had lost a nine-year-old son.

After perhaps another forty minutes, Richard seemed to sense the change in the air, or perhaps his own hunger. He reeled in the line. "Well, I think the fish won today. And the smell coming from the cabin is getting too good to ignore." He stepped out of the water and sat in the chair next to Ilian to take off his fishing waders.

"Here's the plan," he said, his voice practical but gentle. "We eat the fish George is making, then rest for an hour or two. The drive back is long. After that, we pack up and hit the road. Okay?"

"Yes, Professor. Perfect," Ilian replied, grateful for the clarity of the plan.

The climb up was slow, Ilian leaning heavily on his cane, his body paying the price for his two mornings of activity. Lunch was quick, eaten at the large wooden kitchen table. The fish George grilled was delicious, the meat white and tender with the smoky flavor of the coals. Ilian ate in silence, savoring the simple food, while the three friends talked in low voices, a comfortable murmur wrapping around him without demanding participation.

After the meal, Richard stood up. "Well, I think I need to rest a bit before we leave." He looked at Ilian. "Shall we?"

Ilian nodded, grateful for the suggestion. He said goodbye to George and Arthur with a nod and followed Richard down the hall to the room they shared.

The room was cool and silent. Richard sat on his bed and began taking off his hiking boots with a sigh of tiredness. Ilian went to his own bed and sat on the edge, placing the cane beside him. Richard lay down and, in a matter of minutes, his breathing became deep and regular. He had fallen asleep.

Ilian lay down too, but his eyes remained open, fixed on the dark wooden beams of the ceiling. The room was quiet, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of the professor. And in the stillness, his mind began to work, connecting the dots of that extraordinary weekend.

Kessler would have scoffed at such weakness. He would have seen the confession about the deaths caused by Project Falke not as a burden, but as an unforgivable failure, further proof of his inability to be the perfect instrument he demanded. He would have thrown another eraser, or simply dismissed him with a look of icy contempt, denying him dinner as punishment for his "mental laziness" or his "lack of discipline." Kessler, who sometimes called him "almost a son," but whose affection was as conditional as his equations, would use that confession as another lever, another form of control, a constant reminder of his debt and inherent fallibility.

And Orlov... the mere thought of that name brought the sensory memory, not just the image, but the phantom sensation, of the pneumatic clamp crushing the bones of his left hand, the cold and calculated revenge for his refusal to ignore a flaw. That had been the price of his intellectual integrity in that world: mutilation.

But Richard... Richard was the antithesis of everything Ilian had known. He was living proof, breathing there beside him in the quiet of the room, that kindness could coexist with a sharp intelligence, that strength could manifest not as dominance, but as protective gentleness, even ,and this was the most incomprehensible part, even after carrying his own unimaginable personal pain. Richard had heard the same confession about "stubbornness" breaking his hand, and his reaction hadn't been contempt or impatience, but an empathy so deep it had left the professor momentarily speechless.

Richard had seen his most secret scars, not as marks of a defective asset. Richard had cleaned his blood from the floor. He had brought food when he couldn't ask.

A wave of overwhelming admiration and gratitude for that man sleeping in the next bed flooded him, an emotion so strong and unfamiliar it was almost a physical pain in his chest. It was a warmth spreading slowly, thawing layers of ice he didn't even know existed. And with it, undeniable, a fragile but persistent spark of hope.

If Richard and Helena, carrying the crushing weight of losing Michael, that unimaginable wound, could still find enough light and warmth to welcome, to genuinely care for, a foreign stranger like him, maybe... maybe the darkness wasn't absolute.

Maybe he too could find a way out of his own endless night, a way that wasn't just surviving, but perhaps... living. Maybe a life where he could use his mind to fix things, to create his Projekt Rodzina, to perhaps balance the terrible scales of Project Falke, instead of just destroying. Where he could simply sit in the sun and watch ducks on a lake, feeling the wind on his face without every sound being a threat. Maybe that life was, after all, possible. Not just a fleeting, torturous dream, but a real, tangible possibility, to be built painfully, step by step, day after day.

With that thought, a small, almost imperceptible glimpse of a still-unimaginable future, Ilian closed his eyes. The physical fatigue of the morning finally claimed his body, and he drifted into a deep sleep, heavier and truly peaceful.

Chapter 46: The Farewell

A soft, persistent sound broke the stillness of the room. Richard’s discreet cell phone alarm. The professor opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the light coming through the window. It was time to go.

He sat up in bed, stretching carefully to avoid making noise. He looked at the other bed. Ilian was still sleeping deeply, his face serene, a rare image of peace. Richard hesitated, hating to break that rest, but the long drive back awaited them.

He approached and touched his shoulder lightly. "Ilian?" he called, his voice a low murmur. "It's time."

Ilian woke, but without the panic of the previous night. He saw Richard’s gentle face and relaxed slightly. He nodded, still half-asleep, and began the slow process of sitting up.

The room was silent as both packed their things. Richard folded his worn clothes and put them in his small canvas bag, a practical weekend item.

Ilian moved with his usual stiffness. He went to the corner of the room where his "bag" was, the cardboard box provided by the agency. With almost ritualistic precision, he folded his few pieces of clothing, the two long-sleeved T-shirts, the dark trousers, his coat, and placed them inside the box. He packed his hygiene items, the detached pill organizers, and lastly, with special care, the small wooden trout carved by Arthur and his three smooth stones. He closed the box flaps.

Richard watched in silence from across the room as he tied his own shoes. Every movement Ilian made with the box was a silent stab. The image of that brilliant young man, reduced to transporting his few belongings in a disposable cardboard box, made Richard make a silent promise to himself: Ilian would never use a box as a suitcase again. Never again.

They left the room. Richard carried his bag in one hand and Ilian’s cardboard box in the other. Ilian followed behind, leaning on his cane, the cap already on his head.

George and Arthur had already taken Richard’s gear to his car. They waited there, near the vehicle, ready for the final goodbye.

Richard went first. He left the box and the bag in the back seat of the vehicle. He approached his friends. A long, strong hug for George, full of a lifetime of camaraderie. "Thank you for everything, my friend. It was perfect, as always."

Then, he turned to Arthur. A firm handshake and a more contained, but equally warm hug. "It was great, Arthur. Thank you for always looking out for us."

Then, George, with his natural extroversion and wide smile, turned to Ilian, who had stopped at a hesitant distance near the passenger door. George’s gaze was warm, full of satisfaction from the shared weekend.

He took a step toward Ilian, his body already leaning slightly, the clear intention to include him in a final goodbye hug, a gesture of total inclusion.

Ilian froze. The direct gaze. The step toward him. Before George’s arms even began to open, the alarm went off. His body, trained by years of unexpected and threatening touches, reacted first, faster than thought.

In a pure, instinctive reflex, he took a quick step back, almost stumbling on the loose gravel. Raising an invisible shield against the gesture he anticipated. The eyes under the brim of the cap widened.

George’s smile faltered, dying before it was complete. He stopped, the intention of the hug evaporating in the cold air. A flash of genuine surprise, a tinge of strangeness at the unexpected rejection, passed quickly through his eyes.

But he was a kind man. Seeing the sudden tension in Ilian’s body, the total recoil, he understood instantly, or at least, understood that something was wrong. With natural grace, he interrupted the movement, placing his hands casually in his coat pockets. The smile returned to his face, perhaps a little less spontaneous, but still warm, striving to erase the awkwardness.

"Whoa, easy there, young man!" he said, his voice perfectly casual, a light tone to break the tension, without any trace of rebuke. "It was a pleasure having you here. Richard knows the way, come back whenever you want. Let's schedule another fishing trip soon, yeah?"

Arthur, always more reserved and observant, had witnessed Ilian’s recoil in silence. He simply extended his right hand toward Ilian. "It was good to meet you, Ilian. You'll always be welcome."

Ilian, tense as a wire, shame for his own recoil burning on his face, managed to extend a trembling right hand and shake Arthur’s firm hand. A brief, contained contact. Then, he gave a small, stiff nod to George. "Thank you... for everything," he murmured, his voice almost inaudible, eyes fixed on a spot on the gravel near his feet.

Richard approached. "Let's go, Ilian."

He opened the passenger door, allowing Ilian to retreat into the refuge of the car as fast as he could. Richard closed it firmly before circling around to take the wheel. Inside, the professor said nothing about the incident. Offering neither false consolations nor attempts to analyze the moment, he simply gave Ilian the dignity of silence, the space to process.

He started the engine and waved one last time to George and Arthur, who stood there, familiar figures against the autumn landscape. And then, the car began to move, rolling slowly down the dirt path, leaving the river, the forest, and that brief interlude of peace behind, beginning the long journey back to reality.

The afternoon sun began to descend, painting the sky with orange hues through the trees. Inside the car, the initial silence was dense. Ilian was tense in the passenger seat, the image of his own clumsy recoil from George’s gesture replaying in his mind. The shame was a cold, familiar sensation.

He glanced at Richard. The professor drove calmly, gaze fixed on the road, making no mention of the incident. His tranquility was a silent balm, allowing the tension in Ilian’s body to begin, very slowly, to diminish.

Gradually, another sensation began to overlay the shame. It was the echo of the weekend. The sound of the river. The warmth of the sun on the wooden deck. The smooth stones in his palm. The small wooden trout in the cardboard box. The taste of fresh fish. George’s laughter. The silent conversation with Arthur. And above all, the feeling of having belonged, however briefly, to something resembling normalcy.

A small involuntary smile touched Ilian’s lips. The embarrassment of the farewell began to seem distant, small, overshadowed by the positive magnitude of what he had lived. Slowly, he felt... light. Almost euphoric.

He turned his face to the window, but this time, not to hide. He watched the landscape with new, vivid attention. The autumn trees, with their leaves in shades of red and gold, passed like brushstrokes of color.

