Megrelburg: The Heart of Van Helten [English Version]
 


Mergelburg: The Heart of Van Helten  the first novel in a series about Howard van Helten, his coming of age, his choices, and the people who will leave their mark on his life.

Mergelburg, 1987. A small provincial town where shop windows light up in the evenings, diners hum with noise, and music drifts from passing cars. The young people live from weekend to weekend, but for Howard van Helten, everything changes in a single moment.

He sees through people, yet is afraid to reveal himself. Everything shifts when a girl enters his life  someone for whom he is ready, for the first time, to break his own rules. But the harder he tries to calculate every move, the faster the thing he fears losing slips away from him.

This is a story about how the fear of loss destroys more powerfully than loss itself.

But perhaps not everything has been decided yet.





Megrelburg: The Heart of Van Helten [English Version]





PROLOGUE






The more we try to control everything, the more reality slips through our fingers

Sigmund Freud



It is human nature to want to control everything around useven that which cannot be controlled. We make plans, draw routes, arrange the future on neat shelves, as if life were a mechanism with understandable gears, where one only needs to twist a single part for everything to go as intended. But life is not a mechanism. It is a riverfast, murky, unpredictableand any attempt to hold it in our palms always ends the same way: the water seeps through our fingers, leaving behind only a cold dampness and the bitter taste of helplessness.

This was precisely what Howard was thinking as he stood by the window on that raw autumn day. Beyond the glass, Mergelburg seemed like a town forgotten by time and weather alike. The gray facades of the houses, as if faded by endless rain, loomed over the narrow streets, while the wet cobblestones reflected the dim glow of the streetlamps like shards of a broken mirror. The rain did not pourit slid down the windows in slow, unhurried tears, blurring the outlines of the world into vague silhouettes. The air was heavy, saturated with the smell of dampness, cooling smoke, and something elusively sorrowfulas though the town itself was mourning something long gone.

The room breathed with an era its owners had no wish to chase away with modernity; on the contrary, they preserved it carefully. It was not a museum, nor was it an ordinary home: here, the style of the nineteenth century did not seem deliberateit was a way of life. High ceilings with molding, heavy curtains of dark green velvet that muffled both street noise and light, and wooden furniture with fine carving, darkened in places by time but polished to a soft gleamall of it created a sense of reliability, almost eternity. Dark oak bookshelves, filled with leather-bound volumes, covered nearly an entire wall; between them hung old engravings and yellowed maps, as if to remind one that the world was far larger than a single room or a single town. On a massive writing desk with bronze fittings lay an open atlas; beside it stood a copper inkwell and a quill, though no one had written with ink for a long time. In the corner, a grandfather clock ticked quietly; its steady rhythm was not intrusive but soothing, like the pulse of an old house.

The air carried not only the dampness from outside but also something homely: the wax used to polish the floors, old paper, and strong coffee. Howard wrapped his fingers around the hot cup, but the warmth did not reach insidethe cold seemed to have settled somewhere deeper than the skin, in the very chest. He watched the drops slide down the glass and felt a familiar, almost habitual tension rising within him: the desire to fix everything, to foresee everything, to hold on to everything.

At seventeen, Howard looked as though he was trying to seem older and more serious than he really was. He wore a dark blue shirt made of thick fabric, its buttons carefully fastened all the way to the topas if he wanted to hide his vulnerability within it. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and this single touch of carelessness betrayed his inner restlessness. His trousers, made of fine wool and dark gray in color, fit perfectlyrecently bought, most likely at his fathers insistence. They felt too grown-up for a teenager, but Howard wanted to look like someone to be reckoned with. There was a tension in his posture, as if he were constantly ready for an argument or for defending his rightness.

Youre making plans again, came a quiet voice from behind him.

Howard did not turn around. He knew that voice, knew its intonationthere was no reproach in it, only a gentle, almost weary care.

Victor van Helten, Howards father, at nearly sixty looked like a man who had lived a long life without squandering either his intellect or his dignity. He held a doctorate in philology and was a professor, and there was an academic composure to him that never hardened into dryness. He wore an old tweed jacket, worn in places but carefully mendeda garment he had kept for so many years that it seemed a part of him. Beneath it, a knitted dark brown vest was visible, and around his neck hung a thin wool scarf, draped carelessly yet tastefully. His gray hair was cropped short, and in the deep wrinkles around his eyes lingered a habit of smiling, even when the conversation turned to serious matters. In his hands he held a worn volume of Kant, as though he had been about to read, but had set it aside to talk.

His father stepped closer and stopped beside him, also staring into the rainy haze.

Not plans, Howard replied quietly, without taking his eyes off the window. More like... insurance. If I think everything through, nothing bad will happen.

His father gave a soft gruntnot mockingly, but with a touch of sad irony.

Insurance against life? He paused, watching the rain draw its incoherent patterns on the glass. You know, when you were little, we used to float paper boats down the stream. Do you remember?

Howard gave a barely noticeable nod.

You folded them so carefullyevery corner had to be even, every crease perfect. You thought that if the boat was made right, it wouldnt sink. But then the current would catch it, spin it around, sometimes flip it over, and you would get angry. You wanted it to sail exactly where you had intended.

I wanted it not to break apart, Howard corrected quietly.

Yes, his father agreed gently. You wanted to protect it. But the river doesnt listen to our wishes. And do you know what I told you then?

Howard finally turned. His fathers face was calm, but in his eyes there was that particular wisdom that comes not from books, but from years livedand from pain a man has learned to accept.

That the current is not the truth, Howard said almost in a whisper, as if tasting the words.

Exactly, his father nodded. Going with the flow does not mean giving up. It means accepting that you cannot control the river. But not taking the current for truththat is what matters. The current simply carries. It does not know where you need to go. It does not decide what is right for you.

Howard looked out the window again. The rain was still sliding down the glass, and the town was still sinking into gray twilight, but now it seemed that there was not only sadness in it, but also a strange, harsh beautythe beauty of untamed reality.

Sometimes I feel that if I dont control everything, everything will fall apart, he admitted, and in those words there was no bravado, only a sincere, almost childlike anxiety.

His father placed a hand on his shoulderlight, yet firm, like an anchor in a storm.

What is meant to fall apart will fall apart, he said calmly. But you will remain. And you will build again. Not because you calculated everything, but because you know how to rise. But dont try to make the current your compass. It will carry you somewhere you dont need to be.

Howard took a deep breath, and with that breath, some of the tension that had been building for weeks seemed to leave his chest. He looked again at the rain, at the blurred lights, at the town living its own life without asking anyones permission. And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself not to try to hold on to everything.

Let the river flow. Let the paper boat sail wherever it wants. The main thing is not to confuse its path with your own truth.

Victor settled into a deep armchair that stood in the corner of the room opposite the window. With a quiet, familiar creak, the wood accepted his weightthe armchair was old but reliable, like everything in this house. He clicked the switch of a desk lamp with a yellow frosted shade, and the room immediately became smaller, cozier, as if it had narrowed the world down to a single warm circle of light. Shadows fell upon the carved patterns of the cabinets; the gilding on the spines of books flared softly for a moment and then dimmed.

Taking a pair of thin-framed glasses from their case, Victor put them on unhurriedly, adjusting the temple with a habitual movement. Then he opened the bookthat same worn volume of Kantand found the page where he had previously stopped. He paused for a second, as if listening not to the words, but to something behind them, to the silence between the lines. His fingers, slightly trembling with age but still steady, began to slowly stroke his short gray beard and mustachean old habit that betrayed deep concentration. He was lost in thought, though certainly not over the concept of the categorical imperative.

His blue eyes, once bright and now slightly faded from the years but still alive, lifted and came to rest on his son. There was so much in that gaze at once: fatherly care, weariness from trying to guess anothers thoughts, and a quiet, stubborn desire to understand after all. One could read parental worry in themnot hysterical, not loud, but deep and patient, as if he were already taking upon himself part of the weight pressing down on Howard.

Victor closed the book carefully, without irritation, as if apologizing to it for the interrupted reading, and set it aside on a low carved table, where several pencil-written pages, a silver pen, and a small bronze owl figurinea gift from Elizabeth on their anniversaryalready lay.

