Miko

The tenement building, though in the heart of the city, felt like a time capsule. The high ceilings seemed to hold memories of years gone by, and the small windows let in barely a glimmer of autumn sunlight. Behind the ornate iron balcony railing, the street’s movement was visible, but inside, peace reigned—a calm that, as he remembered, had once been normal here.

The apartment door opened with its characteristic creak, and standing in the doorway were the creators of this space, guardians of tradition and love, though sometimes expressed a little too harshly. Grandmother, with eyes full of warmth and gentle emotion, brightened at the sight of her grandson. Her gray hair was tied in a bun, and her face, marked by wrinkles, showed joy.

“Mikolai, you’ve grown so much,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron as if trying to stop time and recall the days when he was still a boy.

Grandfather, though more reserved, did not hide his pride. His gaze was warm, and from his lips slipped a shy remark that had often defused tension:

“Well, well, Mikolai, a grown man now... So, do you have a girlfriend yet?”

Mikolai stood in the doorway, slightly tense, but in his eyes lay a mixture of longing and distance. The home he knew from past visits was now to become his refuge while his parents fulfilled a contract in Cameroon.

The apartment looked just as it had six years ago when he last stayed there. The hallway, with its dark paneling and a faint scent of the past, welcomed him with a familiar blend of dust and varnish. In the kitchen, the same old gas stove remained, and on the cupboard still stood a small wooden barrel surrounded by tiny wooden mugs.

In the living room, which his grandparents called the 'big room', holy pictures hung on the walls: the Virgin Mary with the child, next to her an adult Jesus with an expression as if about to cry. The third was a portrait of the Polish Pope, John Paul II.

The furniture—a wall unit from the communist era, shining with lacquered cherry wood, massive and clumsy in appearance. On the shelves, knick-knacks, crystal bowls, and glass animals—a swan, an elephant—almost like guardians of bygone times.

A folding table, four chairs, two armchairs arranged on either side of a small coffee table. Opposite was the only truly modern accent in this museum—a large flat-screen TV hanging in the middle of the wall.

The grandparents moved in this world naturally, as if these items were part of their own bodies. Grandmother tenderly began seasoning the broth, whose aroma would soon spread throughout the apartment, while grandfather, sitting in his armchair, cleared his throat and watched his grandson with a mix of concern and pride.

Mikolai felt a slight tightness in his throat—it was not only a return home but also a step into a new stage of life. There was no longer room for childish play, yet every object, every scent seemed to say, “You are here, you are part of this world.”

He carried his bags to the room he was to live in now. The space was small, maybe ten square meters. Two windows let in the milky light of early afternoon, crossing the floor in two bright bands. Lace curtains hung on the panes, gently fluttering with every breath of air from the slightly open window.

A dark wooden wardrobe stood opposite the bed, massive, almost silent in its existence, as if it had absorbed the house’s secrets over the years. Next to it—a bookshelf. Empty, except for a single row of old encyclopedias he had once read avidly.

A desk from the seventies, with characteristic slightly chipped legs, paired with a wooden chair with a hard seat that he never liked because it hurt his backside.

On the wall, just above the door, hung a small wooden cross. Simple, without decoration, with a yellowed Christ nailed on thin little nails.

The bed was single, plain, with a frame that creaked at the slightest touch. Covered with a patterned throw with fringes, in colors long out of fashion—somewhere between brown and faded burgundy. Typically grandmother’s.

Mikolai sat on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. He looked around the room—not unfamiliar, but not quite known either. Yes, he had been here six years ago. For a few days. But back then, he was thirteen, and life seemed simpler because his parents were the center of his world. And now… now he was here alone.

His parents had flown to Cameroon for a long twelve months—or longer if necessary. His father, a civil engineer specializing in infrastructure projects, had received a one-year contract for a large investment. A bridge? A dam? He didn’t ask. His father always built something—sometimes roads, sometimes power plants, sometimes skyscrapers. They changed places of residence so often that Mikolai didn’t even try to get used to it. He didn’t get attached to walls, people, or schools. Why bother? He would have to leave again anyway.

His mother was different. Quiet, gentle, and endlessly loyal to his father. Japanese by birth, but with Polish citizenship, which she took soon after their wedding. Raised in a completely different world. She never raised her voice, never questioned her husband’s decisions, but with a single look, she could say everything. It was from her that Mikolai inherited his inner calm. People said he could be cold — but he simply saw no point in dramatizing.

After they decided not to take him with them — mainly due to the lack of a suitable school — Mikolai returned to Poland and moved in with his grandparents. In the old city, but attending a new high school. The final year, the graduation exam looming. It should have been hard, but he didn’t even feel it. He was used to change.