"These trees are beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice low but audible in the silence of the car.

Richard turned his head briefly, surprised by the spontaneous observation. A satisfied smile appeared on his face. "It really is. Autumn in these mountains is something special."

Ilian nodded, eyes still fixed on the landscape. "In Germany... the forests were different. Darker. Pine."

He spoke more. Small fragments, factual observations, but it was a notable change. Richard listened, offering short, encouraging answers, feeling a wave of hope. Maybe the weekend really had broken down a small barrier.

The lightness of the moment made Richard risk it, perhaps remembering Ilian’s previous refusal. "The trip is still long," he said casually. "Would some calm music help pass the time? Or do you really prefer silence?"

Ilian thought about it for an instant. The memory of music imposed by Kessler was still a shadow, but the feeling of peace in that car was strong. "No, Professor," he replied, his voice calm, without the previous hardness. "The sound of the road... is good. I like listening to you talk."

Richard accepted the answer with a nod, pleased by the honesty.

They continued the journey. Ilian watched the way Richard’s firm hands guided the wheel, the ease with which he navigated the curves of the road. The car moved with clear purpose, toward a known destination. For Richard, it was just the way back home. For Ilian, the feeling was different. It was new. It was strange. The certainty of the destination. The absence of fear about where the trip would end.

"It is strange..." he began, the words coming out with hesitation. "...being in a car and knowing where I am going."

Richard turned his head briefly, his expression attentive, but said nothing, giving Ilian the space to continue if he wanted. There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of the engine. Ilian kept looking out.

"I have taken other trips," he continued, his voice even lower. "Long ones. Very long ones." Another pause. An almost imperceptible sigh. "Where I was just cargo."

The word fell into the silence of the car with unimaginable weight. Cargo. Richard felt a chill run down his spine. The image the word evoked, dehumanization, transport of an object, not a person, was brutal. He kept his eyes on the road, hands gripping the wheel lightly, his heart heavy with the enormity of what was not being said.

Ilian finished the sentence, his gaze still lost in the darkness outside. "Moved from one place to another. Not knowing why."

The silence that followed was deep, charged with the image of a young man being transported, a pawn in a game whose rules he didn't know. Richard felt a wave of impotent fury against those who had treated him that way, and an overwhelming sadness for Ilian. He knew any word of comfort would sound hollow. He knew Ilian wasn't asking for pity, he was just... sharing a terrible fact of his existence.

He needed to respond, not to the pain of the past, but to the reality of the present. He needed to reinforce the safety Ilian was beginning to feel.

After a long moment, Richard spoke, his voice low but firm, cutting the silence with quiet certainty.

"Well... on this trip, Ilian..." he paused, choosing his words carefully. "...you are not cargo. You are with me." He swallowed hard, the next word loaded with a meaning he hoped Ilian felt. "And we are going home."

Ilian turned his face slowly from the window to look at Richard’s profile. He said nothing.

The silence returned, but its quality had changed. The bridge between them, built with hesitant confessions and careful answers, was a little stronger. Richard continued driving, the weight of his responsibility, not just as a host but as a protector, clearer and heavier than ever. The road ahead was long, not just in miles, but in the journey of healing that young man beside him. And Richard knew, with absolute certainty, that he would be there to accompany him, no matter where the path led them.

After nearly an hour of driving, Richard slowed down, exiting the main highway. "Remember that café where we stopped on the way? I think a break to stretch our legs and maybe a coffee would be a good idea."

Ilian nodded. The memory of the previous stop, the apple cake, the gift of the cap, was positive.

They entered the same cozy café. It was emptier now, late on a Sunday afternoon. They ordered coffee. While they waited, Richard stood up. "I'm just going to the restroom and see if I can find a little souvenir for my girls."

Ilian watched him go to a small corner of the shop selling local crafts and some packaged sweets. He saw Richard examine items carefully. He picked up two items, paid for them, and returned to the table with the coffees. They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking the hot liquid, looking out the window at the valley now covered by the long shadows of twilight. The atmosphere was one of calm, of a journey coming to an end.

Back in the car, the last leg of the trip began. Ilian’s initial enthusiasm had given way to a quiet tiredness. The euphoria had transformed into a sense of serene contentment.

He rested his head against the cold glass of the window, the cap still on his head, and watched the lights begin to appear as they approached the city, blinking in the growing darkness. The memory of the weekend was a soft warmth inside him, a collection of unexpected moments: the river, the stones, George’s laughter, the small wooden trout.

The gentle vibration of the car and the falling night lulled him. Richard glanced at the young man beside him. Ilian’s eyes were closed now, breathing calm and regular. He had fallen asleep again.

Richard smiled softly. This time, he knew, it was the peaceful sleep of someone who had found, even if briefly, a safe harbor. He continued driving in silence, protecting that rest.

When they finally entered the familiar neighborhood, the streets quiet under the streetlights, Richard slowed down. He brought the car to a gentle stop on the gravel path, closer to the main house entrance this time, under the welcoming light of the porch, and turned off the engine.

The sudden silence made Ilian wake slowly. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, seeing the familiar lights of the Anderson house through the windshield. They were back.

"We're here," Richard said, his voice low so as not to startle him. "Did you rest a little?"

Ilian nodded, still a bit sleepy, but feeling a calm he didn't associate with the end of a trip. He straightened up in the seat, taking off his cap.

Richard opened the door, the cold night air entering the car. "Let's go inside. I bet Helena already has something warm waiting for us."

As soon as they got out of the car, before Richard could even grab the bags, the main house door opened, spilling warm light onto the path. Helena and Elara came out to meet them, faces lit by welcoming smiles.

Their focus was immediately on Richard, who looked visibly tired after the long drive. Helena hurried to hug him tightly. "Richard! So glad you're home! How was it? We were worried." She gave him a quick kiss.

Elara also approached and hugged her father. "We missed you, Dad."

Ilian watched the scene from a small distance, leaning on his cane. The warmth of that family reunion was something so natural to them, so alien to him.

Then, Helena and Elara turned to him. The smiles remained, warm and genuine.

"Welcome back, Ilian!" Helena said, her voice maternal and welcoming.

"We missed you too!" added Elara, perhaps with a smile a little more contained, but equally sincere.

Neither made a move to approach for a hug or any touch. They kept a respectful distance, their smiles the only physical bridge between them. Ilian felt a small relief at that, mixed with the usual awkwardness of being the center of attention.

"I took care of your plant with love, Ilian," Helena said.

"I hope you liked the trip," added Elara, her observation more neutral.

"Thank you very much," he replied.

Richard, recovered from the hugs, yawned discreetly. The fatigue was evident.

Ilian noticed immediately. He didn't want to be a burden, didn't want to prolong the moment and delay the professor's rest. He took a hesitant step toward Richard.

"Professor, if you'll excuse me..." he began, voice low. He nodded toward the cardboard box Richard hadn't yet taken out of the car. "My box... I think I'll rest a little. I don't want to be any trouble."

Richard looked at him, then at Helena and Elara, and understood. He grabbed Ilian’s box from the back of the car and handed it to him. "Of course, Ilian. It was a long trip for you too. Rest well."

"Imagine, it's no trouble at all!" Helena intervened immediately, her maternal instinct on alert. "But do rest. Yes." She looked at Elara. "Sweetie, take the Amaryllis back to Ilian and that bowl of soup I made, okay? So he has something warm before sleeping."

Ilian took his box, the familiar rough cardboard under his fingers. "Thank you," he murmured to the two women, giving a general nod.

He turned and began his slow solitary walk down the gravel path, toward the soft light of the guest house. He felt their gazes on his back, but didn't turn around.

He heard Richard’s voice: "Come on in, it's cold out here." And the sound of the main door closing.

He continued, step by step, carrying his box, the only sound being his cane on the gravel and his own breathing in the silent night. The refuge was ahead, waiting for him after his brief incursion into the outside world.

Chapter 47: Echoes of the Journey

Ilian entered the guest house. The soft click of the door closing seemed to resonate in the familiar silence. The cozy warmth of the cabin, the constant murmur of friendly voices, evaporated, replaced by the known stillness of his refuge.

His body felt heavy, every muscle protesting against the weekend's efforts. But beneath the physical tiredness, there was a different calm, a serene satisfaction he didn't recognize. He placed the cardboard box on a low table near the entrance door. There was no urgency to unpack it. The contents, anonymous clothes, the wooden trout, the smooth stones, could wait.

Guided by physical need, he limped slowly to the bathroom, the sound of his cane tapping on the floor.

On his way back, thinking only about drinking a glass of cold water in the kitchen, there was a light knock on the door, hesitant. He stopped with less apprehension than usual, perhaps just a resigned curiosity. He began the slow walk back to the door.

Opening it, he found Elara. A slightly shy, but genuinely happy smile lit up her face. She cradled the amaryllis in one arm and held a covered glass bowl in the other hand.

"Ilian!" she said, her voice clear and perhaps a little louder than usual, full of contained enthusiasm. "I brought your plant back! And the soup my mother promised!"

Without conscious thought, perhaps still under the effect of the cabin's more open atmosphere, Ilian took a step back, moving away from the doorframe ,a retreat larger than normal. The space became free. Elara noticed the open path. Her smile widened a little, perhaps surprised by the unexpected receptivity. She stepped inside.

"Thank you very much," he managed to say, his voice low, but present.

With care, she positioned the amaryllis on the small table near the door, next to Ilian's cardboard box. The vibrant plant contrasted with the functional cardboard. "It survived my care!" she commented lightly, looking at the plant. She made her way to the kitchen, placing the bowl of soup on the small table.

There was a brief silence, a bit expectant. "My dad sent the photo of you guys on the deck!" She smiled at the memory of the image. "It looked so peaceful down at the river. I'm happy you liked it."