He knew that thoughts of control did not arise from nothing. Howard had grown up in the family of philologist Victor and psychologist Elizabeth van Helten, and this had left a particular imprint on him. From childhood, he had not simply noticed emotionshe had read them like text, broken them down into meanings, compared intonations and glances, searched for subtext in every word. He felt the world more keenly than most of his peers, and this sensitivity was both a gift and a curse: it allowed him to see hidden motives, but it also made him vulnerable to any falseness.

That was why the elder van Helten understood: if he began asking directly, it would not be a conversation but a psychological duel. Howard, raised on discussions about the mechanisms of consciousness and the nature of anxiety, parried any questions brilliantly. He knew how to defend himself with words, to build logical barricades, to hide pain behind flawless arguments. And if his father made a mistake in phrasing, the son would simply point it out politely, almost tenderly, and avoid answering.

His father was silent for another moment, as if sorting through not words but entire worlds in which those words had once lived. He knew: if he pushed too hard, Howard would immediately raise his defensespolitely, logically, flawlessly. An endless analysis was always running through his sons mind: every word from his father was broken down into possible meanings, every question into a dozen possible answers, every tone of voice into hidden intentions. For Howard, a conversation was not an exchange of thoughts but a chess match, in which he calculated his opponents moves in advance.

But Victor decided to make a move his sons mind was most likely not prepared for. Not because he was cleverer, but because he was coming not from logic, but from silence and vulnerability. Such a turn either did not exist in Howards calculations at all, or had been dismissed as improbable. And it was precisely this uncalculated scenario, accepted now by the teenagers consciousness, that could break through his armor.

Victor tilted his head slightly, as if listening not to his son, but to himself, and said quietly, almost to himself:

You know, when I was about seventeen, I also thought that if you arranged everything correctlythe words, the pauses, the glancesyou could make the world follow your script. I was sure: if only I found the right phrases, she would understand that I was the one.

Howard flinched almost imperceptibly, but did not turn around. Only his fingers tightened around the cup, until his knuckles turned white.

Her name was Marta, Victor continued, not looking at his son, as if telling the story not to him, but to the rain outside the window. I was living in a different town then, in a smaller house, without engravings and old books. And I thought love was a problem that could be solved if you didnt make mistakes. I rehearsed phrases in front of the mirror, counted how many seconds to hold a pause so as not to seem pushy, and at the same time not let her forget about me. I thought that control was the same as caring.

He paused briefly, remembering not so much Marta herself, but the desperation with which he had tried to hold on to a feeling that was slipping away.

And then I understood something that at the time felt almost like a betrayal of my own efforts: you cannot force another person to feel what they dont feel. And no perfect words will help. It was... hard. As if you were standing on a stage, saying everything exactly as written, and the hall was silent.

The room grew quiet; only the grandfather clock steadily counted the seconds, and the rain continued whispering something of its own against the glass.

For a long time I couldnt accept it, Victor added quietly. I thought the problem was with me: I had said something wrong, looked at the wrong moment, smiled the wrong way. And only years later did I realize that the mistakes werent the point. The point is that not all stories end the way we want them to. And not all feelings can be earned.

Howard finally turned his head a little, though he still did not look directly at his fatherhis gaze slid over the dark wood of the cabinet, over the dim glint of bronze, over any point that was not Victors face. But in that half-turn there was already something newnot defense, but expectation.

And what did you do then? he asked almost in a whisper, as if afraid of frightening away this unfamiliar, honest tone of conversation.

Nothing special, Victor answered calmly. I simply stopped trying to control everything. I allowed myself to be imperfect. And you know what the strangest thing is? When I stopped trying to be the person I thought I had to be for her, breathing became easier. Not because she suddenly fell in love with me, but because I stopped breaking myself for someone elses silence.

He tilted his head slightly, watching his son attentively, but without pressure.

That doesnt mean the pain disappears. It just stops being fuel for endless calculations. Thats what youre doing right now, isnt it? Running through every possible scenario in your head, searching for where you went wrong, what you could have said differently

Howard slowly lowered his gaze to his cup, as if searching the dark surface of the coffee for an answer he didnt dare speak aloud. His shoulders, tense until now, seemed to drop slightlynot from weakness, but because part of the weight had finally found something to rest on.

Her name is Emily Moore, he said, and his voice sounded unusually brittle, as if the words were scraping his throat. We sit two rows apart in class. Sometimes she laughs at someones joke, and I catch myself trying to figure out: is it just laughter, or is she looking at someone, or well, I dont know. She doesnt look at me. At all. As if Im not there. And every day I try to think of a way to make her notice me.

He fell silent, as if frightened by what he had allowed himself to say.

And every time I think that now Im about to say the right thing, I immediately imagine how it could go wrong. Ten different versions, a hundred I dont even manage to start, because I can already see everything falling apart.

Victor did not nod, did not rush to answer with comfort. He simply sat a little longer in the silence, allowing those words to take their place in the room, without trying to immediately correct or smooth them over.

You know, he finally said quietly, sometimes the bravest thing you can do is not to calculate every possibility, but simply to say: It matters to me that youre here. Without a plan. Without strategy. Just the truth. Even if it changes nothing. Because you have the right to be heard, even if the answer isnt the one you hoped for.

Howard looked out the window again, where the rain was still blurring the lights of the town into dim smudges. But now there was something less hostile in that gray lightnot a promise of happiness, but an acknowledgment that the world doesnt have to be comfortable.

But its easier to say nothing, he said almost in a whisper.

Yes, Victor agreed calmly. Easier. But not freer. And not more honest with yourself.

And in that silence, filled with rain, old wood, and a heavy but necessary confession, something fragile and real finally settled between themnot a solution to the problem, but the right to have it. The right to feel, and not to hide it behind flawless calculations.

Howard said nothing more. Not out of distrusthe simply suddenly felt that the words that had seemed necessary a minute ago had become too heavy to speak. They seemed to catch on his ribs, unwilling to come out, and he decided to keep them to himselflet them lie where they were more at peace.

Victor understood. Not through any special insight, but by the way his son turned back to the window, by the way his fingers relaxed slightly on the cup, by the way there was no tension in the silenceonly the quiet weariness of someone who had finally allowed himself not to defend. The professor did not push, did not search for new detours to the truth. He simply remained seated in his armchair, in the warm circle of light from the yellow lamp, and let that silence become something reliablenot an emptiness, but a space where one could breathe.

The rain outside gradually weakened. It no longer lashed against the windows, but rustled softly, as if the town itself had finally exhaled and decided to quiet down a little. The drops slid more slowly, as if in no hurry, and there was something soothing in that unhurried pace. The lights of Mergelburg, previously blurred and dim, now stood out more clearly, reflected in the wet asphalt like timid sparks of hope.

Victor took off his glasses, placed them on the table beside the book, and closed his eyes for a second, as if giving himself permission to share in that silence.

Howard stood by the window, and his reflection in the glass seemed a little less sharp, less tense. He wasnt looking at his father, but he felt his presencenot as pressure, but as a support that asked for nothing in return. And in that, too, there was a form of trust: not to pour everything out at once, but simply to let someone know that things were hard, without demanding to be fixed on the spot.

If you ever want to tell me more, Victor said quietly, almost in a whisper, without opening his eyes, Ill be here. And if you dont want to, Ill still be here.

Howard gave a barely perceptible nod, without turning around. That was enough.

Outside, the town was slowly waking from the rain. The sky had lightened a little, and the gray shroud was beginning to break into separate layerspaler, almost pearlescent. Far away, a car passed, and its headlights cut through the damp twilight for a moment, leaving behind only a brief trail of light.

And when that light faded, Howard finally stepped away from the window. He set his cup on the windowsill, ran his palm across the cold glass as if wiping away the last drops, and quietly sat down on the edge of the sofanot too close to his father, but not at the other end of the room either. Just nearby.

