Silence.

 

A warm evening.

 

Just the kind she loves.

 

She sits at the edge of the path, quietly looking around.

 

A park.

 

Benches.

 

Freshly trimmed grass.

 

Couples stroll by, wrapped in each other’s arms.

 

An old man walks with his tired corgi… Both of them barely dragging their feet.

 

Near a trash bin, pigeons peck at the tiny remnants of what was once someone’s satisfying snack.

 

It isn’t dark yet, but the sun is already on its way toward another day’s dawn.

 

It slipped away quietly and inevitably, leaving the sky to the stars, the city to the silence of the night… and her alone with her thoughts.

 

“The sun is gone.

 

Like him.

 

Everyone knew this day would come.

 

We waited.

 

We prepared.

 

But when it finally happened… it was, as always, the wrong time.

 

What do I do?

 

How am I supposed to live now?

 

I have to be strong.

 

Like he was.

 

Now everyone looks at me.

 

As if I were the guardian of everything he left behind.

 

And I don’t even know what to do with it.

 

With this tangled maze of accounts, assets, hints, unfinished plans, and half-spoken ideas.

 

What did he really want?

 

Perhaps only he knew.

 

And me?

 

I don’t know.

 

I can barely make sense of my own questions.

 

Of that fragile, uncertain life that had only just begun to take shape from some vague dream.

 

And now I’m alone.

 

Now I have to carry all of this.

 

But I don’t know how.

 

I don’t know how.

 

And I’m afraid to admit it.

 

What if everyone takes advantage of my weakness?

 

What if I lose everything he left behind?

 

Although…

 

If I’m honest… I never really needed all those accounts, assets, and endless responsibilities.

 

What I needed was a strong hand.

 

A hand that simply takes yours… and leads the way.

 

A broad back that blocks your view, yet shields you from trouble and hardship.

 

Warmth.

 

Just warmth.

 

The certainty that there is someone who can handle whatever comes.

 

And now…

 

A mound of earth.

 

That’s all.

 

Everything.

 

Gone.

 

Enough.

 

Pull yourself together.

 

I have to be strong.

 

Strict.

 

Wise.

 

But…

 

I don’t know.

 

I don’t know how.

 

No.

 

I do know.

 

I can close myself off.

 

Yes.

 

Just shut everyone out.

 

That’s easier.

 

Don’t let anyone in.

 

Stop it.

 

Freeze it.

 

Forbid it.

 

Let others think.

 

Let them suggest.

 

Let them decide.

 

I’ll just listen.

 

Stay silent.

 

Ask a question now and then.

 

Doubt now and then.

 

That’s more or less what he did whenever he didn’t know what to do.

 

Yes.

 

There were moments like that.

 

He was afraid too.

 

Afraid of making a mistake.

 

Afraid of losing what mattered.

 

Afraid of looking weak.

 

Afraid to admit he didn’t know something.

 

I saw it.

 

I knew it.

 

Back then I thought he was simply being stubborn.

 

I’m afraid too.

 

Terribly afraid.

 

But…

 

No.

 

It’s better to close myself off.

 

Keep everyone out.

 

No one.

 

Or perhaps I should do the opposite?

 

Trust.

 

Open up.

 

Hand it over.

 

Let go.

 

But what if something goes wrong?

 

Like it did back then.

 

With my son.

 

With the pigeon.

 

God…

 

I saw everything.

 

I saw he hadn’t done it out of cruelty.

 

I saw the horror in his eyes.

 

I saw his pain.

 

I wanted to comfort him.

 

To hold him.

 

To tell him it would be all right.

 

But I was afraid.

 

What if he thought that meant it was acceptable?

 

What if he mistook compassion for permission?

 

And so…

 

I hit him.

 

I shouted at him.

 

At him.

 

But the blow landed in my own heart.

 

I still remember the look in his eyes.

 

A second earlier they had been filled with tears.

 

Compassion.

 

Pain.

 

Pity.

 

A silent plea for help.

 

And then…

 

Anger.

 

Fierce anger.

 

For not being understood.

 

For being condemned over a child’s mistake.

 

For that sudden encounter with death.

 

And something left us.

 

Forever.

 

He calls sometimes.

 

Rarely.

 

He asks about my health.

 

About the weather.

 

About life.

 

He visits only once in a while.

 

I wish it were more often.

 

The older he gets, the more he resembles his father.

 

His eyes.

 

His voice.

 

Even the way he falls silent.

 

Sometimes I tell him about my troubles.

 

About what isn’t working.

 

About how everything seems to be falling apart.

 

Once I said:

 

“Your father would have known what to do. He figured it out then. He’d fix it now, too.”

 

He answered calmly:

 

“He’s gone.

 

And I can’t replace him.

 

We don’t know what he would do today.

 

What happened then belonged to then.

 

Things are different now.”

 

And then he fell silent.

 

He has his own life now.

 

His own worries.

 

His own roads.

 

And me…

 

What about me?

 

Oh, that pigeon…

 

It happened so long ago.

 

But he was trying to tell me something that day.

 

And all I could think was:

 

“Your father… your father… your father…”

 

Look at him.

 

Really look at him.

 

Look at the others too.

 

Sometimes I even think he went off to war just to spite me.

 

To hurt me.

 

Ridiculous, of course.

 

Thank God he came back alive.

 

What do I do?

 

How do I find even a little warmth?

 

I want so badly to hear a familiar voice.

 

Anyone’s…”

 

She looks at her phone and gently touches her son’s name.

 

A ringing tone.

 

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

 

“I’m okay, Mom. Listen… this isn’t a good time right now. Can I call you later? Okay?”