In a small village in one of the European countries, Mr. George and his wife, Madame Marie, built a two-story house with four rooms and a sitting room. A couple of years later, Mr. George was called for service during World War I and never returned to his wife, who was expecting their daughter, Anastasia.
After the war ended, the house had suffered severe damage. It had been hit by artillery shells and bullets. Proudly, it awarded itself a medal and would later recount tales of its bravery to the smaller houses that surrounded it.
During the Second World War, the house became a refuge for the villagers. The wounded were treated inside, widows gathered there to mourn, and children occupied an upper room. The house felt a deep sense of responsibility—after all, it had grown old, and its friends relied on it for protection. Its experience in wars vouched for its strength. It had been injured, but it endured, standing firm even as most of the village houses collapsed.
This time, however, the house did not suffer direct attacks. What happened was far worse. The invaders violated its sanctity—a soldier struck its door and barged into the sitting room with his weapon. His comrades followed, slapping the elderly, chasing out the children, and throwing the wounded into the street before the house’s very eyes.
The house could have endured shelling and bullets—it was a soldier, ready to perform its duty and sacrifice itself for its homeland. But what happened that day left a deep crack, one that grew wider as time passed. The house remained silent most of the time, no longer speaking of its heroism in the second war. It did not award itself any medals, only watching the children play in its courtyard, pitying them for the future that awaited—a future filled with death and destruction.
Anastasia, now an old woman, was the last survivor of the first generation. After her children moved to distant cities, she remained alone with the house, both reminiscing about Madame Marie—the kind woman who had personally tended to the house. She mixed the clay, sealed its cracks, and always apologized for not having the money to repaint it and restore its beauty. But the house had reassured her, telling her that the cracks in its walls were a badge of honor and that she did not need to hide them when guests arrived. When she grew old, she followed its advice, and whenever a curious child asked about the cracks, she would simply say, “War and time, my dear.”
Anastasia would sit on the doorstep, gazing into the distant horizon, where the green fields met the clear blue sky, dotted with white clouds. Some clouds took the shape of Madame Marie or her children. And when the rain came, she would wrap herself in a shawl, remaining on the doorstep until the rain fell, quenching both her thirst and that of the land.
The other houses in the village did not like the rain, but it reminded the house of Anastasia—the beautiful girl with braids who used to run in front of it, jumping into the air, drenching her clothes, and returning only after her mother’s stern warnings. She would warm herself by the fire and weave her little dreams from behind the window glass.
This time Anastasia never returned inside the house. The sun rose once again, but she remained on the doorstep, her head resting against the house’s wall, wrapped in her shawl.
The house was left alone, carrying its memories, its pain, and a crack in its walls that time could never mend.