They sat like that for a whilein a silence that didnt need to be filled with anything. Then Victor picked up the book, opened it to that same page as if returning to something long familiar, and began to read aloudquietly, steadily, the way one reads when the goal is not so much to tell a story as to build a protective circle around it. And Howard listened, not so much to every word as to the rhythm of his fathers voiceeven, calm, as if promising: whatever happens tomorrow, today, here, all is well.




CHAPTER 1






Do not seek to have everything happen as you wish, but wish for everything to happen as it actually does, and your life will be serene.

Epictetus



The Mergelburg morning showed no signs of softening. The wind still drove dry leaves along the sidewalks, flung prickly sprays of yesterdays rain into passersbys faces, and seemed determined to make every step heavier. Autumn had finally settled in, and the town appeared even grayer than before, yet there was none of the dull hopelessness that had weighed down the previous day. It was simply autumnharsh, frank, and disinclined toward comfort. Howard pulled his coat tighter, feeling the fabric catch on his shoulders as though trying to hold him in place. In his pocket, he felt a small folded piece of paperon it, the day before, he had jotted down a few phrases he wanted to say to Emily. Now it felt less like support and more like a burden: the closer Howard came to school, the louder a voice in his head insisted that all those phrases were foolish, ridiculous, clumsy, and destined to end with him face-first in the mud.

Passersby hurried past, wrapping themselves in scarves and hiding their faces from the wind. Some rushed, others wandered slowly, as if unsure of their destination. The town lived its ordinary lifeindifferent and yet strangely caring: it promised no miracles, but allowed each person to go their own way.

At the school gates, Howard stopped for a second, drawing in the cold air deeply, as if gathering courage not for some great feat, but for a simple, human step. When he walked into the yard, where students were already crowding, the laughter and shouts sounded not like mockery, but like the ordinary noise of lifechaotic, alive, and impossible to calculate. Amid that bustle, a little apart from a noisy group of seniors, stood Emily. Alone. For a second, the whole world seemed to shrink to that pointto her silhouette, to the way the wind tried to tousle her hair, but it, thick and wavy, just past her shoulders, stubbornly fell in soft waves, as if it knew it was meant to be exactly that.

She was a brunette whose hair, in the dim morning light, seemed not merely darkdozens of shades hid within it, from deep chocolate to almost black, with thin silver threads where the wind caught it. Her blue eyes, bright as shards of winter sky, looked somewhere forward, as if she were trying to discern something of her own in the gray day, something only she understood. Her athletic, toned figure was not deliberate but naturalas if she were simply used to being in motion, used to the fact that her body was an instrument, not a display. Her hands were lovely, with a neat manicure, not a single extraneous detailbut there was no coldness in that; on the contrary, that composure made her vivid, real.

In Howards eyes, she looked not like an unreachable statue, but like a person in whom everything was gathered at once: strength and vulnerability, confidence and a slight confusion that she immediately hid, as if ashamed of it. He looked at her and suddenly understood that he did not want to calculate possibilities. Did not want to think about how she might answer, how she would look, what she would do. He simply wanted to see her like thatreal, without the filters of anxiety.

Now, he thought, squeezing the edge of his pocket where the paper lay. Now Ill go over. Ill ask how her morning started. Ill ask about the graduation project. Anything. Just to hear her voice.

But before he could take a step, Tyler appeared beside him.

Howard! Hey, where are you rushing off to? Tyler clapped him on the shoulder, a little too energetically, as he always did when he wanted to share something urgent. Are you even aware of what happened yesterday?

Howard flinched, surfacing from his trance. Tyler was about the same height as he wasaround one hundred and seventy centimetersof average build, with neatly styled chestnut hair: his bangs fell to the right side, while on the left there was a perfect part, as if he had spent half an hour in front of the mirror trying to achieve that careless precision. In his eyes burned the same excitement with which he collected school gossip the way others collected stamps.

Well, picture it, Tyler went on, not waiting for an answer. Chris and Jake went yesterday to that old warehouse behind the parkyou know the one everyone avoids. Rumor says someone holds underground bicycle races there, but its not certain. Anyway, they decided it was their chance to become those guys. They climbed in, and there was a security guardnot just any, but supposedly an ex-military man. Chris, of course, immediately started babbling something about we were just looking, and Jake tried to act like hed wandered in by accident and had just been passing by on his way to buy bread. The guard looked at them like he saw right through them and said, If youre just looking, why do you have flashlights in your hands and gloves like burglars? In the end, he made them clean up trash around the warehouse until midnight. And today everyone at school already knows, and Chris is telling everyone it was a voluntary community initiative.

Tyler burst out laughing, clearly savoring every detail of the story, and waited for Howard to smile too, to pick up the joke and join in their usual back-and-forth. And Howard did smilebut the smile came out strained, like a badly sewn button. He nodded in the right places, inserted come on and no way, but his gaze kept slipping back to Emily, who was still standing alone, as if the world around her had paused for a second.

And in the end, you know what he said? Tyler leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. The guard threw at them on their way out: Next time you come back, at least come up with a decent cover story. We were just going for bread isnt even funny anymore.

Howard wanted to laugh, wanted to say something witty like before, but the words stuck somewhere between his throat and his tongue. Instead, he suddenly felt how tightly he was squeezing the handle of his bag, as if it were an anchor keeping him from simply turning around and walking over to Emily.

Listen, he exhaled, trying to keep his voice calm and unhurried, without resentment toward himself for once again postponing an important step. Sorry, I really have to go. Im... a little out of it right now. But Ill gladly hear the rest later, honestly.

Tyler paused for a second, as if not quite understanding why his story had not gotten the expected reaction. Then he nodded, frowning slightly, but immediately relaxed againhe had a talent for not staying offended for long.

Fine. But dont think youre getting out of it. After class youll tell me where you were rushing off to. He winked, waved, and melted into the crowd, carrying with him part of the usual noise that always swirled around him.

As soon as Tyler disappeared from view, Howard turned back to the spot where Emily had been standing. But now she was no longer alone. A small group of friends had gathered around her: someone was telling a story, waving their hands, someone was laughing, and she herself had tilted her head slightly, that same smile playing on her lipslight, sincere, as if she really was enjoying the chatter, the little things, the ordinary school moments.

For a moment Howard froze. He took a couple of steps forward, almost without realizing it, and simply looked at herat the way the light fell on her hair, at the sparks of laughter in her blue eyes, at how she moved as if unaware of her own beauty, as if it were simply part of her, as natural as breathing. And in that moment he suddenly understood: she was beautiful not because she was perfect, but because she was real. There was nothing invented about her, nothing calculatedonly life, loud and bright, refusing to obey any scripts.

He held that image inside for another second, letting it warm him from within, then slowly turned left, gripping the handle of his bag more tightly. With his other hand he mechanically adjusted his coat, as if that gesture could give him back even a little composure. And he walked onnot toward her, not now, but not away from her either. Just farther, to where the day was already waiting for him with all its unexpected turns that defied any calculation.

A couple of lessons passed almost unnoticedas if Howard had been present in the classroom only in body, while his thoughts wandered somewhere far away. In geometry, the teacher drew angles and triangles on the board, wrote out formulas, but to Howard these were not figures but diagrams: he was mentally constructing the ideal trajectory by which he might approach Emily, calculating the points where their routes crossed in the hallways, picking out moments when she was alone. Every line became a step toward a conversation, every angle a possible obstacle to get around. In geography, it was even further from reality. The teacher talked about climates, capitals, and mountain ranges, while the lovesick boy saw not maps and atlases but his and Emilys travels. There they were, walking along the narrow cobblestone streets of old Brusselsbetween houses with pointed roofs, where the wind carried the smell of fresh pastries from a little bakery on the corner; there they stood on the shore of the Mediterranean by the cliffs of Amalfi, and the salty wind mixed her wavy hair with the suns sparkles on the water; there they were riding a train through the green hills of Tuscany, with rows of cypresses and vineyards bathed in golden light drifting past the window. Every country turned into the place of their future vacation, every river into a road they might walk along together. He caught himself mechanically writing down the names of citiesBrussels, Naples, Florenceas if composing an itinerary, then immediately erased them, feeling the absurdity of those fantasies.

