Chapter 1
The girl couldn’t sleep. She lay on her bed, staring at the wooden ceiling. The clock in the corner of the room ticked softly and steadily; a small sound that seemed larger in the silence of the night. The autumn wind slipped through the window and gently stirred the white curtain. Beyond the glass, the fields lay buried in darkness. Rows of wheat stretched into the distance, and a narrow road ran through them—a road that disappeared into the fog after a few miles. The girl had been looking at that road for years. But she had never liked wondering where it ended. The old cat rose from beside the coal stove. It stretched its body, then slowly made its way to the bed. It sat beside the girl. She ran her hand over its head. “You’re still awake?” The cat half-opened its eyes. The girl gave a faint smile. “Lucky you... Whenever you get tired, you just sleep.” The cat meowed. “What are you saying?” The cat rested its head on the blanket. The girl looked toward the window again. The road was empty. As always. Her mother had died in this very house years ago. Her death had not been sudden, but to the girl, it had always felt that way. One day, the sound of her footsteps still echoed through the kitchen. She brewed tea and called her daughter’s name from the end of the hallway. A few days later, the house had become so quiet that even the sound of a spoon falling to the floor seemed strange. After her mother died, her room remained untouched. Her glasses were still beside the bed. Her gray scarf lay over the back of the chair. And a cup that no one would ever reach for again remained on the table. The girl never moved any of them. Sometimes she entered the room, sat in her mother’s chair, and closed her eyes. For a few seconds, she imagined she could hear her voice. “My girl...” But when she opened her eyes, there was only the empty room. After her mother, the house no longer felt like a home. Even the morning light seemed to have lost its way. Her father still lived there, but he seemed more like someone who had remained in the house than someone who actually lived in it. He spent most of his time in the attic. It was a room with a sloping ceiling, wooden walls, and a small window overlooking the fields. There was an iron bed against one wall. An old chair beside the window. A few wooden chests. And walls covered with photographs. Old photographs of the farm. Photographs of her mother. Photographs from years the girl knew only through her mother’s stories. And one old frame that was always hidden behind several other photographs. Her father would sit in that same chair for hours, staring at the road through the window. Sometimes the girl would climb the stairs. “Dad?” There would be no answer. “I brought you some food.” After a while, her father’s quiet voice would come from behind the door. “Leave it by the door.” The girl would put the food down. Some days, she would remain standing there. Once, she asked, “Why don’t you come downstairs anymore?” Her father said nothing for a long time. Then he looked toward the road. “It’s better up here.” “It’s colder up here.” Her father gave a very faint smile. “When you lose too many things, you stop feeling the cold.” The girl said nothing. She sat beside him. For a while, the two of them looked at the road. Years ago, the house had been full of sound. The workers woke before sunrise. The sound of horses’ hooves came from the yard. Children ran between the trees. Her mother moved back and forth through the kitchen and the yard. And her father called loudly for everyone to get to work. Then the war came. Her father left. And so did her brother. Her father returned. But her brother did not. No one knew exactly what had happened to him. Years passed. No letter came. No news arrived. Her mother always said, “Maybe he’ll come back one day.” Her father never answered. He only looked at the road. Eventually, hope inside him became so quiet that no one could tell whether it was still alive. One cold morning, the postman came to the house. He was holding an envelope. Only the name of the house was written on it. The girl took it. “Who is it for?” The postman shrugged. “I don’t know.” The girl opened the envelope. Inside were a few short lines. “I have set out. I’ll arrive in a few days.” There was no name. No address. The girl read the letter again. Then a third time. Her heart began to beat faster. She took the envelope and hurried toward the attic. Her father was sitting beside the window. The moment he saw the paper, he did not move. Only his hand tightened slowly around the arm of the chair. “Where did you get this?” “The postman brought it.” Her father took the letter. For a few moments, he simply stared at it. Then he asked, “Did he say anything?” “No.” Silence. The girl asked, “Who is it from?” Her father folded the letter. “Go downstairs.” “Why?” Her father raised his head. For a moment, there was something in his eyes the girl had never seen before; something between fear and hope. “Just go.” The girl went downstairs. But she could not forget that look. The second letter arrived a few days later. It was shorter. “Is the farm still the same?” The third letter read: “Is the tree beside the pond still there?” And the fourth: “Does the attic window still face the road?” Each time, the girl read the letters. Each time, her father spoke less. One day she asked, “Why doesn’t the person sending these letters come here himself?” Her father did not answer. “Do you know him?” Her father looked toward the road. “Some people have to travel more than one road to come back.” The girl did not understand. But she stopped asking. A few nights later, the girl went to the attic to get a blanket. Her father was not there. Her eyes fell on one of the old chests. Its lid was slightly open. She did not know why, but she reached inside. There were old clothes, several notebooks, and yellowed photographs. Among them, she found a small photograph. Two children were sitting beside each other. A little girl was holding a boy’s hand. Both were looking at the camera. The girl turned the photograph over. On the back, in old handwriting, were the words: “One day, together again.” Her father’s voice came from behind her. “Put it back.” The girl turned. Her father was standing in the doorway. “Who is he?” Her father stepped forward and took the photograph from her hand. He stared at it for a while. “Something from the past.” “What past?” He put