Taras sat at the kitchen table, the wood beneath him pulsing like a living thing from forgotten summers. A deep bowl of Hanna’s borscht rested there, its steam rising in spirals that shaped themselves into winding roads and vanished faces, the scent thick with sour earth and quiet memories.
The spoon traveled in slow arcs from the bowl to his mouth, each movement stretching time like taffy pulled across an invisible sky. His thoughts floated loose, untethered, wondering at the years that had folded over like old maps. Now abundance let him wander into bright cafes where tables floated on clouds of steam, or restaurants where stars on menus glowed and chefs bent over pots that bubbled with impossible colors. He could summon oysters from the blue edges of Greece, truffles from Spain’s hidden valleys, marble beef from Brazil’s endless fieldswhatever whim whispered. Yet none of it held the weight of this one bowl.
Those layered sauces and twisted plates felt like empty shells cracking underfoot, while the borscht carried hands that had stirred it, evenings that had never left, the simple thread of belonging. Taras understood that no matter the places he chased, this remained the only true hearth.
In the dream’s soft turn, Hanna stepped through the doorway that breathed like lungs. She set a cup of tea before him, the liquid inside swirling without a spoon. She moved with a tightness around her, as if shadows had settled on her shoulders.
Taras, when must you go?
He lifted his gaze, the smile forming before words, and answered:
At dawn. The car I usually ride sleeps broken, so a friend will carry me.
He studied her face, healthy and touched with color that made her seem younger than the half-century she had crossed long ago.
The journey is short, only hours, rest easy.
Hanna stood still as stone suddenly hearing distant thunder. Her fingers curled around the table’s edge like roots seeking soil. The room filled with the clock’s ticking, each beat echoing from somewhere deeper than the walls.
With a friend, she echoed, voice thin as mist, her cheeks draining of warmth. No, Taras, do not ride with him.
He set the spoon down, the metal clinking like a bell underwater. She had never looked this way before, the usual calm cracked open. He watched her, unease threading through his chest.
You do not even know the name, he said, voice level yet edged with the same ripple. It will pass, you will see. Yevhen, from old days. He steers true, never rushes, keeps the wheels steady. His machine is steady and foreign, the plates on it three sevens, lucky as they come.
Hanna drew closer, each step heavy as if wading through unseen water. She reached for his hand, her touch cool like river stones against his skin.
Son, please, her words shook yet held. Call a carriage instead. My heart sits wrong. I will fret until the end.
What if the driver bought his papers with coins? he tried, the corner of his mouth lifting like a leaf in wind. Do not carry so much worry. I will ring the moment wheels stop, the first step out. You will not even notice the wait.
He leaned in, lips brushing her cheek, the unease flowing between them like shared breath. His arms closed around her, pouring steadiness into the hold. She leaned back for a breath, gathering the warmth, then drew away like mist lifting.
All will settle, mother, he said, meeting her eyes. I give my word.
He stepped from the house into the street that stretched and curved like a river in sleep. Evening air moved soft and cool, lamps above casting circles that danced on the ground like fireflies caught in glass. His childhood home waited only steps away. He moved without hurry, the road ahead turning in his mind, yet Hanna’s worried look kept surfacing, small and bright, before he pushed it back into the folds.
Inside his apartment the rooms waited, still and wrapped in quiet. He went to the bedroom where the bag sat ready on the bed, its contents whole, no gaps. He closed it and set it by the door so morning would not need searching. The clock on the small table showed nearly ten, hands moving backward for a moment before settling. Rise at six, he told the air, do not let sleep steal the hour.
He lay down, light gone, eyes open in the dark while the city outside hummed like a distant hive. Thoughts circled back to Hanna, imagining her awake too, the worry a small bird in her chest. He traced the morning steps again in his headrise, water on face, dark drink, bread, check the papers for the dayuntil the lines blurred and he slipped under.
Morning came twisted. He opened eyes to sunlight pouring like melted gold through curtains that had grown feathers. He lay still, the room shifting, until the clock on the stand showed nearly nine. The numbers swam.
Curse it, he breathed, sitting up as the bed tilted. He seized the clock and sent it spinning across the floor where it landed without sound. The hands laughed back at him from the corner. He had missed the hour. Why had Yevhen not called the waking?
The phone rested near, dark and silent. He reached, yet it stayed off, though he remembered the cord plugged in like a promise. The battery should have held. He pressed until light bloomed and messages fell like leaves from invisible branches.