During the long break, Howard sat down at a table in the school cafeteriaat the very one by the window, from which part of the schoolyard was visible. He was served the usual late-80s school lunch: a plate of mashed potatoes with a golden-breaded cutlet on top, a few slices of pickled cucumber and a piece of dark bread beside it. In the mug was warm cocoanot too sweet, with a light foam on top. Howard ate almost mechanically, not tasting anything, and from time to time stirred the cocoa with his spoon, as if hoping to find some answer in the dark liquid.

The cafeteria hummed with its usual sounds: the clatter of dishes, fragments of conversations, someones laughter, the scraping of chairs. But to Howard that noise seemed distant, fading into a background against which his own thoughts rang louder. He looked out the window, where streams from the morning rain ran along the asphalt, and again went over the phrases from that little paper in his head, trying to find an intonation that would not make them sound laughable or pitiful.

At some point he felt someones gaze on himwarm, persistent, but not heavy. Raising his eyes, he saw Susan. She had quietly sat down across from him, resting her hands on the edge of the table, and was looking at him with her big green eyesattentively, patiently, as if she were ready to sit like that through the whole break until he finally noticed her.

Susan was small, delicate, with soft features and a wayward strand of light hair that always escaped from her braid. There was not a drop of that tense composure that lived in Howardshe seemed lighter, as if she knew how not to cling to worries but to let them drift past. But beneath that outward lightness she was incredibly perceptive: she noticed everythinghow her brother squeezed his fingers, how he averted his gaze, how he stirred his cocoa not in circles but with sharp, nervous movements. To her, those little things were like words, only more honest.

Youre thinking about something again that youre not telling anyone, she said quietly, tilting her head slightly, as if listening not to words but to what was hidden behind them. I can tell. Youre sitting like youre holding the whole world on your shoulders, and it doesnt fit you.

Howard smiled weaklynot because things had gotten easier, but because next to Susan even heaviness felt a little less prickly.

Its just one of those days, he tried to wave it off, but his voice betrayed him: there was no confidence in it, only weariness.

A day like any other, Susan replied calmly, not arguing, just calling things by their names. But youre different in it. Not like when youre just angry or tired. You seem afraid to take a step, and then afraid you wont take it.

She paused, then carefully pushed a saucer with a small shortbread cookiehis favoritetoward him.

If you dont want to talk, you dont have to. Ill just sit here. Or we can talk about anything: about classes, about Tylers dumb gossip, about how weird the cocoa is today. Or about nothing at all. But if you ever want someone to just listen... Im here. And I wont say come on or its not that bad. Ill just listen.

There was no pressure in her words, only a quiet, reliable kindnessthe kind that asks nothing in return and therefore works more powerfully than any persuasion.

Howard looked at his sister, at her attentive green eyes, at that cookie, as if she were trying to support her words with something tangible, and suddenly felt something inside him loosen just a little, shedding some of the tension.

Thank you, he said quietly, and that thank you was not for the cookie but for the fact that she hadnt tried to poke at the most painful place, but had simply reached out her hand into the darkness.

He took the cookie, bit off a piece, and this time the taste suddenly became realsweet, crumbly, simple. And for one short second all that endless calculation of possibilities, all those routes and scenarios, all the attempts to think through everything and miss nothingall of it receded, leaving room for something small but real: his sister, the cookie, a quiet conversation that didnt have to lead anywhere.

Susan really had managed to pull Howard out of the whirlpool of his thoughts for a minuteso deftly, as if she had simply turned off the noise. He suddenly noticed how the cafeteria smelled: not only of food, but also of old wood, chalk from the classrooms, a little dusty and homely. He heard someone at the next table giggle, a spoon clink, a chair scrape. And for that one minute he felt lighteras if the heaviness he had been carrying since morning had become a little lighter, not gone, but at least no longer pressing on his shoulders.

He looked at Susan and thought that in her attentive green eyes there was no judgment, no desire to fix him, not even the kind of curiosity that wounds. Only a quiet Im here. And that made him calm. He treasured that sincerity of hers immenselyit was the very support that doesnt boast of its reliability, but simply stands beside you, even when everything is falling apart.

Howard wanted to tell her everything: about Emily, about the paper in his pocket, about how he rehearsed every phrase ten times and still feared he would say the wrong thing. But he held back. He understood that she couldnt give him the answer to the questions gnawing at him from inside. He didnt want to shift that confusion onto her, didnt want his anxiety to become her anxiety too. Let at least one person have a simple day.

But he did want to talk to her. Just to hear her voice, to feel that the world wasnt made only of endless calculations.

I see Tyler managed to fill you in on the Chris and Jake story, he said with a smile, trying to make the smile not forced but real.

Susan snorted, rolling her eyes, and there was so much sisterly irony in that gesture that Howard couldnt help smiling wider.

He told me about it during the break between first and second period. And he made it sound like the news of the century. I even tried to pretend I was listening, but at some point I realized that if I heard the words underground races one more time, Id fall asleep right at my desk.

I couldnt even properly pretend to be interested, Howard admitted, lowering his voice a little. I kept trying to look past him, over to where... Ahem. He glanced aside, as if trying to instantly veer away from what hed been about to say. Where Harry was standing.

Susan noticed that maneuver: her brother clearly didnt want to say where exactly he had been looking, and it definitely wasnt about Harry ONeil. She simply nodded, as if understanding without words: Yes, sometimes other peoples fun sounds like white noise when something of your own is humming inside.

They went on discussing that absurd story for a little whilenot seriously, just to keep talking, to avoid leaving a silence that could again give way to anxious thoughts. Susan comically imitated Tylers intonation when he whispered about come up with a decent cover story, and Howard laughedsincerely, without effort, for the first time that day.

And in that moment he noticed how she suddenly froze, then changed her tone slightlyit became quieter, softer, as if she was trying to sound normal but couldnt. Susan averted her gaze, and just then, past their table, a boy walked by. Howard saw him only from behind, but that was enough to sense the confidence in his stride: he walked as if he knew exactly where he was going and why, as if the whole world was not a labyrinth to him but a straight road. Shoulders squared, step sure, not a trace of haste.

In that same second, Susans fingers began nervously twisting around each other; her nails caught faintly, as if searching for something to hold on to. She seemed to be trying to hide that tremor, to pretend everything was fine, but to Howard, who was used to noticing details, it was like a scream, only very quiet.

A couple of seconds later, she looked back at her brother, as if returning from another world, and hastily broke the awkward pause:

So... where were we? On how Tyler talks too much? Or on how Chris and Jake are the unluckiest people on earth?

Howard smirked slightly, but didnt press with questions. He didnt want her to feel caught. Instead, he played along gently:

I think we were on how Tyler is the best storyteller in the worldif you dont listen to the content, only to the intonation.

Susan exhaledHoward noticed it by the way her shoulders relaxed a littleand smiled graciously, as if he had just quietly offered her a hand and kept her from falling.

The next second, VanessaSusans classmateslid into the seat at their table. She burst into their quiet corner as if she had brought a piece of sunshine with her: bright, energetic, with that smile that seemed to promise the day couldnt be all bad. She wore a plaid skirt, a turtleneck sweater, and a bright scarf that seemed to live a life of its ownit kept slipping, and she kept adjusting it, laughing at her own clumsiness.

Hey there, my dears! Vanessa exclaimed, flopping onto the bench as if they were not in the school cafeteria but at a picnic in the park. You look so serious, like youre discussing the fate of the universe instead of school lunch. Whats going on? Or better yet, tell me whats been going on without me? I feel like I missed something important!

Her voice was bright and infectious; there wasnt an ounce of falseness in itonly a sincere desire to be part of everything happening. She immediately reached for Howards mug, pretended she was about to take a sip, then snatched her hand back with a giggle:

Just kidding! Your cocoa is sacred. But if you have another cookie, Im ready to sell my soul for it. Or at least tell you the latest gossipyour choice.

She snapped her fingers as if trying to catch a thought, then blurted out:

By the way, did you hear? Theres a rehearsal for the Christmas concert in the assembly hall on Friday, and Mr. Harris wants the seniors to help with the decorations. I already signed up. If you come with me, it wont be so scary hauling those boxes. Or at least you can cheer me on.