Ilian, remembering the peace felt in the sun, the texture of the wood, managed to meet her gaze for an instant. "Yes..." he murmured. "The river was calm."

Encouraged by the response, by the small connection, she continued, her voice gaining a little more warmth. "That's good! The house seemed kind of empty without you guys." Her gaze landed on the dark cap he still wore, forgotten on his head. "Oh, the cap looks great on you!"

The direct compliment. The implication that his presence (or absence) was noted. It was too much. The small bridge that had formed collapsed instantly. Ilian averted his gaze abruptly to the plant, then to the bowl on the table. He brought his right hand to the cap and took it off quickly, holding it with clumsy fingers, as if he didn't know where to put it. He felt his face heat up under her gaze. The tension returned to his shoulders, his posture closing visibly.

Sensing the intensity of his reaction, Elara felt her own smile falter for an instant, perhaps with a tinge of confusion or disappointment, before her usual practical expression returned.

"Well," she said, her tone becoming a little more neutral, "I know you must be exhausted from the trip. I won't keep you up." She indicated the bowl. "Enjoy the soup." She headed to the door. "Get some rest, Ilian." And she left, closing the door softly behind her.

Left alone in the silence, Ilian released the air he hadn't realized he was holding. The interaction had been brief, yet it left him drained. His mind tried to process the pieces: her kindness, the unexpected compliment, his own inadequate reaction. It was too complicated.

He looked at the amaryllis on the small table. The green and firm leaves seemed to vibrate with silent life. He went to the kitchen and uncovered the bowl. The familiar and comforting smell of Helena's soup rose to him. It was real. It was care. He sat at the table and ate. The hot liquid went down smoothly, warming him inside. The sensation was of deep physical satisfaction, and the relief of regained solitude was immense.

Chapter 48: Small Requests

Monday morning arrived, not with the cold apprehension of previous weeks. Ilian woke in his own bed, the silence of the guest house familiar, but tinged by recent memories of the river’s murmur and the low conversations of Richard’s friends. His body protested with aches, an echo of the weekend’s physical effort, but his mind was clear, anchored by a new purpose. Today was physical therapy day, and he rose not as a victim, but as a soldier preparing for the training ground.

His morning routine gained new contours. The hot shower to loosen his muscles. The black coffee. And, now firmly established, an apple eaten slowly at the kitchen table, his body learning to accept morning sustenance. He went to the counter to take his usual medicines. He opened the "Monday" compartment. He separated the two intruding white pills. He went to the sink and, with cold resolve, let them fall down the drain, the sound of the water washing away the agency’s silent order. He swallowed his normal dose. It was his daily ritual of rebellion.

The doorbell rang punctually at nine. David and Ben.

The session was grueling, as expected. The pain in his left hand under Ben’s manipulation. The agony in his right leg as David forced the stretches. The slow torture of the treadmill. When the session ended, he was on the verge of collapse, soaked in sweat, trembling with exhaustion. He had endured again.

David and Ben left with a brief professional nod. Ilian was alone for a moment in the training room, leaning on the table, trying to catch his breath. He needed a shower. He needed silence.

With a monumental effort, he composed himself minimally. He grabbed his cane and limped slowly out of the room, seeing Mr. Harris in the kitchen, finishing restocking the refrigerator. Harris was a neutral presence, an employee focused only on his task. That made him the least intimidating person to address a request to.

Ilian stopped at the kitchen threshold. His T-shirt clung to his body, hair damp with sweat. He was in his most physically vulnerable state, but the small victory in physical therapy gave him unexpected courage. Harris saw him there but continued organizing the packages.

"Mr. Harris..." Ilian began, his voice a little hoarse from exhaustion.

Harris stopped and turned, his expression neutral, expectant. "Yes, Mr. Jansen?"

Ilian took a deep breath. First, the hardest request. "My desk," he said, nodding toward the work table in the living room. "And the shelf with the books. Please... do not organize them again. I... have personal things now. I will organize them." He thought of the Atlas, the wooden trout, the smooth stones.

Harris just nodded, showing no surprise or curiosity. He took out his tablet. "Understood. Work desk and shelf. I will instruct the cleaning team." He noted something down. Standard procedure.

Ilian’s heart beat a little faster. He had done it. Encouraged minimally, he continued. "I wanted... to ask as well," his voice still low. "Would it be possible to have eggs? For breakfast? Maybe... bread?"

Harris consulted the tablet again. "Eggs and bread," he repeated monotonically. "I will add it to the order. The approved food list permits it. Should arrive in the next delivery."

Again, no denial. A small wave of hope ran through Ilian. He risked the last step. "And... salt?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper. "Just... a little. For the eggs."

Harris’s reaction was immediate. He looked up from the tablet, his gaze firm, non-negotiable. "Salt is out of the question, Mr. Jansen," he said, tone factual, devoid of emotion. "Strict medical orders. Absolutely forbidden."

The denial was abrupt, final. A closed door. Frustration rose in Ilian’s chest, hot and bitter. The simple indignity of not being able to season his own food. The memory of the bland taste of the agency meals. For an instant, the impulse to protest, to find a way to circumvent the rule.

But then, the image of the pinecone, four unreachable inches away. Richard’s voice echoing: The strength you build... is your weapon. Recovery was the priority. Independence was the goal. Salt was a triviality in the grand scheme of his struggle. He took a deep breath, swallowing the frustration. Discipline. Focus.

The mask of neutrality returned to place. "Understood," he murmured.

Without another word, he turned and limped slowly out of the kitchen, toward the relief of the shower, leaving Harris with his inventory. The small battle for flavor had been lost, but he kept his eyes fixed on the greater war.

After the shower, exhaustion hit Ilian with full force. But surprisingly, so did hunger. It was a little past eleven in the morning, early for lunch, but his body, after the intense effort of physical therapy, cried out for energy. He went to the kitchen, grabbed one of the agency meals, the same bland food as always, and heated it. He sat at the small table and ate, not out of obligation, but necessity. Appetite, a rare visitor and now more frequent, was an encouraging sign of his slow recovery.

Then, instead of giving in to his body’s desire for rest, his restless mind pulled him to work. This time, the real work. The one the agency demanded, the radar project Richard led. He went to his work desk, now declared personal territory after the request to Harris, and spread out the technical manuals and schematics Miller had sent. The threat of the deadline still loomed, but Richard’s intervention had given him a month of truce. He could approach the problem not with the panic imposed by Miller, but with the analytical calm that was his nature. He dove into the concepts, the technical challenges, his mind finding a paradoxical refuge in the complexity of the problem. He took his official workbook and began noting questions, sketching ideas, drawing diagrams with his usual precision.

He was completely absorbed, lost in the labyrinth of wave physics, when a light knock sounded on the front door. He looked at the clock. It was a little past three in the afternoon. The professor.

Ilian stood up, body stiff from sitting so long, but mind alert and vibrant from the immersion in work. He opened the door. Richard was there, a tired but genuine smile on his face. He was dressed casually.

"Good afternoon, Ilian," he said. "Sorry for the time, but I took the day off. Needed to catch up on sleep from the weekend."

"Professor!" Ilian felt genuine relief seeing him, an anchor of normalcy after the tense morning. "Come in, please."

Richard entered, his gaze sweeping the room now visibly more "lived in," with Ilian’s belongings beginning to mark territory on the shelf and desk. "I see you've been busy," he commented, noticing the desk covered in papers related to their project.

"I was..." Ilian hesitated, then his focus on the problem overcame his reserve. "Professor, sit here, please." He indicated an empty chair at the desk. "I would like to discuss some things. About the project."

Ilian’s initiative, the direct invitation to discuss official work, surprised and pleased Richard. It was exactly what he hoped for: that Ilian would engage in the project out of intellectual interest, not coercion. He sat down, curious. Ilian picked up several loose sheets and his workbook, covered in his dense handwriting and incredibly detailed drawings.

"I have been analyzing the documents," Ilian began, his voice gaining energy. "I have some questions. And some... observations." He handed the sheets to Richard.

Richard took the sheets and began to flip through them. His expression of curiosity quickly turned to astonishment. The questions were incisive, identifying weak points in the current approach that the team had taken weeks to notice. And the drawings... were extraordinary. Sketches of system architectures, signal flow diagrams.

"Ilian..." Richard said, marveling, stopping on a page. "These drawings... are done by hand? The precision... the three-dimensional perspective... they're better than what our software can generate."

Ilian looked at his own hands, a slight blush rising up his neck. "It is... an old habit," he murmured. "Where I was... computers were not always available. I learned to put ideas directly on paper. It is... faster for me, I am used to it."

Richard continued flipping through, absorbing the density of the work. "These questions are crucial. Some of them attack exactly the bottlenecks of our delay." He shook his head, impressed. "This is far more than mere 'observations,' Ilian. This is a brilliant analysis. With your permission, I would like to take this to Dr. Finch. Alistair Finch. He leads the signal processing team, he's an old friend and the sharpest mind I know. I think he would be... ecstatic to see this."

Ilian felt a pang of professional satisfaction. The agency wanted results by force, Richard was obtaining them through kindness and intellectual respect. "Of course, Professor. Whatever you think is best."

Richard stacked the sheets carefully. The atmosphere in the room was of shared intellectual enthusiasm. Ilian felt it was the perfect moment for his other agenda. The professor was receptive, the connection between them strong after the productive discussion about work. He took a deep breath. The next move.

"Speaking of theoretical challenges, Professor..." he began, his voice casual but with an underlying purpose. He nodded toward the thick dark-covered book Richard had left on the shelf the night before. "...about that Kessler book you brought..."

Richard turned in his chair, interest immediately piqued, completely unaware he had just entered a new and much longer game. "Ah, yes! Kessler."

The intellectual chess game had begun and lasted for a long while longer, the work desk now a theoretical battlefield. Richard, genuinely fascinated, flipped through Kessler’s heavy volume, while Ilian, beside him, pointed to complex equations with disconcerting familiarity.