The first from Yevhen at eight:
Taras, where do you stand? I wait fifteen minutes by the door. Ten more and I leave alone. The path is long.
Taras, you come for certain? Answer.
Enough, I go. Forgive, no more waiting.
He sat with the words settling like stones in still water. Yevhen had come, stood, tried to reach across the distance. Taras had slept through and left the thread broken. Hanna’s face from the night before rose again, the warning clear, yet the chance had already slipped into the past.
He rose fast, the floor soft underfoot like moss. Time pressed close, though the plan had already unraveled into something else. Taxi or hire another set of wheelseither way the road waited changed. He muttered low, the frustration a warm wave. He should have spoken to Yevhen at once, said the sleep had taken him, set another hour. Yet when his hand moved for the phone, missed calls bloomed on the screen, Hanna’s name repeated more than twenty times, each one a small cry.
His chest tightened with the sense of something wrong ahead. He took the keys without pause for the bag and moved to the door, the single thought beating: let it hold together. He ran the short way, the distance folding to a minute and a half under his steps.
The door stood open, not barred. He entered on quick breath, chest rising heavy, blood loud in his ears.
Hanna, are you well? he called, voice too big in the space.
She sat in the room of gathering, pale as chalk, eyes rimmed red, face drawn tight as if pulled by unseen strings. Seeing him, her eyes widened like doors suddenly thrown wide.
Taras, she whispered, rising slow from the seat. Truly you? Thanks be…
He stopped, the sight new since boyhood. She did not cry easily, yet here the tears had come. He wanted to smooth it away but the words stayed caught.
What has happened? he asked, moving near, voice low yet steady. He took her hands, cold and shaking like leaves. Why this fear? Tell from the start.
From the glowing box in the corner came the flat voice:
The crash came near Lviv. Four machines met. Only the driver of the white Audi lived…
Taras turned his head. The pictures moved slow and heavy: broken metal, things scattered like lost thoughts, lights turning blue and red in circles. His eyes caught the white shape with plates 777, the number floating clear.
Cold spread inside. That was Yevhen’s machine.
The knowing landedHanna had seen the news, known the car, heard no answer from him and feared the worst. He felt the weight of how far her worry had carried her.
Mother, it is me, still here, he said, keeping the tone even. He guided her to sit, then turned quick for water, the glass filling from the tap that sang like a stream. He brought it back. Drink, look at me. I stand before you. All holds.
Her hands took the glass yet set it down untouched. Fingers closed on his sleeve, tight as if holding against a wind that might carry him off. She drew him close, face to his shoulder, body shaking with silent cries.
Taras, the fear took me whole, her words barely shaped. The screen said only one lived, and you gave no sign… I called until the line went still. I thought it was you… never to see again.
He held her, hand moving on her back the way he had as a child when sadness came. The tight feeling in her eased a little, yet he knew time was needed for the belief to settle.
The phone went dark on its own, the waking bell stayed quiet, he told her, steady. Sleep held me too long, so no answer came. Yet I am here. All rests well. I stay beside you.
He drew back, saw the pale cheeks and wet eyes, and knew presence alone might not anchor her. He took the phone, found the number for help, and called.
Come quick, a woman feels ill from worry, her heart perhaps… the street and number… he gave the place, the state. We wait.
Done, he sat again, hands joined with hers. They stayed quiet until the sound of lights and wheels came from outside. He watched her lashes tremble and thought: it will settle now, truly.
The one in white coat arrived in ten beats of the clock, the door opening like a page turned. He moved straight to Hanna, bag small in hand.
How does the body feel? he asked, calm as still water, drawing the band for pressure. Does the head turn? Sickness rise?
Hanna tried to speak yet only nodded, voice caught. Taras stood close, ready if needed.
Soon the tools went back, the man stood straight.
Better take her to the house of healing, he said, serious. The strain ran deep, and years ask care. Watch at least a day under eyes that know.
Yes, right away, Taras said, no pause. I will bring her to the private place now. Care is stronger there, the rooms kinder.
The doctor lifted one brow yet said nothing against it, shoulders moving as if to say coins open doors, especially for the living body.
Well, he said. Ready yourselves. I will note the path and first marks to speed the door.
He filled the paper, signed, pressed the mark. He checked Hanna once more, saw the calm beginning to spread, breath slower, color returning soft.