Vanessa talked fast, but not annoyinglymore as if she was afraid that if she stopped, all that charge of energy would simply scatter. And, most surprisingly, she really did change the atmosphere: with her arrival, the silence became fragile and the tension heavy. Now it was just a pause between lines, not an abyss one could fall into.

Susan laughed, shaking her head, but there was relief in her laughteras if she too was glad they no longer had to hold the conversation just the two of them, that she could hide a little behind that cheerful chatter.

Vanessa, youre like a hurricane, she said, smiling. In a good way.

A hurricane with cookies and good intentions, Vanessa winked, then turned to Howard as if only now truly noticing him. And why are you so quiet? Dont worry, I dont bite. Its just that when Im quiet, I feel like the world stops, and I dont like that.

Howard caught himself smilingand this time it wasnt an attempt to seem normal. It came on its own, as if in response to that lively, loud sincerity.

The bell rang sharply, as if cutting the conversation off mid-sentence. Vanessa flinched, immediately jumped up, grabbed Susan by the arm, and pulled her along, chattering as she went:

Okay, okay, lets run, or else Mrs. Clark will again say Im disrupting discipline with my lateness, when really its her disrupting my peace of mind with her looks! Are you coming? Or are you going to pretend youre an angel whos never late?

Susan, already rising, only managed to brush her hand across Howards shouldera light, almost weightless touch that held all her I wish I could stay just one more minute. She smiled at him quickly, guiltily, as if apologizing for the worlds hurry, and then vanished into the stream of students, carried away by Vanessas energetic whirlwind.

Everything around started moving: chairs scraped against the floor, someone dropped a notebook, someone called a friend across the hall, someone laughed without hearing their own voice in the noise. The hallways were already beginning to fill with the rumble of footsteps, and the cafeteria, which a minute before had seemed like an island of quiet, turned into a crossroads of hurrying liveseach person rushing to their own class, their own little drama, their own way of not drowning in the day.

Howard unhurriedly folded his napkin, wiped his mouth, stacked his dishes on the tray, and went to the washing station. On the way, he paused for a second, breathing in that particular cafeteria smellwarm bread, boiled potatoes, and a hint of sharp soapas if he wanted to hold on to that moment of calm before plunging back into the school whirlpool.

By the sink stood Claraa plump woman with kind, slightly tired eyes and hands roughened by hot water and brushes. She always smiled as if that smile was her personal way of keeping herself from drowning in routine. Beside her bustled her young helper Lina, who had only been working for two months and still fussed about as if afraid of doing something wrong.

Well, here you are, Howard, Clara said, nodding almost imperceptibly, and in her voice there was neither reproach nor hurryonly the usual warm recognition of his presence. As always, you bring everything yourself. Not like some: they leave their trays as if were not people but the janitors of their personal messes. She turned toward Lina and went on. I remember when he first came. Eleven years ago... such a little boy, big brown eyes, blinking as if the whole world scared him, yet trying to stand straight as if he wasnt afraid. Hed bring his tray in his little hands, thank me so warmly as if Id saved his life. I thought then: see, there are children who understand that politeness isnt about youre supposed to, but about I see you.

Lina smiled, tilting her head slightly, and answered quietly:

Its nice to see that. In all this hustle... its like a little ray of light.

Howard stood with his gaze lowered a little, and a modest smile played on his lipsnot from pride, but rather from the awkward warmth spreading somewhere beneath his ribs. It was pleasant to hear, but he didnt want to be made into a hero. To him, it was simply the right thing: not to leave a mess behind, not to walk past those who make your life a little easier every day.

He stepped closer and, setting his tray on the counter, said quietly but firmly:

Thank you. For doing all this every day. For the lunches, for the cleanliness, for the fact that even when everyone is rushing and making noise, it still feels... human here. I appreciate it. Really.

Clara froze for a secondas if those words had fallen right into her palms and she didnt know where to put them so they wouldnt drop. Then she nodded slowly, and something flickered in her eyesthe kind of thing that appears when someone finally notices not only your work, but you yourself.

Thank you, Howard, she said quietly, squeezing the cloth in her hand a little, as if that familiar thing had suddenly become an anchor for her. Sometimes just hearing that... its like a cup of hot tea on a cold day. It warms you.

Lina also smiled, blushed slightly, and murmured:

Yes... thank you. Thats nice.

Howard nodded once more, as if wanting to set those words in place, to make them real, then turned toward the cafeteria exit. At the doorway he paused for a second, as if wanting to add something else, but couldnt find the right wordsand just smiled faintly once more toward the sink, where Clara was already getting back to work, but now there was a little more lightness in her movements, and in her voice, as she said something quietly to Lina, there was a quiet gratitude.

Everyone has their own river, he thought as he walked down the hall toward the art room. And each one has its own current, its own rapids, its own quiet backwaters where one can hide for a little while. And no one knows how much strength it takes just to stay afloat.

He walked on, and those thoughts did not weigh him down but rather supported him, like a railing on a steep staircase. He knew that every person wakes up in the morning carrying some burdensomeone is afraid of a test, someone of a conversation, someone simply afraid that the day will again be gray and empty. And almost everyone thinks their own problems are the heaviest, while other peoples are trifles, because those are invisible. But he, like Susan, tried to notice that invisible heaviness. Tried not to pass by, not to pretend he didnt see.

His mothers words, spoken one evening when he had complained that people around were not what they should be, always came back to him:

It doesnt matter whether you know a person personally or its just some stranger. Be polite and kind. You can never know what a person went through this morning or last evening, what thoughts are tormenting their mind, what makes them barely hold back from dropping their hands and crying. Sometimes one kind word is a lifeline you throw without even knowing that someone is drowning.

And he tried to throw those lifelines. Not for praise, not to seem good, but because he believed: if you see that someone is struggling, the least you can do is not add to their burden.

The door to the art room was ajar, and no familiar noise came from insideno arguments about paints, no laughter, no rustling of paper. Howard paused, as if listening to that strange silence, then stepped inside. There was no one in the room except the elderly teacherMr. Finch. He was short, with gray hair heavily silvered at the temples and a large bald spot that made his forehead seem especially high, almost wise. The deep wrinkles on his face formed a complex pattern: they softened when he smiled and sharpened when his gaze turned stern. Mr. Finchs brown eyes could be both warm and piercingas if he were simultaneously understanding you and testing whether you deserved that understanding.

Good afternoon, Mr. Finch, Howard greeted quietly, feeling that in this unusual silence his voice sounded a little louder than he would have liked.

Mr. Finch looked up from a stack of sketches, raised his eyebrows slightly, as if surprised that someone had actually come, and nodded:

Hello, Howard. Glad to see at least one boy who hasnt traded his paints for the stage.

Howard frowned a little, not understanding:

Where is everyone?

Mr. Harris excused everyone who wanted to help prepare for the Christmas concert. And, imagine, there were so many volunteers that the hall is packed now. So the art room is practically a private temple today. For the chosen ones. Or for those who simply didnt want to carry boxes.

He said it without judgment, more with light irony, and Howard suddenly felt something like gratitude stir inside: Mr. Finch neither made a hero of his presence nor considered him strange.

The room was arranged unusually: it was divided into separate corners, separated from one another by shelves filled with the best student works from all eighty-nine years of the schools history. There were plaster heads, vases, old still lifes, darkened with age but still proud of their place in history. That layout had been designed on purpose: so that students wouldnt distract each other, so that each could remain alone with their canvas and their thoughts.

Howard went to his spotsection number two. Everything here was familiar: an easel with an unfinished landscape still on it from the last lesson, a box of brushes, jars of paint lightly covered with dust, as if even they knew that inspiration didnt come every day. He carefully arranged everything, set up the canvas, ran his fingers over its rough surfaceand paused for a moment, listening to himself.

Mr. Finch watched him from his place by the window. Then he said quietly:

You know, I dont like it when students come here just because they have nowhere else to go. Its much more unpleasant for me to watch them waste paint, drawing something without any desire to create, than to see them absent. In eleventh grade, there really are more important things. But you... you seem to come not out of desperation. You come to talk to the canvas.