Before that, he had studied almost the entire year remotely. He finished the third year of high school online while temporarily living with his parents in Belgium. The Polish school there didn’t have a full curriculum, so he passed his exams externally. He didn’t complain. Studying was never a problem. There was only one thing: he no longer tried to form deeper relationships. There was no point, since he was about to disappear again.

He glanced toward the window. In a few days, he was to start at a new school. Another grade. New teachers, new classmates.

He didn’t expect much. And that was the safest part of it all. Not expecting fireworks and feeling more like a guest than a resident in the new place.

“Mikolai, dinner.” Grandfather poked his head into the room and looked at him with a smile. His teeth, perfectly straight like drawn with a ruler, had that strange whiteness typical of cheap dentures.

The kitchen smelled of broth. The real kind — with a big piece of chicken, root vegetables, and homemade noodles whose pieces had uneven thickness and irregular shapes. But that was exactly what made it authentic. Grandmother bustled around the kitchen with such dedication as if hosting a president, not a grandson who was here for the first time in six years.

Mikolai sat at the table, covered with a thick embroidered tablecloth. In front of him was a plate of hot soup, steaming with the intense aroma of boiled meat, fresh parsley, and spices he still remembered from childhood. It smelled like home. It smelled like Poland.

Grandmother sat next to him, watching intently as if the balance of the universe depended on whether he liked it.

“Eat, grandson, eat,” she said in that unmistakable tone that could wake the dead and still feed them dessert. “Do you like it? Homemade noodles. I rolled them myself!”

Mikolai nodded.

“Very good. Really.”

“More?” — Grandmother already held the ladle, not waiting for an answer. “Look how clear it turned out. And when was the last time you had homemade broth, hmm? Your mother probably only cooks those… what do you call them… Japanese weird things?”

Grandfather snorted under his breath and glanced over the newspaper he had brought to the table out of habit, though he no longer read it.

“Lately, I think it was miso soup,” Mikolai replied with a slight smile.

“Exactly, miso!” — Grandmother nodded as if hearing the confirmation of her worst suspicions. “It’s made from seaweed! Who ever heard of putting seaweed in soup? We have leek, carrot, celery. Like God commanded.”

“And homemade noodles,” Mikolai added calmly.

“Exactly!” — Grandmother brightened. “And for the main course, there are cutlets. Pork chops. Potatoes with dill, cucumber salad, and apple compote. Do you want it with cloves or without?”

“Without. Thank you.”

Grandmother disappeared into the kitchen, and grandfather looked at his grandson over the table, with a half-smile and a look that needed no words.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said shortly, as if it were a life motto written somewhere on an internal memory board.

Mikolai leaned back in his chair, letting the warmth and smells of the kitchen wash over his senses. The sun moved over the curtains, and outside the window, the city slowly passed by — not entirely familiar, but no longer completely strange.

Almost the center of Stettin, Niebuszewo district. Old tenement houses, narrow streets, and trams passing beneath the windows.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Ahead of him was a whole year. New school. New people. Different rhythms, different looks. But now — now there was broth. And grandmother, feeding him as if trying to drown out her own longing for her eternally absent son.

And grandfather, who spoke little but understood everything.

He was home. Temporary home. But still home and family he knew.

After dinner, when grandmother and grandfather sat in the living room as always, with tea and the TV in the background, Mikolai returned to his room. He closed the door, not locking it completely — not yet. He didn’t feel at home yet, but he was no longer just a guest.

His bags stood where he left them, by the bed. He opened both and began slowly unpacking his things. His movements were calm, methodical, as if every item he took out first had to recognize the territory before finding its place.

The laptop came first. He placed it on the desk, opened it, checked the charger. Plugged the cable into the socket just above the floor. Once modern, now just... sufficient.

Next, the phone. The charger landed in the outlet by the bed. On the nightstand, he placed the phone face up — so he could see notifications. Even though almost no one ever messaged him.

Clothes went into the wardrobe. Carefully folded T-shirts, hoodies, jeans, underwear — everything in its place. His mother had taught him order, his father — discipline. Thanks to that, he didn’t need much to feel stable. Order was his anchor.

On the bookshelf — textbooks and notebooks. Some had been bought by his parents before they left; the rest he had to take care of himself. Next to them — a box of supplies: a few pens, pencils, highlighters, a ruler. In the desk drawer — a notebook, headphones, and a flash drive.

On the nightstand he placed two small items: a ceramic charm from Japan, a gift from his mother that he always took on the road, and a thin, worn paperback copy of Norwegian Wood by Murakami. Not his favorite author, but that particular book… it was tied to something. To someone. He didn’t need to explain it to himself.