It will pass, he said gentler, to both. Only keep the mind still.
Taras gave thanks, helped Hanna gather what little she needed, mind already tracing the fastest way to the clinic and the papers that would open the bed.
At the healing place she was taken at once. They had barely crossed the first room when a woman in clean cloth smiled and led them to the looking room. The healer waited, middle years, eyes steady, hands sure.
He spoke greeting, gave his name, began the check. Pressure first, then the beat of blood, questions on when the dark feeling started, if it had come before. His voice stayed even, without extra edge yet without cold, the way one learns after many seasons.
When done he nodded.
Tests and closer look needed. Nothing sharp yet, but better to see all.
Taras kept her hand, not letting go. He held his face quiet but inside the chest pulled tight. Her fingers stayed cool, eyes tired, making his own beat quicken.
It will pass, he said over and again, eyes on hers. You only carried too much. We will learn the shape of it, and they will send you home.
Hanna gave a small smile, face still pale yet the sharp fear gone from her look. She pressed his fingers in answer, showing she heard and tried to hold the words.
I felt the wrongness coming, she said low. The inner knowing… it never lies to me.
Taras swallowed, the words cutting sharp with the knowing of how much she had giventime, strength, even quiet healthso he could grow, learn, build. And he had nearly brought her the worst thought of all.
Forgive the scare, he whispered, throat tight. I will not turn from your knowing again. Truly.
Hanna lifted a hand slow, touched his cheek, fingers soft as they had been when he was small and came home scraped or with marks that stung.
The living is what matters, she said plain, yet the warmth in it eased the pull inside him. The rest can wait.
They waited for the next steps, hands still joined. The hall moved with feet and voices, yet for them only this small circle existed, the warmth between palms and the quiet sense that together the trouble would pass.
Taras stayed near without stepping away. At one turn he took the phone and found the chief’s number. He told the matter short yet fullHanna had been taken by worry, now watched in the healing place, he remained.
The chief listened, then breathed out.
I hear. Do not carry weight for the journey awaythis time I will go. Only let her mend.
Thanks, Taras said low. It means much.
Call if a need rises, the chief added, voice softer. We stand ready. Perhaps roots or other help…
Taras gave thanks yet turned it down. Colleagues wished to steady him, yet the only need now was this place beside her. He was here, breathing, holding. For her that was the truest cure.
Days in the place moved like slow water, even. Morning brought the healers’ walk, then checks and talks. Hanna returned by small stepscolor evened, voice firmer, eyes less hunted. Still the ones in white asked for two more days of watch, to be sure.
Taras slept in the chair by the bed, hard yet he grew used. At first every sound woke him, later it became the way to see her breathe, to watch her eyes open with the light and turn to him with a smile.
One evening the sun sank, light through the window painting the walls gold and rose like distant fires. Hanna spoke, voice clear yet soft, as if the words had waited long in a hidden pocket.
I always feared you would step out and not come back.
Taras looked up, seeing her not only as the one who cared but as the woman who had carried that quiet fear through the years.
Why? he asked, simple and open.
You stand too much on your own feet, she said, a small curve to her mouth. Even small, you tied your own laces though they slipped loose again. No help wanted. At learning place you packed alone, checked twice, never left a page behind. You would not let me near, saying I know my way. Pride filled me, yet sometimes I felt you slipping from reach. No longer the one who ran with a hurt knee, but one walking ahead without looking back.
Taras listened, something warming in the center. He had not seen that his way of standing alone brought both pride and the shadow of loss. He had thought the path rightstudy, work, solve, keep burdens from her.
He took her hand, held it as when she once led him along paths.
I go nowhere, he said, steady. Nor will I. You remain the first in my days. I did not know the worry sat so deep. Forgive.
Hanna stroked his fingers.
Now you know. That is enough.
He held her hand again, warm with cool tips, the old feel. He kept the hold light, looked straight.
Mother, I will not leave you. You are what I hold dearest, he said, all the truth he could place in the words.
Hanna smiled, the shape trembling yet bright. New wet shone in her eyes, yet these were of easing and care. She touched his fingers as if to confirm the solidness.
Only that you find joy, she said gentle. A circle, little ones… to know people stand near who hold you and can be trusted.
Taras thought, and Lesia’s face rosethe one he had walked with for weeks, same work, time after the day ended. She listened well, spoke when needed, made the air easy yet deep. Each time he had meant to tell Hanna, something held the wordsfear she would think the care would lessen, or no right shape for the telling.