Howard shrugged slightly, not knowing how to respond to such precise words.

Its just... its calmer for me here.

Mr. Finch tilted his head a little, as if trying on that phrase the way one tries on a hatto see whether it suits.

Calmer. Yes. But look at your work.

He came closer, not invading Howards personal space, but rather standing beside him, as an equal. He looked for a long time at the canvas, where gray tones flowed into one another, forming a city that didnt exist on any map: foggy streets, empty benches, streetlamps whose light seemed unable to dispel the darkness.

Its gray. Not simply restrainedtruly gray. And this isnt your first painting in that vein. Tell me, do you see the world that way? Or are you just afraid to add color, because then youd have to believe it exists?

Howard involuntarily squeezed the brush. He wanted to argue, to say it was just style, that he was searching for a mood, but the words stuck halfway between his throat and the truth.

The world isnt so bad, Mr. Finch said softly, as if not arguing but offering Howard a chance to taste that thought.

Not so bad... Howard hesitated for a second, then added firmly: But not as good as one wants to think either. Sometimes it seems the good is just rare breaks in the clouds. They exist, but theyre few and they disappear quickly.

Mr. Finch didnt argue; he only tilted his head slightly:

That means you notice them. Those breaks. Thats already something. Some people dont even see the sky while walking in the rain.

I see them, Howard admitted. But it doesnt make things easier. Because you know they wont last. And then itll be gray again.

Maybe thats the point? Not to wait for the clouds to leave, but to learn to notice the light while its there. Even if its weak. Even if its barely visible.

But is that honest? There was a weariness in Howards voice he couldnt hide. To pretend everything is fine when it isnt?

No one is asking you to pretend. Im only asking you not to let the darkness block the whole horizon. Color doesnt have to be bright to be real. Sometimes a single thin line, a single barely noticeable shade is enough to make the whole canvas suddenly lighter. You dont have to paint over the darkness. You just have to let it know that there is light nearby. Even if its quiet.

Howard was silent for a moment, looking at his gray painting as if seeing it whole for the first time.

What if I dont know how to find it? he asked quietly.

You already do. Otherwise you wouldnt notice that everything around is gray. To see a shadow means to know that somewhere there is light. Youre just not looking in the right place yet.

Howard looked at his canvasand suddenly seemed to step inside that gray painting, walking through its streets, where anxiety and fear hung in the air like thick fog. The shutters on the houses were tightly closed, as if the inhabitants were afraid to let into their homes not only the cold but also a strangers gaze, a strangers word, a strangers hope. It seemed the houses hid behind those shutters their own small but heavy truth.

Mr. Finch, standing a little way off, glanced at the thoughtful young manand his gaze softened; that particular sympathy surfaced in it, the kind that doesnt shout but whispers: I see how hard it is for you. He wanted to pat Howard comfortingly on the shoulder, to say something simple and strong: Youll manage. Youll find your colors yet. He even half-raised his hand, but then lowered it and hid it behind his back, as if deciding that words or gestures would be too loud for that silence. Turning, he quietly returned to his desk, leaving Howard alone with his canvas and his thoughts.

Howard wanted to add brightness to the painting, but he didnt know how to do it so that everything would turn out perfectly. It seemed to him that if he made a mistake with a shade, if the line came out too sharp or, on the contrary, too timid, the fragile balance of his world would break. And looking at that city, which had become a mirror of his soul, he suddenly thought: a persons life is the same kind of easel. Every day a new stroke lands on it: someones glance, a chance word, a memory, hope, fear. Some people paint with bright, bold colors, unafraid of smudges and stains. Some carefully lay down barely visible lines, as if afraid of taking up too much space. And some, like him right now, see everything in shades of gray and dont dare step beyond those boundaries.

At that moment, a womans voice came from the half-open doorquiet but insistent:

Mr. Finch, theyre asking for you in the teachers lounge. Its urgent.

Finch froze for a second, as if wanting to say something else, but only gave a short nod, cast a warm, understanding look at Howard, and hurried out, pulling the door shut behind him. His absence did not make the room emptyon the contrary, it seemed to give Howard space to breathe a little more freely, to focus not only on drawing but also on his thoughts.

And he began to thinkthis time about the very philosophy of life. Looking at his gray city, he asked himself: if his world was so muted now, then for someone else it was probably too bright. How did that person feel? With what thought did they wake up in the mornings? Did they notice all the little things Howard was used to noticing in every person and every new day? Or, on the contrary, were they so surrounded by light that they couldnt see shadows and therefore didnt understand what it was like to stand in the half-dark and try to make out at least one warm glimmer?

Time passed unnoticed. The hour and a half of class was drawing to a close, and Howard was still standing in front of his easel, as if afraid to move lest he frighten those thoughts away. His easel stood by the window, and from time to time he glanced at the sky, where gray, almost black autumn clouds raced one after another, as if hurrying somewhere, carrying cold and dampness with them. He seemed to draw the mood for his city from themfrom their heaviness, from their silent weariness.

But then that unbroken stream began to break apart. Narrow gaps appeared between the clouds, and the sun cautiously peeked out from behind them. Its light was not bright or blindingrather timid, as if it wasnt sure whether it should show itself on such a gloomy day. But it was there. And it warmed a little.

Feeling that touch of sun, Howard glanced at the clockand only then truly realized that the time for his gray city had indeed come to an end. He began putting away the paints, carefully washing the brushes, trying not to damage the bristles, rinsing the palette until the water no longer carried the mixture of colors, and placing all his supplies into the signed shelf in the cabinetH. Van Helten. The letters had been written in his own hand at the beginning of the year, and now that neat label seemed to confirm: this is my place, my corner, my right to be here, even if Im not like everyone else.

While he was fussing, awkwardly adjusting his shirt after removing his slightly stained apron, a soft, sweet female voice came from behind him:

Your painting is darker than it seemed.

The voice seemed to be trying not to startle, but it still rang out sharply, like a sudden chord in the silence. Startled, Howard dropped the cup of solvent and an empty paint jar. They thudded dully on the floor but didnt breakas if even the world had decided to spare him today.

Emily stood in a patch of sunlight that streamed through the window and lay on the floor in warm rectangles. She was squinting adorablythe sun was shining right into her eyes, and she had tilted her head slightly, as if trying to see him through that golden curtain. The sunbeams seemed to play in her hair, weaving thin golden threads from the dark brown waves. A light strand had come loose and fallen softly onto her cheekand Howard suddenly wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, but he only gripped his fingers tighter, holding himself in place. There was no harsh, cold beauty in her featureseverything was alive: a small, slightly upturned nose, a line of lips that first curved into a guilty smile, then became serious when she looked at the painting. In both hands, lowered in front of her, she held her schoolbagnot like a burden, but like a shield, a familiar support that helped her stay confident even in the most awkward situations. She noticed his frightand couldnt hold back a slight smile. Not mocking, but warm, almost guilty: she found it amusing that she had startled him so much, and awkward at the same time.

He froze, blushing, feeling everything inside him clench with embarrassment.

Emily took a couple of steps forward, about to bend down and help gather the supplies, but Howard stopped her, saying:

No, no, dont bother, Ill do it myself!almost pushing the air between them, as if he wanted to keep her at a safe distance so he wouldnt make even more of a fool of himself.

She stopped and apologized again:

Sorry, I didnt mean to... Sorry I startled you.

And he, already hastily picking up the fallen things, suddenly blurted out, not knowing where the words came from:

Oh, come on, how could such a joy scare anyone? I just wasnt expecting...

And immediately groaned inside: Idiot, be more confident! Why did you say that? What will she think? Say something normal! He was smiling at her, looking at her as if she were not an ordinary girl but some miracle that had descended right into that dusty classroom, and her smile was literally melting all his tension, driving away his usual doubts.

You know, Ive been drawing in section three this whole time, Emily admitted quietly, lowering her gaze a little, as if she too felt a bit awkward. And... I accidentally overheard your conversation with Mr. Finch. Not on purpose, its just... the acoustics in there, voices carry.