Finally — the most important thing. From the bottom of his bag, he pulled out a frame. Metal, simple, matte. The photo — three people in a garden. His father in a suit, his mother in a summer dress, and him — younger by a few years, with slightly longer hair, smiling. It was Japan. The garden at his maternal grandparents’ house. The only time he had ever been there.

He placed the photo on the desk. Adjusted it perfectly, at a slight angle. So it would be visible — but not on display. For himself, not for others.

He sat down on the chair. Looked around the room. It looked different now. Maybe not quite like his room yet… but like something that made sense. A temporary sanctuary.

A tram rumbled past outside, making the windows tremble slightly.

Mikolai exhaled quietly. Tomorrow was a new day. A new school. New roles to play.

But tonight — tonight, he had his corner. His photo. His silence.

In the evening, the bathroom was free. Grandma had already taken her quick bath, and Grandpa had washed his hands and vanished into the living room, leaving behind the scent of Nivea cream and aftershave that had smelled the same for decades.

Mikolai stepped inside and locked the door with a click. He pulled off his hoodie and glanced at the interior, which looked exactly as he remembered — except that when he was thirteen, the bathtub had seemed much bigger.

Large and heavy, cast iron — it took up almost the entire wall. The toilet stood beneath the window, its lid covered in faded vinyl roses. The sink, its enamel chipped by time, sat above a cabinet whose floral stickers still clung to the fronts — once colorful, now pale and ghostlike.

Above it hung a long shelf with a metal rim, slightly rusted from moisture. On it stood toothbrushes (each a different color), denture paste, cleaning tablets, a small jar of petroleum jelly, grandma’s deodorant in a pink plastic bottle, and a familiar bottle of Familijny shampoo — the one that smelled like 1990s childhood.

In the corner stood the washing machine. Above it, strung on lines, hung a retractable drying rack with a white cord. A dishcloth and a pair of grandma’s stockings dangled from one of the strings.

Mikolai looked into the mirror above the sink. Steam was already beginning to blur it, but his reflection was still visible.

Tall — maybe six feet or a bit over. Slim build, but not skinny. A nicely shaped chest, smooth skin, flat stomach, narrow hips, long legs.

A face with sharp features, slightly slanted eyes inherited from his mother. Dark eyebrows — straight, not too thick. A straight nose, full lips, usually pressed into a neutral expression. Smooth, slightly olive skin — not that typical Slavic pallor, more something that hinted at eastern blood.

Black hair, cut short at the nape, a little longer on top, falling slightly over his forehead. No gel, no styling — natural, like it always fell into place on its own.

He looked himself in the eyes. Brown irises with lighter flecks. His mother used to say they looked like “coffee with honey.”

The bathwater splashed quietly, so he turned the tap off. Steam rose higher. He took off his shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket, unbuckled his pants.

As he sank into the hot water, he felt the tension of the entire day slowly dissolve in the steam. The world beyond the wall disappeared — the trams, the city, the school, the people.

Here there was only water. And him. A new place, a new life.

But now — now he could simply rest. The fatigue of the journey was catching up to him, and despite the early hour — barely past eight — Mikolai knew he would fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Tomorrow would be his first day at a new school, among strangers. Again. He couldn’t even remember how many times he’d been the new kid in a new class. He was so used to it that, for him, it felt normal.

And yet, he still felt that slight pull in his stomach, a delicate anxiety. Something that always showed up — and quickly faded.

He stepped out of the bathroom, wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants. The room was steeped in semi-darkness, lit only by the pale glow of streetlamps, their light moving across the wall like shadows from old films.

He paused at the photo. Took the frame in his hand and looked at the three smiling people. He had been eleven. That garden, that day — it was all still there behind his eyes. His mother’s smile, his father’s seriousness, his own face — younger, less guarded. Back when he didn’t yet feel that everything ended before it ever truly began.

He set the photo back down. Checked if the alarm on his phone was on, glanced at the school bag he had packed, and only then pulled back the heavy blanket and sat on the bed.

The bed was simple, single. Not the most comfortable, but solid. The neatly made mattress seemed to be offering something more than just sleep — maybe peace. He lay down and turned to his side.

The room was quiet. But sounds of everyday life drifted in from the rest of the apartment: the kettle bubbling in the kitchen, the TV murmuring unintelligibly in the background, his grandparents’ voices. The clock in the living room ticked — barely audible, yet its rhythm seeped through the walls, settled under the skin.

Mikolai closed his eyes. The sounds reached him for a moment longer — then slowly faded as he drifted off to sleep.

***********************

Mikołaj and Maja are Polish names. Mikołaj isn’t Nicolas — it just doesn’t work that way. “Mikolai” helps English speakers with pronunciation, and “Miko” is his real nickname that has to stay.