"And here, Professor," he said, his voice gaining intensity, "in the tensor analysis of propagation in non-homogeneous media... he simplifies the permittivity matrix. But that simplification is only valid in ideal conditions. If we introduce the variable of phase interference, which he himself discusses in the chapter on waveguides..."

Richard followed the reasoning, but his mind was starting to feel the effort. The speed with which Ilian connected disparate concepts, finding subtle inconsistencies that had gone unnoticed by generations of physicists, was dizzying. It was like trying to keep up with a grandmaster playing multiple chess games simultaneously. Ilian’s questions weren't just questions, they were keys opening doors to dark corridors in established theory.

"...which would imply that, under signal saturation conditions, Kessler’s model could predict an outcome opposite to the one observed experimentally," he concluded, looking at Richard with the expectation of someone who has just presented irrefutable mathematical proof.

Richard blinked, trying to absorb the last deduction. His head throbbed. He felt as if he had run a mental marathon. He looked at the young man beside him, the focused intensity, the almost feverish energy with which he dissected the work of a physics giant, and felt a mix of deep admiration and pure exhaustion.

"Ilian," he said hoarsely, running a tired hand over his face. "My head is spinning. You... you are making me question fifty years of established physics in a single afternoon." He laughed, a tired sound but genuinely impressed. "How about a break? I desperately need a coffee before my brain collapses."

Before Richard could even begin to get up from the chair, Ilian was already pushing himself up from his own, the movement surprisingly fast despite his usual stiffness.

"I'll make it, Professor," he said, voice still vibrating with the energy of the intellectual discussion. The physical effort to stand seemed lesser, driven by the desire to continue the interaction, even if differently. "Please, rest a little. I'll prepare it."

Richard was surprised by the initiative, but also secretly pleased. It was another small step toward normalcy. He watched Ilian limp to the small kitchen, his movements still clumsy but full of clear purpose.

Seeking a change of scenery himself, Richard got up from the desk, feeling his back muscles protest, and walked to the small kitchen table. He sat there, grateful for the pause, watching Ilian’s back as he concentrated on the task of making coffee. It was almost impossible to reconcile that image with the devastated figure he had met in the hangar. The young man who, a few weeks ago, could barely lift his eyes from the floor and refused to shake his hand, was now so energized by a physics debate that he offered to make him coffee as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The transformation was striking.

While he waited, Richard’s mind began to work in another direction. The genius was undeniable, shining there in front of him, blindingly. But the other pieces of the puzzle didn't fit. Twenty-five years old. The scars he tried desperately not to think about, but were impossible to forget, the lines, the burns. The chess story. The confession in the car about being "cargo." The agency’s official story was a tattered patchwork quilt, and the truth beneath it seemed increasingly dark. He looked at Ilian’s back, at the thin figure, still so young, moving carefully in the kitchen.

Ilian turned, carefully balancing the steaming mug. He placed one in front of Richard, then took the other and sat down, the strong aroma of coffee filling the silence.

They drank in silence for a moment. Richard needed the pause, the warmth of the mug between his hands. But the need to understand, to begin unraveling the truth to protect Ilian adequately, was stronger. He waited until Ilian set down his mug. Then, with a low, gentle voice, but charged with a genuine need to know, he asked the question.

"Ilian..." he began, waiting until Ilian’s eyes met his over the rim of the mug. "You mentioned the orphanage a few times..." He paused, choosing his words with utmost care. "Until what age did you stay there?"

Ilian froze. The mug stopped halfway to his lips. The question was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, ripples spreading visibly across his face. The intellectual shine in his eyes faltered, replaced by an expression of pure, stunned surprise, followed quickly by a shadow of... panic? Or was it just the discomfort of being pulled back to a painful past? He lowered his gaze to the mug, knuckles turning white where he gripped it.

The silence stretched. Richard waited, patient, not pressuring him, but keeping his gaze fixed on him, a silent invitation to honesty. He saw the internal battle in the young man, the hesitation, the jaw clenching slightly, the breathing becoming a little shallower.

Finally, Ilian looked up again. The expression was one of weary resignation, the decision made.

"Professor..." he said, voice so low Richard had to lean in slightly to hear. "...I do not want to lie to you."

The words hung in the air, a confession of past omissions and an implicit plea for safety to tell the truth. Richard felt the immense weight of that moment, the fragile trust being offered to him. He responded with the greatest calm and sincerity he could muster, his voice a safe harbor in the impending storm.

"Don't lie, Ilian," he said, firm but gentle. "Tell me the truth."

Ilian held Richard’s gaze for another instant, seeking confirmation of that safety. Then, he took a deep breath, preparing to unearth the first stone of his fabricated history.

Chapter 49: 12 Years

Ilian lowered his gaze to the coffee mug between his trembling hands. The warmth of the porcelain was a stark contrast to the cold beginning to spread in his chest. The truth. He wanted the truth. But the truth was a devastated landscape, a dangerous territory Ilian rarely dared to revisit, let alone share. He took a deep breath.

"Twelve," he said finally, still unable to face the professor. "I was twelve years old when... I left." The small pause before the last word was like a crack in ice, hinting that the departure hadn't been simple, hadn't been a choice.

Twelve. The word echoed in Richard’s mind. Twelve years old. The official story, the entire academic timeline was an impossibility. A complete fabrication. The scale of the agency’s lie began to take shape, vast and dark. But he kept his expression calm, only a slight frown indicating his internal confusion. "Twelve..." he repeated softly, a silent invitation for Ilian to continue, without interrupting him with his own shock.

Ilian seemed to understand the implicit permission, the safety offered in that space. He continued, eyes fixed on an invisible point on the table.

"It started... a little before. At eleven." He paused, gathering memories. "Someone... a charity, perhaps... donated a large quantity of books to the orphanage. Old academic books. No one there knew what to do with them. Physics. Astrophysics. Pure math... Things like that."

He looked up briefly, meeting the understanding in Richard’s eyes. "For me... it was like finding a map to another universe. I read everything. Day and night."

"And then," he continued, his voice gaining a little more strength as he spoke of his refuge, "I found one. Principles of Wave Modulation. It was a very old edition, the cover was torn." He looked at Richard. "By Professor Albrecht Kessler."

Richard nodded.

"I devoured the book," he said. "But... there were mistakes." He paused, perhaps remembering the pure intellectual excitement of childhood discovery. "Mathematical inconsistencies. In the dispersion formulas. Subtle things." He hastened to add, as if needing to defend his own past audacity. "It was an old edition. I didn't know he had already corrected them in newer editions."

"So," he took a deep breath, "I wrote to him. In Polish. To the university address in Germany that was in the book. Expecting nothing, really. Just... curiosity. To know if I was right."

"And he answered?" Richard asked, completely absorbed in the story.

"Yes," he said, a glint of old surprise still in his eyes. "He answered. In Polish. He praised... my observations. We started corresponding. Letters." He paused. "And then, one day... he showed up. At the orphanage."

"He went there?" Richard was astonished.

"With an interpreter," Ilian confirmed. "We talked. About physics. About waves... like the ducks." The brief reference to the conversation in the park seemed to anchor him. "He seemed kind. Interested. It was the first time an adult... that anyone... talked to me about those things seriously." There was raw vulnerability in his voice admitting that.

"And then?" Richard encouraged gently.

Ilian’s expression changed. The small light of intellectual enthusiasm went out, replaced by the familiar mask of neutrality. "Then... a few weeks later... some people came. Men I didn't know. With official papers. They said I had a... guardian. In Germany." He looked directly at Richard, eyes empty. "They took me. I wanted to go."

The silence in the kitchen was heavy. Richard felt a knot in his stomach. It wasn't an adoption. It wasn't an academic rescue. It was an extraction.

"Where to?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"A military base," Ilian replied monotonously. "In Germany. Professor Kessler... he had projects there. I stayed there. I learned German. I worked with him." He paused finally, the conclusion of that chapter of his life. "Until seventeen."

The truth was there, fragmented, incomplete, but devastating. Twelve years old. Orphanage. Kessler. Military base. Seventeen years old. The official story had been pulverized. Richard looked at the young man sitting across from him, at the frightening calm with which he recounted the loss of his childhood and adolescence, the transition from one prison to another.

The nausea he had felt in the park upon realizing the age lie returned with full force, mixed now with cold fury and deep sadness. He had invited an academic colleague into his home. But who was really there was a survivor, a product of a brutal system that had stolen, molded, and broken him from a tender age. And Richard, unknowingly, had become his latest jailer.

He needed to understand more. Not out of morbid curiosity, but to comprehend the extent of the wounds. He cleared his throat, his own voice sounding strange to his ears.

"So... from twelve to seventeen," Richard began, voice low, carefully neutral, "you lived... with Professor Kessler? On the base?"

Ilian nodded, gaze still distant. "Yes. There was a room for me. Near his lab."

"And what was it like?" Richard asked, the simplest and most complex question of all. "Living with him?"

Ilian seemed to consider the question for a long moment. He looked up and met Richard’s eyes, but his expression was indecipherable. "He was... complicated," he said finally. The word was a euphemism so vast it almost lost meaning.

He continued, voice monotone, as if describing a scientific specimen. "Sometimes... when I solved a particularly difficult problem, something that pleased him... he called me 'my son.' Said I was the continuation of his legacy. But, other times... if I took too long, if I asked a question he considered simple... he said I could never be his son. That I was slow. Lazy." He paused, swallowing hard. "And sent me to my room. Without food."

Richard felt his stomach turn. The psychological cruelty, the way affection was given and withdrawn as a tool of control.

"I... sometimes I liked him," Ilian admitted, voice almost a whisper, as if confessing a weakness. "He taught me a lot. But other times..." He stopped, gaze lost again. "...I wished he would disappear."