In that moment, something clicked in Howards head: Damn, she was practically right next to me the whole time! He suddenly felt hot not from embarrassment, but from the realization that all his thoughts, all his words, even the silence between phrasesshe had heard it all. And she hadnt left. She had stayed. And now she stood here, looking at him without judgment, but rather with interestas if he were a puzzle she wanted to solve.

I got curious about which painting you were talking about, she continued, tilting her head slightly, and in her voice there was no idle curiosity, but a real, quiet desire to understand. I spent the whole class picturing that colorless landscape in my head and asking myself: is it really so gray that even Mr. Finch paid it that much attention?

She paused for a second, then, as if making up her mind, lifted her eyes to him:

Do you mind if I come closer? I want to see.

Howard nodded so vigorously that he surprised himself with his own eagerness:

Yes. Yes... Yes! Of course!and immediately stepped aside, clearing her path to the canvas, as if giving way to something important.

Emily walked over and stood in front of the painting. She looked not fleetingly, not out of politeness, but as if she were really walking along those gray streets, peering into dark windows, squinting as she tried to make out something in the alleys gloom. Howard couldnt take his eyes off her, trying to guess what exactly caught her attention, which stroke seemed important to her, which corner meaningful. He wanted to explain, to tell her why he had laid down that particular shadow, why he had left that corner empty, but the words stuck somewhere in his throat, refusing to form into clear phrases.

At last Emily tilted her head slightly and said quietly:

Theres so much silence here... Not dead silence, but... tired. As if the city had lived through something for a long time and had just sat down on the edge of a bench, saying nothing. But at the same time... you see these thin lines? She carefully, without touching the canvas, traced her finger in the air along the silvery strokes. They seem to say: Im still here. I havent disappeared.

Howard nodded, as if those words had lifted a weight he had been carrying without noticing.

Yes, he agreed quietly. I was trying... not to paint over the darkness, but just to show that light exists too. Even if there isnt much of it.

Emily stood before the painting a while longer, then turned to him, and in her gaze there was neither admiration nor pity, but something far more valuableunderstanding. In that moment, Howard looked into her blue eyesand seemed to see a whole map of feelings, carefully traced with invisible lines. There was no falseness in them, no desire to seem like someone else: only sincerity, a light anxiety, curiosity, and warmth that didnt shout but quietly warmed. And in that gaze he suddenly found answers to many questions that had been tormenting him inside: not about the painting, not about the world, but about whether one could be vulnerable and still not seem weak; whether one could show a shadow and still remain light; whether simply standing beside someone could already be a kind of help.

You know, she said, smiling slightly, I think thats the most honest kind of art. Not pretending the darkness isnt there. But showing that even in it, you can find a little light.

Howard exhaled, and the tension that had gripped his shoulders all day finally began to release.

Thank you, he said quietly, looking not at the painting but straight at her. Sometimes it feels like if you see a shadow, it means youre just fixated on the bad.

Or maybe youre just not afraid to name it, Emily answered calmly. And that makes it less frightening.

For a second the room went quiet again, but now the silence was differentnot empty, but filled with something important.

Then Emily lifted her schoolbag slightly, as if to remind him that the world beyond that corner still existed and was expecting something from them.

The break will be short, she said, frowning a little, as if she herself regretted having to return to schedules and lessons. We need to get to the last class as quickly as possiblebiology. Otherwise Mrs. Crowley will unleash all her fury on us.

Howard held his gaze on her face for a second, trying to preserve every detail in his memory: how the light fell on her hair, how a slight worry flickered in her blue eyes before class, how she gripped the handle of her bag a little tighter, as if it were her small anchor in the stormy school day.

All right, he said quietly, and in that all right there was no indifference, but a readiness to walk beside her, even if ahead lay not a canvas and a quiet classroom, but a noisy classroom and a strict teacher. Lets go. Only... thank you. Thank you for looking. For seeing more than just gray.

Emily smiledthis time a little wider, as if something in her chest had also quietly unfurled, like a folded piece of paper finally being opened.

Then lets go, she said, nodding slightly toward the door.

They left the classroom together. Howard lingered for a fraction of a second on the threshold, casting a last glance at the easel, his canvas, the shelves of works, Mr. Finchs desk where everything was in its place. And he understood that order wasnt only about arranged jars and clean brushes. It was also about knowing when to set down the brush and walk beside someone who lit the road not with bright spotlights, but simply with a warm, calm light.

The school corridor crashed over them with its usual bustle: someone ran by, stomping loudly, someone argued at the schedule board, someone laughed so ringingly that the sound seemed to bounce off the walls. Howard, adjusting to that noise after the quiet of the art room, walked beside Emily, trying not to look at her too openly but still catching every gesture. They quickened their pace, skirting a group of kids arguing about whose turn it was at the water cooler, and almost turned the corner where the corridor narrowed and led straight to the science wing. And then, from around the corner, Mr. Finch suddenly appeared. He was walking quickly but not fussily, a folder under his arm and that expression on his face that said, I have a task and I will do ityet he still managed to notice everything around him.

They almost collided. Emily stopped abruptly, clutching her bag to herself, and Howard instinctively stepped forward, as if wanting to shield her from an accidental collision, though there was no need.

Oh! Sorry, Mr. Finch! Emily blurted out, and in her voice there was that sincere awkwardness that always sounds more honest than any excuse.

Mr. Finch paused, tilted his head slightly, and a light smile flickered across his facenot wide, but the kind worn by people who know how to appreciate small coincidences.

Its all right, its all right, he said calmly, raising his folder a little, as if to show that he wasnt in such a hurry as to not find a second for them. Heading to biology? Mrs. Crowley doesnt like her lessons to start with apologies.

Emily nodded, blushing a little:

Yes, were... in a hurry.

Mr. Finch shifted his gaze to Howard. There was a quiet understanding in that look, as if he already knew the whole story that had happened with his gray city. In that moment, he understood everything, and for all the questions he had asked earlier, he found the answer in Howards eyes.

Good, he said quietly, and in that good there was more meaning than in long speeches. Sometimes the most important thing is not to get everything done, but to take the right step at the right time.

He gave a slight nod, as if confirming his own words, and continued down the corridor, leaving them standing at that crossroads.

Howard watched him go, feeling something quietly settle into place inside. It suddenly became clear to him: Mr. Finch had seen everything and understood everything. Not only about the painting, but about him as wellabout how hard it could be to carry that gray world inside, and how much courage it took to allow even one bright line to appear in it. And the fact that the teacher didnt say it aloud, but simply nodded at them as he passed, seemed to Howard the greatest approval he could have received.

Lets go, Emily said quietly, touching his elbowonly for a second, barely perceptibly, but it was enough to bring him back to the corridor, to the bustle, to reality. Weve got a little over a minute left.

Biology class truly flew by faster than all the others. Mrs. Crowley, with her usual strictness, talked about cell structure, clicked her pointer against the board, and from time to time scanned the class with her gaze, as if checking whether any chaos lurked that might disturb her perfect order. But to Howard, her voice sounded as if through cottonhe heard the intonations, individual words, but the meaning slipped away.

He kept glancing in Emilys direction, but each time he seemed to be too late: she sat a little ahead and to the left, her head bent over her notebook, and he couldnt quite catch the right angle to see her face fully. He was endlessly curious to understand how he appeared in her eyes. Two years of school togetherever since she had transferred to their class in eighth gradeand they had never really talked. All that time he had considered her unreachable, untouchable, as if she lived in some other dimension where everything was brighter, cleaner, and more right than in his.

One question tormented him even more, a question that now seemed almost offensive in its missed opportunity: what did her painting look like? He couldnt forgive himself, or the schedule, or that cursed lack of time for not asking about her work. Fragments floated up in his mind on their own: section number three, dimmed light, silence in which other voices carried... What had she been drawing all that time while he tried to tame his gray city?

Mentally, he was already jumping ahead to Thursday, to the second art lesson. A whole scenario was rapidly unfolding in his head: he would enter calmly, without fuss, greet her in a way that sounded confident but not pompous. Then, as if in passing, he would ask about her paintingnot pushily, but with sincere interest, as if it really mattered to him. He was already choosing intonations, trying out phrases, discarding those that sounded too ornate or, on the contrary, too timid.