There is one, he said at last, the words coming after a small catch. Lesia. We share the work. She stands apart. With her the day flows without weight, yet she hears what is not spoken.
Hanna’s eyes brightened, the old smile returning, the one for his tales of work or odd days.
Speak of her, she asked, rising a little on the rest. How did the path cross?
Taras began, taking time, choosing each picture so Hanna could see Lesia as he did. With each telling the air grew lighter, as if a door long closed had opened.
She fits, he ended, the smile small. Yet I feared the telling. Thought you would worry the space between us would change…
Hanna laughed, light and full, no shadow in it.
Foolish one, she said, tapping his arm light. Joy for you brings joy to me. Have I ever barred your road? I wish only your gladness. Just remember the mother who holds you stays, even when a new circle forms.
Taras smiled wide, the last tight place inside loosening.
Never forgotten, he answered, pressing her hand once more. And thanks for the hearing.Taras sat at the kitchen table, the wood beneath him pulsing like a living thing from forgotten summers. A deep bowl of Hanna’s borscht rested there, its steam rising in spirals that shaped themselves into winding roads and vanished faces, the scent thick with sour earth and quiet memories.
The spoon traveled in slow arcs from the bowl to his mouth, each movement stretching time like taffy pulled across an invisible sky. His thoughts floated loose, untethered, wondering at the years that had folded over like old maps. Now abundance let him wander into bright cafes where tables floated on clouds of steam, or restaurants where stars on menus glowed and chefs bent over pots that bubbled with impossible colors. He could summon oysters from the blue edges of Greece, truffles from Spain’s hidden valleys, marble beef from Brazil’s endless fieldswhatever whim whispered. Yet none of it held the weight of this one bowl.
Those layered sauces and twisted plates felt like empty shells cracking underfoot, while the borscht carried hands that had stirred it, evenings that had never left, the simple thread of belonging. Taras understood that no matter the places he chased, this remained the only true hearth.
In the dream’s soft turn, Hanna stepped through the doorway that breathed like lungs. She set a cup of tea before him, the liquid inside swirling without a spoon. She moved with a tightness around her, as if shadows had settled on her shoulders.
Taras, when must you go?
He lifted his gaze, the smile forming before words, and answered:
At dawn. The car I usually ride sleeps broken, so a friend will carry me.
He studied her face, healthy and touched with color that made her seem younger than the half-century she had crossed long ago.
The journey is short, only hours, rest easy.
Hanna stood still as stone suddenly hearing distant thunder. Her fingers curled around the table’s edge like roots seeking soil. The room filled with the clock’s ticking, each beat echoing from somewhere deeper than the walls.
With a friend, she echoed, voice thin as mist, her cheeks draining of warmth. No, Taras, do not ride with him.
He set the spoon down, the metal clinking like a bell underwater. She had never looked this way before, the usual calm cracked open. He watched her, unease threading through his chest.
You do not even know the name, he said, voice level yet edged with the same ripple. It will pass, you will see. Yevhen, from old days. He steers true, never rushes, keeps the wheels steady. His machine is steady and foreign, the plates on it three sevens, lucky as they come.
Hanna drew closer, each step heavy as if wading through unseen water. She reached for his hand, her touch cool like river stones against his skin.
Son, please, her words shook yet held. Call a carriage instead. My heart sits wrong. I will fret until the end.
What if the driver bought his papers with coins? he tried, the corner of his mouth lifting like a leaf in wind. Do not carry so much worry. I will ring the moment wheels stop, the first step out. You will not even notice the wait.
He leaned in, lips brushing her cheek, the unease flowing between them like shared breath. His arms closed around her, pouring steadiness into the hold. She leaned back for a breath, gathering the warmth, then drew away like mist lifting.
All will settle, mother, he said, meeting her eyes. I give my word.
He stepped from the house into the street that stretched and curved like a river in sleep. Evening air moved soft and cool, lamps above casting circles that danced on the ground like fireflies caught in glass. His childhood home waited only steps away. He moved without hurry, the road ahead turning in his mind, yet Hanna’s worried look kept surfacing, small and bright, before he pushed it back into the folds.
Inside his apartment the rooms waited, still and wrapped in quiet. He went to the bedroom where the bag sat ready on the bed, its contents whole, no gaps. He closed it and set it by the door so morning would not need searching. The clock on the small table showed nearly ten, hands moving backward for a moment before settling. Rise at six, he told the air, do not let sleep steal the hour.