He looked at his own hands, resting on the table. "When I... made a breakthrough, something that really impressed him he would hug me." The word sounded strange. "It was strong. Quick. But it was a hug." He flexed the fingers of his left hand, the injured hand. "But when I made a mistake... in calculations, or if I questioned something he had already 'proven'... he got very angry." He didn't need to say more. The image hung in the air, brutal and clear. "He locked me in the room. Isolation. For a day. Sometimes two."

Ilian’s aversion to touch... wasn't just generic trauma. It had a specific, painful origin. Touch was reward or punishment. Never just... touch.

Ilian seemed to sense Richard’s distress and retreated again into his neutral mask. He changed the subject slightly, as if moving to another item on a list of observations.

"He liked music," he said in a tone now completely factual, almost indifferent. "Beethoven."

Richard nodded, remembering many colleagues' admiration for the composer’s intensity.

"A lot," he continued. "All day. In the lab. Very loud." An almost imperceptible tremor ran through Ilian’s body. "The Fifth Symphony. Repeatedly." He looked at Richard, and for the first time, there was a shadow of raw emotion in his eyes, a deep aversion. "I hated it. The sound... was like... a wall. I couldn't think."

He looked away. "I asked once. To turn it down a little. He said great music expanded the mind. That it was discipline. And he got very angry at the request." The word came out with slight scorn. "So, I learned."

"Learned what?" Richard asked softly.

Ilian looked at him, an almost calculating expression on his face. "I learned to ask a question without logic. On purpose." He paused, perhaps remembering a specific incident. "If the music was too loud, if I needed silence to concentrate... I asked a question about something he had already explained. Or made a mistake in a simple calculation."

Richard stared at him, beginning to understand the perverse logic.

"The reaction was always the same," Ilian said, voice monotone again. "Anger. Shouting. Undisciplined. 'Get out! Go to your room! No dinner!'" He mimicked Kessler’s explosion with chilling calm. "And I left." A tiny, almost imperceptible glint of triumph passed through his eyes. "And there was silence. It was worth it."

The final revelation fell upon Richard with crushing weight. Playing to lose. Not just in chess. But in life. Provoking punishment, hunger, isolation, as a calculated escape from a different torture, the torture of sound, of Kessler’s oppressive presence. Genius twisted into a tool of self-sabotage for self-preservation.

Richard sat there at the kitchen table, the forgotten coffee cooling in his mug. He looked at Ilian, who had gone back to staring at his own hands, as if the confession had emptied him. The depth of that suffering, the unimaginable loneliness of those formative years under the control of a tyrannical genius... was almost unbearable to contemplate. He wanted to say something, anything, but words seemed useless, inadequate. He just felt an overwhelming wave of protectiveness for that young man, and a cold, deep rage against the man, and the system, that had stolen his youth and tried to crush his spirit. The only thing he could do was remain there, in silence, offering his presence as a silent witness to the pain Ilian had finally begun to share.

Ilian remained silent, the confession draining him of all energy. The tremor, which had started subtly when Richard asked the first question, was now visible, his left hand shaking slightly on the table. He lowered his gaze, fixing it on the cold coffee mug, and waited. Waited for judgment, for revulsion, or perhaps, worst of all, for the awkward silence of someone who has heard something too ugly.

Richard took a deep breath, the sound audible in the quiet kitchen. He fought to keep his voice steady, to filter the fury and overwhelming sadness he felt. His voice, when it came out, was hoarse but incredibly firm.

"Ilian..."

The young man shrank slightly but didn't look up.

"Thank you," Richard said. "Thank you for... telling me. I know how much that must have cost." He paused, wanting every word to be absorbed. "And I want you to listen carefully. What Kessler did was not discipline. It was abuse. None of that was your fault."

He saw Ilian look up slowly. The young man’s eyes were exhausted. Drained in a way that went far beyond physical fatigue.

"You are home, Ilian. This is your home. For as long as you want. Me, Helena, Elara... we are not your jailers. And I will never, ever, punish you for telling the truth, or for being hungry, or for being tired. You are safe here. I give you my word."

Ilian absorbed the words. The validation, the promise... it was almost too much information, a kindness so vast he could barely process it. The trembling in his hands didn't stop, but it changed, it was now less from fear and more from pure exhaustion. He felt completely emptied, as if he had run for days without stopping. He looked at Richard, seeing the genuine emotion and tiredness in the older man’s face, a tiredness that mirrored his own.

He needed to be alone. He needed silence to process what he had just done, what he had just heard.

"Professor..." he murmured. "I am very tired now." He looked at Richard’s pale face. "You look tired too." He paused, the request coming out with difficulty. "If you'll excuse me... I think I need to rest a little. Be alone."

Richard understood immediately. The confession had taken everything from him. It wasn't a rejection, it was a necessity. He nodded, his voice full of deep gentleness.

"Of course, Ilian. Of course. You are absolutely right." Richard stood up slowly, giving Ilian space to do the same. "Go. Rest. I'll clean this up." He gestured to the coffee mugs. "Don't worry about anything."

"Thank you."

He stood up, body heavy. Leaning on his cane, he limped slowly out of the kitchen and toward his bedroom. He closed the door, the soft click echoing through the house.

Richard was left alone in the kitchen. Only then did he allow his own facade to crumble. He slumped into the chair, running trembling hands over his face. The anger against Kessler, against the agency, mixed with an overwhelming sadness for Ilian, left him nauseous. Twenty-five years old... The depth of that suffering, the unimaginable loneliness of those years under control... was almost unbearable to contemplate. The image of Kessler, once a figure of distant admiration, now twisted into something monstrous in his mind. And the agency... did they know? How much did they know when they handed him that broken young man?

Richard stood up abruptly, the chair dragging noisily on the floor. He needed to move. He began to pace the small living room, back and forth, like a caged animal. He took the two coffee mugs from the kitchen table and brought them to the sink, washing them with fierce concentration, hot water running over his hands, the mechanical movements a counterpoint to the storm in his mind. His decision was made, cemented beyond any doubt. His loyalty was to Ilian. His mission was to protect him, at any cost.

In the bedroom, Ilian had collapsed onto the bed as soon as the door closed. The adrenaline of the confession abandoned him suddenly, leaving behind an exhaustion so deep it was almost like physical pain. He shivered, not from cold, but from pure nervous exhaustion. He had spoken. He had said things he had never said to anyone, things he barely dared admit to himself.

And now? The old fear, the conditioned reflex of a lifetime, began to whisper in his mind. I said too much. It was a mistake. Now he will pull away. Richard’s words, his promise of safety, seemed distant, unreal, muffled by rising panic. He curled up in bed, squeezing his eyes shut, waiting for the punishment that, in his experience, always followed any act of vulnerability.

A face appeared in his mind. Not Kessler’s, nor Miller’s. The calm, analytical face of Dr. William Hayes, the agency’s psychological profiler at the military hospital. Hayes had asked questions. Gentle, but incisive. Ilian remembered sitting in silence for hours, listening, but never really answering. Hayes probably knew everything. He had access to the records, the true history. But Ilian had never told. Never chosen to share. With Richard, it had been different. The decision had been his. It had been terribly difficult, yes, he felt exposed. But beneath the fear, there was a faint, almost imperceptible thread of relief. Richard knew. Someone in the world knew the truth.

Richard stopped pacing. He heard the silence coming from Ilian’s room. A heavy, worrying silence. He knew Ilian had asked to be alone, but the image of the emptied, trembling young man was unbearable. He couldn't just leave, leaving him in his own darkness after having the courage to share it. His protective instinct was stronger.

He took his cell phone. Called home. "Helena?... No, I'm not coming for dinner yet... Ilian had a very hard day, the afternoon was... complicated. I think I'll stay here a little longer, just to make sure he's okay... Don't worry." He hung up.

Richard remained in the guest house. He respected the closed door of Ilian’s room. He didn't knock. He didn't call. He just stayed there, in the living room, sitting in the armchair under the soft light of the lamp. He picked up Kessler’s book he had brought, but didn't open it. He just held it, the weight of the object in his hands now repugnant. He stayed there, in silent vigil, his presence a mute guarantee that Ilian wasn't alone, that the truth hadn't scared him away.

Hours passed. The night deepened. Richard knew he needed to go home, Helena would be worried. But he couldn't leave Ilian with nothing. He went back to his house, spoke quickly with Helena, set aside the soup she had prepared for their dinner, and returned to the guest house.

Ilian still hadn't come out of the room. Richard then placed the bowl of soup on the small kitchen table. He took a notepad and wrote a simple note: "Ilian, eat when you can. Rest. I won't go to work tomorrow, I'll be back in the morning. - Richard." He left the note next to the bowl.

He looked one last time at the closed bedroom door. With a silent sigh, he left the guest house, closing the front door softly, leaving behind the silence and the written promise.

Much later, near eleven at night, thirst became unbearable, stronger than exhaustion. Ilian finally moved in the dark room. The trembling had stopped. He got up, his body protesting every movement, and opened the bedroom door.

The house was silent, lit only by the small lamp Richard had left on in the living room. The professor wasn't there. A pang of something, disappointment? Fear? hit him. But then, limping toward the kitchen in search of water, he saw it.

On the small table, under the dim light from the living room, was a bowl of soup. And beside it, a folded piece of paper with his name.

He picked up the note. Opened it with hesitant fingers. Read the simple words, Richard’s familiar handwriting.

He stood there, in the middle of the silent kitchen, holding the note. Richard hadn't run away. The truth hadn't pushed him away. He would come back. The promise was there, written. A deep, silent relief ran through Ilian’s tired body. His gaze fell on the bowl of cold soup. Picking up the spoon, he sat down and, in the silence of the night, began to eat, each spoonful a small act of restored trust, a hesitant step out of the darkness. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but the promised safety seemed, for the first time, real. Finally, he could rest.