No, better like this: You know, I keep thinking about your work... I wonder what youre creating there. Or no. Too much I. Keep it simpler. Whats on your easel right now?thats it. Simple. Human. Although... no.

Howard began living a whole separate life in his headwith dozens of possible ways things could go. He wanted to foresee everything: not to drop his supplies, not to stumble over his words, not to look frightened, as if the world were once again pressing down on him with all its weight. He wanted to calculate everything two, three, four steps ahead, so that in the moment when she looked at him again with her blue eyes, he could simply be himselfwithout fuss, without panic, without that endless attempt to control everything.

But class time was almost up. As soon as the bell rang, the classroom instantly exploded with movement: desks creaked, chairs clattered, voices merged into one hum, and everyone rushed for the door, as if afraid it would close at any second. Someone buttoned their jacket on the run, someone hurriedly stuffed notebooks into a worn backpack, someone argued about who would leave first. Howard froze for a moment, trying to catch sight of Emily, but the whirlwind had already carried her awayshe flashed somewhere ahead, appeared for an instant between other peoples backs, clutching her bag, then disappeared into the stream of students hurrying about their business. He remained standing by his desk, feeling reality catch up with him again, and understanding that all his perfectly planned dialogues, all those two, three, four steps ahead were now worth nothing. Life gave no rehearsals. It simply moved along, not asking whether he was ready.

Out in the corridor, Howard almost despaired for a moment, scanning the crowd for Emily. The hallway was long, with tall windows through which dim autumn light fell. The walls were painted a pale green, peeling in places, and old wooden benches with metal legs stood along them. The school was already living its ordinary life: someone laughed, someone argued, someone hurried, and someone just stood, like him, trying to catch a fleeting moment. Howard quickly glanced over his own appearance, adjusted his dark gray coat, checked that his collar lay straight, that his tie knot hadnt slipped, that the corner of a crumpled paper wasnt sticking out of his pocketit was more important than ever that nothing spoiled his neat, composed look, as if a correct fold on his sleeve could somehow balance the awkwardness squeezing his chest.

There cant be that many coincidences, flashed through his mind. That she came over, that she spoke, that she saw something in my painting... It cant be for nothing. And I cant lose it in this crowd.

He searched the faces, hoping to spot her dark hair again, the light strand falling onto her cheek, her slightly squinting gaze. And then, amid the noise, he thought he heard her voice:

Howard!

He turned. In his imagination, Emily stood a little way off, by the window, waving to him, trying to get his attention. There was something in her eyes that instantly washed away all that inner turmoil: not the expectation of a perfect scenario, not the fear of saying the wrong thing, but a simple, vivid youre here, I see you.

Wait! she called, pushing through the stream of kids, and finally came up to him, slightly out of breath, but with that same smile that made everything around a little brighter. I thought you wouldnt notice. Its such chaos here, like everyone suddenly decided the break is a survival race.

Howard smiled awkwardly, but this time he didnt scold himself for the awkwardness. Let it be. Let her see him like thata little lost, a little hurried, a little too eager to anticipate everything.

I... yeah, I got held up a bit, he admitted, not trying to seem like someone else. Kept thinking... wanted to ask...

Emily tilted her head slightly, as if listening not only to the words but to what lay behind them.

About what?

And then all his prepared phrases collapsed like a house of cards under a light breath. And in their place came something real.

I wanted to ask about your painting, he said simply, looking straight into her eyes. The one in section number three. I never got to see it. And I... really want to.

Emily was smilingnot broadly, but as if his words had landed on something inside her that had long been waiting for exactly that.

Then come early on Thursday, she said quietly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. Before class starts. I havent put it away yet. Ill show you.

For a second, Howard felt that all that school noise, all that bustle had suddenly found meaning. Because ahead wasnt just a lesson. Ahead was a moment that didnt need to be calculated. It just needed to be lived.

All right, he answered quietly, feeling something inside him settle quietly but firmly into place. Ill be there.

But then Emilys image began to blur, and he heard someone calling him again, more insistently, louder.

Howard! Howard, are you deaf?

He flinched and turned. Bella, his classmate, stood in front of him with her usual mild sternness and a stack of printouts in her handsthe pages were a bit crumpled, with uneven edges: they had been typed on the school typewriter and then copied in the teachers lounge on an old photocopier that always smudged the paper with gray spots.

Dont forget to bring your part of the biology group project tomorrow. You remember your topic? Ethical aspects of biotechnologies, in case you forgot. Were already behind, and Mrs. Crowley is starting to glare. If you dont hand it in on time, well all be in trouble, you understand.

Howard nodded, flustered, feeling reality crash down on him with all its mundane weight.

Yes, of course. Sorry... I just... got lost in thought.

Bella sighed, as if used to Howards mind always being elsewhere, and nudged the stack of papers so they wouldnt scatter.

Just dont forget. Were hanging by a thread as it is.

She nodded to him and immediately dissolved into the stream of students hurrying about their business.

Howard glanced again at that same windowthe spot where, in his imagination, Emily had stood, waving and smiling at him. But she wasnt there. Other students crowded around. And in the very corner that, in his mind, had been reserved just for her, there was only emptiness.

He felt a light but bitter disappointmentthe kind that comes when youve seen something important so clearly, and it turned out to be only a trick of light and shadow. Fate, it seemed, had decided otherwise.

He adjusted his coat once more, as if that small, familiar gesture could give him back even a little confidence, and walked slowly down the corridor through the noise and bustle that no longer seemed hostilejust part of the world. A world where sometimes the most important conversations are still waiting for their hour.

Howard walked along the sidewalk, and yellow leaves rustled beneath the soles of his shoesthey covered the path like someone had scattered dry gold coins across the asphalt. Along the sidewalk stretched a low white picket fenceneat, creaking slightly in the wind, as if quietly humming an old suburban melody. Behind it stood their housea big two-story home with a dark blue front door and a brass handle that gleamed faintly even in that gray October light. A little to the right was the garagejust as solid and familiar as everything else in the neighborhood where the van Heltens lived.

A couple of months ago, a bright green lawn had spread in front of the house, a lawn his father tended so carefully: every Saturday he brought out the lawnmower, as if it were his own small ritual of order in a world where so much did not go according to plan. Now the lawn was covered with leaves, and there was something both sad and right about itautumn was taking its due, and resisting it seemed pointless. The mailbox by the gate was empty, and that too carried a kind of silence: no bills, no letters, no small signs that the world remembered you.

Howard pushed the door open and stepped into the entryway. Inside, it smelled of something homelya light aroma of cinnamon, old wood, and just a hint of freshly washed floor. He took off his coat and hung it carefully on the hook. Then he walked slowly through the entryway, casting brief glances into each room. To the left was the living room: a knitted shawl lay on the armchair, a stack of magazines on the table, and photographs in simple wooden frames hung on the wallin one, Howard was still just a little boy; in another, Susan in first grade, laughing, with two braids. The stairs to the second floor rose upward, creaking slightly, and somewhere above, in the quiet, one could almost hear the house breathing.

From the kitchen came a soft hum: something was sizzling on the stove, dishes clinked, and his mothers voice could be heardquick, light, as if she were talking not to herself but to the whole world at once.

Mom, hi, Howard said quietly, peeking into the kitchen.

Elizabeth van Helten stood at the stove, leaning over slightly to look into the pan. Her hair was pinned up in a neat bun, but a couple of soft curls had escaped at each temple, curling and falling onto her cheeksjust like Emilys. At that accidental resemblance, Howards heart skipped for a second, and he quickly looked away, as if his mother might read the thought in his eyes.

Hi there, my little storm cloud! How was school? Tell me, whats new? She turned and smiled, and there was so much warmth in that smile that even all his inner turmoil quieted for a moment.

Oh, you know... everythings fine. I sat with Susan and Vanessa today, chatted a bit. Vanessa was talking about her ideas for the school play again. And Tyler was spreading some gossip as usual, but nothing serious.




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