the photograph back into the chest. “Something that is better left there.” The girl looked at his face. “That boy...” Her father interrupted her. “Go downstairs.” “Dad...” This time, his voice was gentler. “Some questions have answers, but knowing them won’t make anything better.” The girl went downstairs. But from that night on, whenever she thought about the letters, the image of those two children came alive in her mind. The next morning, her father came down from the attic. He was wearing clean clothes. His hair was combed. He held his cane in one hand. The girl looked at him in surprise. “Has something happened?” Her father did not answer. He stood beside the window. The road was still hidden beneath the morning fog. Then he said, “He’s coming today.” The girl was silent for a few moments. “Who?” Her father looked toward the road. “I don’t know.” In the afternoon, the sound of a car came from far away. Her father was standing in the yard. The girl went to the window. The car came down the road, entered the yard, and stopped in front of the house. A man stepped out. He was tall. His hair had turned gray. He carried a small suitcase. For a few moments, he simply stood there and looked at the house. As if he needed to make sure he had truly returned to a place he had seen only in his memories for so many years. Then he walked toward the door. The housekeeper opened it. The man stepped inside. His eyes met his father’s. He stopped. “Dad?” Her father walked toward him. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. His lips trembled. “Is it really you?” The man lowered his head. “Yes.” The girl stood at the top of the stairs. The man looked at her. There was something in his face that was unfamiliar to her, and yet strangely familiar. He reached into his pocket and took out a small photograph. The same photograph. The two children. The girl came down a few steps. The man said quietly, “You don’t remember me.” The girl said nothing. He looked at the photograph. “That’s all right.” The girl stared at his face. “Who are you?” The man paused. Then he said, “I’m the boy who left this house one day.” The girl held her breath. “My brother?” The man lowered his head. “If I’m still somewhere in your memories... yes.” The girl looked at the photograph. The little boy in it no longer existed. Or perhaps he did exist, but had been left somewhere among the war and the years of separation. The man said quietly, “The boy you remember disappeared a long time ago.” The girl asked, “Then who are you?” The man looked around the house. “Someone who came back too late.” That night, the brother and sister sat together in their mother’s room. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The man looked at their mother’s glasses. He picked them up and ran his finger over the frame. “They’re still here.” The girl said, “Everything is still the same.” He looked at the gray scarf. “I thought that when I came back, there wouldn’t be anything left of those days.” The girl said quietly, “A lot of things are still here.” “Like what?” The girl looked around the room. Then she said, “Missing her.” The man lowered his head. “I came back too late.” “Yes.” Silence settled between them again. The man asked, “Are you angry?” The girl looked at him. “Very.” “You have every right to be.” Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “I don’t even remember your voice.” The man gave a bitter smile. “But I remember yours.” The girl looked surprised. “How?” The man pointed toward the bed. “From this room.” The girl said nothing. “You were always afraid before falling asleep.” “I don’t remember.” “I do.” A few moments passed. Then the man said, “Whenever you were afraid, you would hold my hand.” The girl looked down at her own hands. Then she reached hers out. The man stared at it for a few moments. He took her hand. The girl asked softly, “Is it still warm?” The man smiled. “This time, yes.” At midnight, the three of them went up to the attic. Her father was sitting beside the window again. The man stood before him. There were years between them—years that could not be erased with a few words. His father said, “I thought I would never see you again.” The man replied, “I thought there was nowhere left for me to return to.” His father looked at him. “A home always has a place for someone who wants to return.” The man looked toward the window. Then he asked, “Was Mom waiting for me?” The girl answered, “Until her last day.” The man closed his eyes. Her father looked toward the road. “So was I.” Wind entered through the small window. The old photographs on the walls trembled gently. No one said anything. Some words are spoken so late that there are no words left for them. In the morning, the girl opened the window of her mother’s room. Cold air entered the room. The curtain moved aside. Pale morning light fell across the gray scarf. Across the glasses. Across the old photograph. The old cat entered the room and sat on her mother’s chair. The girl laughed. Her brother stood beside the window. Downstairs, in the yard, their father was walking for the first time in a long while. The girl looked toward the road. It was still the same road. Long. Silent. Unknown. But she was no longer afraid of it. Her brother asked, “Do you want to know where it ends?” The girl shook her head. “No.” “Why?” She looked at the morning light. “Maybe some roads aren’t meant to lead us somewhere.” Her brother smiled. “Then what are they for?” The girl stared at the road for a few moments. “So we can find out whether we can still walk.” The man said nothing. The girl opened the door. Fresh air entered the house. Yellow leaves spun through the yard and settled gently on the ground. The three of them stepped outside. Behind them, the window of their mother’s room remained open. The curtain moved in the wind. For a moment, the girl felt as though a hand in the distance was waving goodbye. She turned back once more and looked at the house. Then she faced the road. She did not know what tomorrow would bring. She did not know what this return would change in their lives. But for the first time, she did not need to know the answers to every question. It was enough to take the first step. The three of them walked slowly along the road. Behind them, the house grew smaller and smaller in the morning light. The road continued through the fields— not to bring back the past, but to build something that could still begin.