Chapter 50: Collaboration

Ilian woke before dawn, his sore body protesting the movement. The night had been restless, his mind relentlessly replaying the confession made to Richard, the words of validation, the promise of safety. There were no nightmares, but sleep had been light, fragmented, the price of his exposed vulnerability. Still, sitting up in bed in the cold gloom, he felt a residual relief. The truth was spoken. Richard knew the truth.

He followed his routine with silent discipline. The hot shower to loosen tight muscles. The bitter black coffee. An apple, eaten slowly in the quiet kitchen. And the ritual at the sink: the two extra white pills, symbols of the imposed order, disappeared down the drain.

Today wasn't an intensive physical therapy day, but David’s order about walking echoed. It was his training. He dressed, put on his boots, and went out into the cold, sunny morning. The trail awaited him.

The walk was an act of will. The pain in his right leg was a constant companion, but he greeted it as information.

He reached the clearing and the fallen log. He sat down with a sigh, his body grateful for the rest. The sun filtered through the leaves, creating patterns of light on the forest floor. While catching his breath, his gaze wandered over the moss-covered log. And then, he noticed. Clinging to the decaying wood, growing in a small crevice, was a cluster of fungi. They weren't common, they were delicate, almost translucent, with a vibrant shade of orange that seemed to glow in the filtered light. Contrasting with the dark green moss and rotting wood, that small burst of color was unexpectedly beautiful. A small miracle of life blooming in decay.

A sudden impulse hit him: the desire to save that image. A picture... he thought, imagining capturing the delicate texture, the vibrant color against the dark background. But he had no way to do it. The cell phone... that impersonal device provided by the agency... always stayed on the kitchen counter, a silent and irritating alarm for his medicines, purposely silenced of any other function or sound. Carrying it with him would be like accepting the leash. It was the price of his small autonomy, the refusal of that constant connection to those who controlled him. He sighed, a mix of frustration at the limitation and stubborn satisfaction with his choice. He would have to rely only on his memory, on his eye.

He remembered Helena’s words in the greenhouse, about strength gathering in the dark. He stood there, observing the fungi, memorizing the shape, the color, the way the light interacted with them, absorbing the silent beauty of that unexpected detail, until the pain in his leg subsided to a tolerable throb.

The walk back was done with the same focused determination. Upon returning to the guest house, he felt exhausted, but mentally steadier. He didn't rest. He went straight to his work desk and dove into the official radar project schematics, the work the agency demanded, the challenge Richard had entrusted to him.

He was immersed in calculations, trying to unravel a particularly complex problem in signal modulation, when he heard familiar footsteps on the gravel path. He looked out the window. Richard was approaching, carrying a food container. It was almost eleven-thirty. Early for his usual lunch.

Ilian got up and went to the door. He opened it.

"Good morning, Ilian," Richard said, with his warm smile, but his eyes examining him with discreet concern. "How was your night? Did you manage to rest?"

"I am better, Professor. Thank you," Ilian replied, voice calm.

"I'm glad," he said, entering. He showed the container. "Helena insisted I bring you lunch today. Something light, but substantial. She's still worried you aren't eating enough." He placed the food on the small kitchen table. "I know it's still early, but we can eat whenever you want."

"We can eat now, Professor," he said, surprising himself with the readiness of the answer. The hunger was real.

Richard seemed pleased. He opened the container, revealing chicken sandwiches on whole wheat bread and a fresh fruit salad. They sat at the kitchen table. Lunch was peaceful. Richard talked about his routine at the university, about a meeting he had attended, keeping the conversation light, normal. Ilian listened, responding occasionally in monosyllables, but feeling comfortable, the tension of the previous night dissipated by the shared routine.

After eating, while Richard gathered the leftovers and put away the container, Ilian returned to the work desk. Richard approached, looking at the schematics and notes.

"Going back to work already?" he asked, tone one of genuine admiration.

"I was thinking..." Ilian began, pointing to a section of the diagram, "about the way the adaptive filter handles phase noise here. If we changed the integration window..."

And so the afternoon began. They sat side by side at the work desk. Ilian explained his ideas, no longer with the feverish intensity of the previous afternoon, but with the focused calm of a colleague sharing a discovery. He drew diagrams in his notebook, his right hand moving with impressive precision. Richard listened attentively, asked incisive questions, challenged Ilian’s premises, not to diminish him, but to deepen the analysis. It was a real collaboration, an intellectual dance between two brilliant minds focused on a common goal. Mutual respect flourished in that space, warmed by the afternoon light and the energy of discovery. The mood was good, light, productive. It was the new normal.

They were so absorbed they barely heard the doorbell. Richard got up to answer. It was Dr. Evans.

"Sorry to interrupt," the doctor said, entering and immediately noticing the atmosphere of collaborative work. "Just came for a quick check."

As Richard stepped aside to give the doctor space, Dr. Evans did a brief exam on Ilian, checked his pulse, temperature, asked a few questions about nausea and fatigue. Ilian answered honestly that he felt better, less nauseous.

"Excellent news," he said, putting away his stethoscope. He smiled, a genuine smile of professional satisfaction. "Your blood tests from Friday improved. Your kidney function has shown significant improvement, Ilian. Faster than I expected."

Ilian and Richard exchanged a surprised look.

"The rest, the diet, maybe even the fresh air..." the doctor continued, "are taking effect. And that means we can make a small adjustment." He took out a pen and made a note on Ilian’s chart. "I'm going to reduce the dose of your medication, it contributes greatly to the nausea and fatigue. We'll keep all other medications exactly as they are, especially the immunosuppressant, but this reduction should give you considerable relief in the coming days."

The news fell upon Ilian like unexpected happiness. Less nausea. Less fatigue. The possibility was almost dizzying. A cautious but deep relief ran through his body.

Richard, beside him, smiled openly, his face overflowing with satisfaction. "That is wonderful, Robert! Wonderful!"

"It's a step in the right direction," the doctor said, closing his bag. "Keep it up, Ilian. Patience and discipline." He chatted a bit with Richard, said goodbye, and left.

Richard turned to Ilian, eyes shining. "Did you hear that? Significant improvement!" He paused, his voice becoming softer, full of paternal pride. "I'm very happy, Ilian. Truly."

Ilian smiled, a quiet happiness. The intellectual collaboration, the validation of his work, and now, the tangible proof of his physical progress... That day, which had begun under the shadow of pain and exposed truth, ended with an unexpected light of hope. The new normal seemed, after all, possible. And he felt, truly, a part of it.

Chapter 51: Eggs and Discipline

Wednesday began before the sun rose, with the familiar awareness of pain. Ilian moved in bed, the muscles of his leg and left hand protesting. But the apprehension that once accompanied physical therapy days had been replaced by determination. Today was a training day.

The morning routine unfolded with almost ritualistic discipline. When David and Ben arrived at nine, they found Ilian ready, his expression neutral, but with a silent resolve in his eyes. The session was, again, an exercise in controlled pain. Ilian focused on the image of the pinecone, transforming every agonizing stretch, every exhausting repetition on the treadmill, into a calculated step toward his goal. He finished the session at the limit of his strength, trembling with fatigue, but with the grim satisfaction of someone who had completed their mission.

David and Ben left with a professional nod. Ilian stayed for a moment in the training room, leaning on the table. He needed ice, rest, food. He limped slowly to the kitchen, the image of the morning apple a distant memory in the face of the sharp hunger he now felt.

He opened the refrigerator to get the gel packs and stopped. On the top shelf, where before there had only been the uniform agency packages, was a carton of fresh eggs, a package of sliced whole-wheat bread, and a small tub of butter with the clear label: Unsalted.

A wave of genuine surprise ran through him, followed by a silent, deep satisfaction. Harris had kept his promise. The agency, in its bureaucratic efficiency, had registered and fulfilled his small request. It was a tiny glimpse of being heard, which seemed immense.

Forgetting the ice for a moment, motivated by hunger and novelty, he decided to cook. He took the carton of eggs, the bread, the unsalted butter. He found a small skillet in one of the cupboards. His movements were clumsy, especially with his left hand. He put a little butter in the skillet and cracked three eggs, the sound sizzling softly. The smell of frying eggs, a simple and savory scent, filled the small kitchen.

When the eggs were ready, he slid them onto a plate. He took two slices of bread and spread the unsalted butter. He sat at the table. He hesitated for an instant, looking at the food, his food, prepared by him. He took the first forkful of eggs. The flavor was simple, clean. The salt was missing, but surprisingly, he didn't find it bad. He realized his palate, deprived of excess, was beginning to appreciate the subtler flavors. He found it tasty. He ate with gusto, savoring every piece of bread, every forkful of hot eggs. It was the taste of autonomy.

After eating, feeling comforted and strengthened, he went to take his midday medicines. He opened the "Wednesday, Noon" compartment. He saw immediately that one of the pills, the one associated with nausea, was not there. The reduction promised by Dr. Evans. Relief ran through his body. He looked at the two extra white pills, still present. Without hesitation, he repeated the ritual at the sink. His silent war continued.

With the body's basic needs met, he felt an impulse to organize his space. He went to the amaryllis in the living room window. He touched the soil, it was still damp from the previous watering. He just adjusted the pot, turning it slightly so the leaves caught the light evenly. Then, he went to the empty shelf in the living room. With care, he took his treasures from the cardboard box: the Celestial Atlas, the small wooden trout, the three smooth river stones. He placed the Atlas on the bottom shelf. On the shelf above, he arranged the trout and the stones, creating a small composition. He folded the cap with the embroidered leaf and placed it beside them. He stepped back. It was little, but it was his. A small site of his new memories, of the kindness he had received. The space was beginning to bear his mark.

