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Prologue
The old lighthouse stands on a small rise, where the wind often moves freely, producing strange, sometimes unsettling, sounds, like howling or even cries of despair. Its white paint has peeled badly in places, revealing gray patches of concrete beneath. The cloudy glass is covered with a thick layer of dust and caked-on dirt. Metal bolts and railings are coated in persistent rust. The grass around the lighthouse, nearly faded in color, is cut short, and not far from it a worn footpath runs through the ground. At the base of the lighthouse, dry leaves gather – carried there by strong winds from the large willows across the road, which give way to a small but dense forest. Beyond it, a pond and a park come into view. Occasional cars break the settled silence.
Large but sparsely spaced willows line the road. In the warmer months, they conceal the park behind them, as if hiding its lush, blooming vegetation; in the colder seasons, they stand stripped to the point of indecency. On sunny days, light filters through the branches and leaves, shimmering and shifting as it plays across the ground. The park stretches across dozens of hectares. At its center lies a large pond, occupying nearly half of the park. Winding paths lead around the pond, pass through a children’s playground, run near a picnic area, continue across a bridge beside the municipal building, and return to the park’s entrance.
In the warmer months, the park fills with people, and vending machines offering coffee and snacks are set up throughout the area. The most popular one among locals is the ice cream machine near the tennis court, between the large willows and the park.
At the center of the pond lies a small island, where seagulls and cormorants often gather, fighting for space on the dense grass, moss, and stones – and for the bread thrown to them by elderly women, despite one of the park’s rules:“Do not feed the birds.” The rule is broken so often that it has long since been forgotten, as if it had never existed at all. At times, the birds make so much noise that they can be heard from the park’s entrance.
January
Winter arrived late, but within just a few days, an entire season’s worth of snow fell. At first, the snow lightly dusted the roads and grass. People continued to walk their dogs and circle the pond, burning off calories to satisfy their activity trackers. The snowfall did not stop for several days in a row, and soon the drifts reached calf height, making every movement heavy.
Nicholas arrived at the park on a small snowplow. He was notified too late that the main paths needed clearing, and the bridge had to be cleared by hand. He set to work reluctantly, having failed to complete his morning ritual – a cup of espresso.
The day had gone wrong from the very start. In the morning, he had argued with his wife; later, he slipped on the ice and smashed his watch – a gift from his mother. A while after that, while clearing the road near the forest, he failed to notice a sapling planted a few months earlier and knocked it over. He cursed. Everything slipped from his hands, and his thoughts kept replacing one another, forming an endless kaleidoscope.
The past year had been difficult. Too much had piled up. Nicholas caught himself thinking that he was tired – tired of the snow, of the work, of the constant setbacks, and perhaps even of his wife. He lingered on the fallen sapling for a moment before moving on.
February
The thermometer no longer drops below minus ten, and the sun appears a little more often than once a week, though it still provides no warmth. The air feels lighter, and it seems that hope is beginning to stir in people again.
Men hurry through the park carrying brightly colored bouquets. Some walk with their heads held high, confidently holding heavy, lavish flowers. Others move awkwardly, apologetic, dragging along small, hastily assembled bunches.
The sun sets, and in the darkness only the blinking light of the lighthouse remains – the one thing that does not go out.
March
Tom walks through the park with disheveled hair, untied shoelaces, and an unzipped jacket, shuffling his feet through the forming slush and holding a slightly crumpled stack of papers in his hands. Large dark circles under his eyes and a worn-out look have become his defining features.
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