Satisfied, he finally gave in to tiredness. He took a long hot shower, the water relieving the persistent pain of physical therapy. Then, he dressed in clean clothes and sat at his work desk. The afternoon stretched into a productive silence, his mind once again immersed in the challenges of the official radar project.

When evening came, he thought about Richard’s invitation to dinner at the main house. But the image of social interaction, the energy required, seemed overwhelming after the morning of effort. He wanted the peace of his own space. He heated one of the agency meals, ate it without the same pleasure as the eggs but with less revulsion than before, and then sat on the sofa under the lamp light to read the Atlas.

Shortly after seven-thirty, he heard the familiar footsteps on the gravel. Richard knocked lightly and entered, bringing the chess board with him.

"Good evening, Ilian," he said, his smile warm. "I've already had dinner with Helena. I hope you ate too."

"Yes, Professor. I have eaten," he replied, feeling grateful for the professor’s implicit understanding.

Richard set the board on the coffee table. "I gave your notes to Finch today," he commented casually, sitting in the armchair. "He was... very impressed. Said they are interesting questions and your drawings are indeed remarkable. We'll talk more about it another day, don't worry about work now."

He changed his tone, making it more personal. "But now, forget work. How was your day? Did you survive the session with David?"

Ilian thought of the pain, but also of his resolve, the eggs, the tidy shelf. "It was productive," he said, and for the first time, the word sounded entirely true. "And I ate eggs today. Provided by the agency."

Richard smiled, noticing the small victory contained in the sentence. "Excellent! I'm glad." He gestured toward the board. "So, since we are both fed and the day was productive... how about a challenge?"

Ilian looked at the board, at the familiar pieces. The routine. The silent camaraderie. He gave a small nod. As they began arranging the dark and light wooden pieces in their places, a comfortable silence filled the room, the promise of a quiet game at the end of a day of battle.

The game began. Richard, with white, made his classic opening. Ilian responded with his usual defense, precise and almost impenetrable moves. Richard played with a contained smile, waiting for the pattern he already knew: the brilliant defense that would force him to fight for every inch of the board, followed by a subtle, almost imperceptible mistake that would hand him the victory in the end.

And that was exactly what happened in the first game. After a long and tense match, where Richard felt the struggle for every advance, Ilian, in a complex but still defensible position, made a slightly passive move with a knight, a move that wasn't obviously wrong, but opened a fatal vulnerability that Richard, after a few seconds of analysis, managed to exploit. Checkmate.

Richard looked at the board, then at Ilian. He felt a slight pang of disappointment. After the intensity of the previous conversation, the promise of safety, he had hoped... perhaps expected Ilian to accept the challenge. But he understood. The habit of a lifetime didn't break in a single night. He just smiled gently. "Good game, Ilian."

Ilian didn't respond, just began setting up the pieces for the next game, his expression neutral.

"Remember, Ilian," Richard said softly, as he positioned his king. "Here, you can play to win."

Ilian stopped, hand hovering over a black pawn. He looked up and met Richard’s firm and gentle gaze. He saw the sincerity there, the absence of any trap. He remembered the promise: You are safe here. After a long instant of hesitation, he gave an almost imperceptible nod. And placed the pawn on the board with a different firmness.

The second game began. And everything changed.

It was as if another player had taken over the black pieces. Ilian’s defense was still solid, but now it was aggressive, full of subtle traps and veiled threats. He didn't just respond to Richard’s attacks, he anticipated them, turned them against the professor, took calculated risks, sacrificing pawns to gain strategic positions. His creativity flourished on the board.

Richard was taken completely by surprise. His relaxed posture vanished. He leaned forward in the armchair, brow furrowed in concentration, forced to play his best chess just to defend himself. Ilian’s moves were fast, intuitive, and brilliant. Richard felt the pressure mount, his options diminishing with every precise move of his opponent.

Then came the combination. A series of quick and unexpected moves, a bishop sacrifice, a rook advance, the knight moving in a fatal trajectory. Richard looked at the board and saw it. His king was trapped, with no escape. Checkmate. Decisive. Undeniable.

A shocked silence fell over the room. Richard stared at the board, at the perfect net Ilian had woven around his king. He had lost. No subtle error, no oversight. He had simply been outplayed.

Slowly, he looked up. Ilian was watching him from across the board. There was no triumph on his face, nor arrogance. There was stillness, uncertainty perhaps, waiting for Richard’s reaction. And a quiet, newfound pride shining deep in his eyes.

Richard processed the defeat for an instant. And then, surprise gave way to something much greater. A broad smile began to spread across his face, a smile of pure, unrestricted admiration. A low, marveling laugh escaped his lips.

"Incredible, Ilian!" he exclaimed, his voice full of genuine astonishment and joy. "Checkmate! You... you beat me! For real!" He shook his head, looking again at the final position. "What a combination! I didn't see it coming. Masterful!"

Seeing Richard’s reaction, not irritation, not resentment, but pure admiration and pleasure, the small, genuine smile finally appeared on Ilian’s face. Shy, a bit hesitant, but unmistakable. A smile that said: I trusted. And you didn't punish me.

They played two more games that night. Ilian, perhaps feeling he had already proven what he needed to, subtly reverted to his usual strategy. The impeccable defense, the final "mistake." Richard noticed, understood Ilian’s need to return to his familiar control, and accepted without comment, the camaraderie between them now deeper than any result on the board.

As they put away the pieces after the last game, Richard decided to bring back the plans postponed by fatigue.

"I haven't forgotten our visit to the observatory," he said casually. "As soon as we have a really clear night and you feel stronger, we'll go. Promise."

Ilian looked up from the board, a silent glint of anticipation in his eyes.

"And," Richard continued with a smile, "I spoke to George today. He's already planning the next fishing trip... said we need a rematch. And I know you need to practice so you don't catch any more coats." He laughed softly at the memory of the incident on the deck.

Ilian felt his own face heat up slightly at the mention, but the memory of his own surprised laughter was good. He gave a small nod.

Richard stood up, beginning to fold the board. The evening was coming to an end. "Well, it was a great night of chess." He looked at Ilian, who was also preparing to stand, movements perhaps a little less painful after a quiet evening. "I'm glad you liked the eggs today, after all. A small step toward culinary normalcy."

Ilian, remembering the conversation with Harris, the denial of salt, felt a flash of his dry, newfound humor. He looked at the professor, his expression serious, but with a mischievous glint in his eyes that Richard was beginning to recognize.

"Yes, Professor," he said, voice perfectly neutral. "I discovered that unsalted eggs... are surprisingly... eggs."

Richard stopped, the board halfway closed. He processed the sentence, the banal statement said with such absolute dryness. And then, he started to laugh. A genuine, warm laugh that filled the room. He laughed at the joke, at Ilian’s quiet resilience in finding humor in his own restriction.

"Ah, Ilian..." he said, still laughing, shaking his head. "You know it's for your health. Dr. Evans's orders." His smile softened, becoming gentler. "But don't worry. One day, when you're stronger, you'll be able to eat all the salted eggs you want. I promise."

On that light note, the evening ended. Richard said goodbye, leaving Ilian in the silence of the house, the echo of laughter still hanging in the air, the connection between them stronger and more normal than ever.

Chapter 52: The Gauntlet

Thursday morning, a rest day from physical therapy, began with the usual discipline. After his routine, Ilian felt focused, his body sore but his mind clear.

He went to the small table near the window for his daily ritual with the amaryllis. He touched the soil, it was damp but not soaked, exactly as Helena had taught him. Correct. He straightened up, but a new anxiety took hold of him. His analytical gaze followed the path of the sun.

The plant was near the glass door. It got strong morning sun. But what about the afternoon? Helena had said "giving light." But how much light? Would the direct morning light be enough? Would the absence of direct sun in the afternoon harm the "spectacle"?

For his mind, trained to optimize systems, it was an intolerable miscalculation. The idea of failing to keep that gift alive due to a positioning error gnawed at him. He needed more data. He needed to ask the expert.

Leaving the plant where it was, he grabbed his cane and went out. The main house was out of the question, the kitchen steps were a physical and psychological barrier he wasn't willing to face. The only option was to find her outside.

He limped into the main garden, his analytical gaze sweeping the flowerbeds near the house. Empty. His next logical target: the 'circle of chairs.' He crossed the lawn, but the chairs were empty, cold under the morning sun. Ilian felt a pang of frustration, his mission had failed.

He was about to give up and return to his house when his gaze was drawn to the glass structure at the back of the property. The greenhouse. A last possibility. With renewed hesitation, he continued the slow crossing of the garden. As he approached, he saw a silhouette moving inside through the fogged glass.

He found Helena inside the greenhouse, the warm, humid air wrapping around him like a blanket. "Ilian! What a nice surprise," she said, wiping earth-stained hands on an apron. He stopped at the threshold, feeling safe in that refuge. "Mrs. Anderson," he began. "A question. About the plant." He explained his concern about the afternoon sun, about the ideal positioning for blooming.

Helena listened with amused tenderness. "Oh, Ilian, dear," she laughed softly. "It is perfect where it is. The morning light is more than enough. Don't worry, it will bloom. Come, I'll show you."

She guided him to the back of the greenhouse, to a wooden shelf bathed in milky light, where a row of other amaryllis pots rested in various stages of growth. "Look," she said, gesturing to the plants. "These stay in this corner all day. They don't like the strong afternoon sun, which can burn the leaves. The spot you chose, with that soft morning sun, is absolutely perfect."

Ilian relaxed, the anxiety dissipating. He approached, his analytical gaze scanning her pots, mentally comparing them with his. Helena’s flower buds seemed bigger, more advanced. His was smaller but looked equally healthy, the green taut and promising. "So... mine is okay?" he asked, the need for confirmation evident.

"It is perfect, Ilian," Helena assured him, voice full of conviction. "You are doing a great job. They bloom in their own time, not ours."

Reassured, he thanked her. The interaction had been safe. He should go, return to his own silence, but he hesitated. There was something in the warm, humid air of the greenhouse, in the smell of living earth and Helena’s calm, maternal presence, that made him want to stay. It was the opposite of a military base, the opposite of an interrogation room. It was... alive.

Helena, noticing his reluctance to leave, smiled, understanding his need for a refuge. "Since you're here and seem interested," she said, changing the subject casually, "want to help me with something quick? I need to separate some seeds from this flower for the next season."

He nodded, genuinely grateful to stay.

For another ten or fifteen minutes, he remained in silence beside her at the workbench. She showed him how to open the dry, brittle pods, and he helped her, separating the tiny black seeds from the chaff. His nimble right fingers did the delicate work, while his left hand merely supported the container. Helena didn't seem to notice his difficulty, just chatted softly about the garden, about how beautiful autumn was that year. His social battery wasn't being drained, it was, somehow, being recharged by that calm.

Finally, knowing he couldn't delay his day any longer, he said goodbye, thanking her again with a voice that was a little steadier.

He left the greenhouse, mind now at peace, and began the walk back to the guest house. His original plan for the morning was to walk the trail, as David had ordered. But the search for Helena, crossing the lawn, going to the circle of chairs, then to the back of the garden to the greenhouse, and now the long way back, had already required considerable effort. His right leg throbbed, a clear reminder that his body had a limit.

He decided the hunt for botanical advice would count as the day’s exercise. Discipline had been fulfilled, even if by a different path. Now, his mind was free for what really mattered. He could skip the trail and go straight to what he desired most: Projekt Rodzina.

He began the walk back. So immersed in these thoughts, so focused on the uneven grass to guide his cane, he didn't even notice what was ahead. He was completely exposed when the sound hit him.

A laugh. Clear, feminine.

In the circle of chairs, which twenty minutes earlier had been empty, Elara and two friends were sitting, surrounded by open books and notebooks.

The laughter stopped abruptly, cut off in the middle. The silence that settled was deafening, a sudden pressure in the air.

He saw. He saw the three pairs of eyes fixed on him. He saw the moment conversation stopped. He was being analyzed, dissected. Even at a distance, he saw the two friends lean toward Elara, their faces turned to him, voices now a sharp, inaudible whisper. They were commenting.

Panic was instant, icy. The circle of chairs was an audience. He stopped, body stiffening. His refuge was beyond the group. Retreating to the greenhouse was illogical. Cutting across the lawn was risky and would draw even more attention. He had no choice but to pass near them.

He lowered his head. Gripping the cane tightly, he resumed walking.

The silence that settled was deafening. Ilian could hear every sound he made: the dry click of his cane on the stone, and the soft but unmistakable sound of his right shoe dragging on the ground with each step. He felt the three pairs of eyes fixed on him, following his agonizing progress. His heart pounded, breath short. Just keep walking. Focus on the door.

When he was almost passing them, Elara, clearly embarrassed by the silence and tension, tried to fill the void. "Good morning, Ilian!"

He didn't stop. He couldn't look at them. Focused obsessively on the guest house door, he just muttered to the ground, voice dry and almost inaudible: "Good morning. Excuse me."

He passed them. Continued his walk. Reached the door, right hand trembling. Opened it, entered, and closed it behind him. The click was the safest sound in the world. He leaned his back against the door, closing his eyes, breath coming in gasps.

The morning had been a social disaster. The unexpected encounter with Elara’s friends had left Ilian tense, the feeling of having been watched and judged like an animal in a zoo. His immediate reaction was the usual one: retreat to the fortress.

And his fortress was work.

He buried the morning’s interaction under layers of logic. The entire afternoon passed in absolute silence, broken only by the scratching of his pencil in the notebook. He was at his work desk, completely absorbed in the complex schematics of the agency project. The morning’s tension had long since dissolved, replaced by the cold clarity of physics. The world made sense again.

He was so immersed in calculations that the knock on the door, around four in the afternoon, was like an electric shock, yanking him from a great depth.

His heart raced for an instant. Interruption. He set down the pencil, mind still half-stuck in a differential equation. The knock came again, light but firm. The familiar rhythm. Richard.

Ilian took a deep breath, forcing the transition from the logical world to the real world. His body, stiff from sitting so long, protested as he stood up, grabbing his cane. He limped slowly to the door.

It was Professor Anderson. He looked relaxed, dressed casually, and carried a thin folder under his arm.

"Good afternoon, Ilian," he said, smiling. "Am I interrupting?"

"I was working, but you never interrupt."

"How are you today, Ilian?" he asked, entering and heading to the work desk along with Ilian. "Everything okay? Was the day peaceful?"

Ilian gave a slight nod. "I am well, Professor." He hesitated, processing the morning. "It was... productive."

Richard smiled, genuinely pleased. "Productive is good." He paused, his smile widening. "Helena was very happy today. She seemed... ecstatic."

Ilian looked up, confused. "Ecstatic?"

"She said you visited her in the greenhouse this morning. And helped her with the seeds."

Ilian felt his face heat up slightly. He needed to justify the interaction, bring it back to the realm of logic. "I... was worried about the plant," he murmured, looking away to his own schematics. "The amaryllis. I wasn't sure about the light."

"Ah," Richard said, understanding. "A quest for data. Makes sense." He laughed softly, a sound that warmed the room. "Helena didn't mind the reason. She loved the company. I'm glad you're feeling comfortable enough to explore. The garden is a good place to think."

Ilian just nodded, anxious to change the subject, to return to the safe ground of physics now that the professor was there. He picked up the pencil, the gesture a clear invitation. "Professor, since you are here... I was analyzing the bottleneck in the filter."

Richard was caught off guard by the direct transition. He was initiating the work conversation. "Oh, really?"

"These drawings," he said, pointing to his official notebook. "I have some observations."

Richard looked at Ilian, seeing the focused energy, the intellectual enthusiasm. He smiled. It was the perfect hook. "Observations... Ilian, 'observations' is an euphemism."

He pulled up a chair and sat next to Ilian at the work desk, accepting the invitation to enter his world.

"Which is a great coincidence," Richard said, "because that is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about." He opened the folder he had brought. "I took those notes of yours." He took out the sheets Ilian had given him. "I showed them to Dr. Alistair Finch. He is one of the leaders of our signal processing team. A brilliant man, but very... skeptical."

Richard paused, a smile of pure admiration on his face. "Ecstatic is the only word I can use. He became obsessed with your drawings, said your approach to the filter architecture was something the entire team hadn't managed to see in over six months."

The praise, the validation coming from a stranger, an expert, warmed Ilian inside, a welcome small counterpoint to the morning’s social ineptitude.

"Finch is... eager," Richard continued. "He is desperate to discuss your ideas, to ask you questions."

Ilian’s stomach contracted instantly. The image of another stranger, a "skeptical expert," invading his refuge, asking him questions... The morning’s panic returned with force. He looked at Richard, his expression closing, body stiffening.

Richard, seeing the immediate reaction, the way Ilian retreated into himself, raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Easy," he said softly. "I told him, 'Absolutely not.' I told him you aren't receiving a delegation. Nor looking to give lectures. I told him you are recovering from an accident."

Ilian relaxed a little.

"But," Richard continued, voice now careful, "he is crucial to the project. And your ideas are crucial to him. Ilian... I would like to bring him here. With your permission."

He emphasized the words.

"Not today. Not a group. Just him." Richard leaned in, his sincerity filling the space. "It will be just the three of us. Here, at your desk. Just a quiet conversation about physics. I will be here the whole time. Think about when you might feel comfortable for that."

Ilian was silent for a long moment. His mind was at war. Instinct screamed No. Another person. Another stranger. But logic fought against instinct. He looked at Richard’s patient face, demanding nothing, just offering total control. And, the truth was... Ilian was curious. The project was a puzzle, and this Dr. Finch had some missing pieces.

He took a deep breath, making the decision. "Tomorrow," he said, voice low but firm, surprising himself with his own resolve. "Tomorrow afternoon. Maybe after..."

Richard interrupted him immediately, shaking his head, concern taking the place of his professional air. "Ilian, wait. No. It doesn't have to be that fast." He assumed Ilian was just trying to be helpful, forcing himself to comply. "Tomorrow is physical therapy day, it will be exhausting. Finch can wait. We have a month. We can schedule it for after your truce ends. There is no rush at all."

Ilian appreciated the concern, but Richard didn't understand. Tomorrow’s physical therapy would require an intellectual reward. Work was the rest.

"No, Professor," Ilian said, his voice gaining a certainty that surprised Richard. "I want the meeting. I have questions. About the filters." He looked at Richard, his determination unshakable. "I feel ready. Tomorrow afternoon... is good."

Richard stared at him for a long moment, seeing the change. Ilian wasn't yielding to pressure, he was applying his own. He wasn't just agreeing. He was ready. A smile of pure admiration and perhaps a bit of astonishment appeared on the professor’s face.

"Alright," he said, tone now full of respect. "If you are sure... we can schedule it for tomorrow afternoon. I'll take care of everything. It will be just a quiet chat."

Ilian pointed to his notes still scattered on the work desk. "Since... since Dr. Finch is coming tomorrow," he said with a firm voice, "About the adaptive filter. I think I found a way we can isolate the phase noise."

Richard looked from Ilian’s intense face to the papers, and back to Ilian. He understood. For Ilian, social interaction drained him, but physics, pure logic, recharged him. A slow smile, of pure admiration, appeared on Richard’s face.

"I'm listening," he said, voice full of anticipation. "Show me."

Ilian visibly relaxed, back in his element. "The problem with the integration window," he began, picking up the pencil, "is that it doesn't compensate for the phase in the..."


And the afternoon dissolved into a calm and focused discussion, the anxiety of the next day completely forgotten, replaced by the comfort of collaboration.