He lay down, light gone, eyes open in the dark while the city outside hummed like a distant hive. Thoughts circled back to Hanna, imagining her awake too, the worry a small bird in her chest. He traced the morning steps again in his headrise, water on face, dark drink, bread, check the papers for the dayuntil the lines blurred and he slipped under.
Morning came twisted. He opened eyes to sunlight pouring like melted gold through curtains that had grown feathers. He lay still, the room shifting, until the clock on the stand showed nearly nine. The numbers swam.
Curse it, he breathed, sitting up as the bed tilted. He seized the clock and sent it spinning across the floor where it landed without sound. The hands laughed back at him from the corner. He had missed the hour. Why had Yevhen not called the waking?
The phone rested near, dark and silent. He reached, yet it stayed off, though he remembered the cord plugged in like a promise. The battery should have held. He pressed until light bloomed and messages fell like leaves from invisible branches.
The first from Yevhen at eight:
Taras, where do you stand? I wait fifteen minutes by the door. Ten more and I leave alone. The path is long.
Taras, you come for certain? Answer.
Enough, I go. Forgive, no more waiting.
He sat with the words settling like stones in still water. Yevhen had come, stood, tried to reach across the distance. Taras had slept through and left the thread broken. Hanna’s face from the night before rose again, the warning clear, yet the chance had already slipped into the past.
He rose fast, the floor soft underfoot like moss. Time pressed close, though the plan had already unraveled into something else. Taxi or hire another set of wheelseither way the road waited changed. He muttered low, the frustration a warm wave. He should have spoken to Yevhen at once, said the sleep had taken him, set another hour. Yet when his hand moved for the phone, missed calls bloomed on the screen, Hanna’s name repeated more than twenty times, each one a small cry.
His chest tightened with the sense of something wrong ahead. He took the keys without pause for the bag and moved to the door, the single thought beating: let it hold together. He ran the short way, the distance folding to a minute and a half under his steps.
The door stood open, not barred. He entered on quick breath, chest rising heavy, blood loud in his ears.
Hanna, are you well? he called, voice too big in the space.
She sat in the room of gathering, pale as chalk, eyes rimmed red, face drawn tight as if pulled by unseen strings. Seeing him, her eyes widened like doors suddenly thrown wide.
Taras, she whispered, rising slow from the seat. Truly you? Thanks be…
He stopped, the sight new since boyhood. She did not cry easily, yet here the tears had come. He wanted to smooth it away but the words stayed caught.
What has happened? he asked, moving near, voice low yet steady. He took her hands, cold and shaking like leaves. Why this fear? Tell from the start.
From the glowing box in the corner came the flat voice:
The crash came near Lviv. Four machines met. Only the driver of the white Audi lived…
Taras turned his head. The pictures moved slow and heavy: broken metal, things scattered like lost thoughts, lights turning blue and red in circles. His eyes caught the white shape with plates 777, the number floating clear.
Cold spread inside. That was Yevhen’s machine.
The knowing landedHanna had seen the news, known the car, heard no answer from him and feared the worst. He felt the weight of how far her worry had carried her.
Mother, it is me, still here, he said, keeping the tone even. He guided her to sit, then turned quick for water, the glass filling from the tap that sang like a stream. He brought it back. Drink, look at me. I stand before you. All holds.
Her hands took the glass yet set it down untouched. Fingers closed on his sleeve, tight as if holding against a wind that might carry him off. She drew him close, face to his shoulder, body shaking with silent cries.
Taras, the fear took me whole, her words barely shaped. The screen said only one lived, and you gave no sign… I called until the line went still. I thought it was you… never to see again.
He held her, hand moving on her back the way he had as a child when sadness came. The tight feeling in her eased a little, yet he knew time was needed for the belief to settle.
The phone went dark on its own, the waking bell stayed quiet, he told her, steady. Sleep held me too long, so no answer came. Yet I am here. All rests well. I stay beside you.
He drew back, saw the pale cheeks and wet eyes, and knew presence alone might not anchor her. He took the phone, found the number for help, and called.
Come quick, a woman feels ill from worry, her heart perhaps… the street and number… he gave the place, the state. We wait.
Done, he sat again, hands joined with hers. They stayed quiet until the sound of lights and wheels came from outside. He watched her lashes tremble and thought: it will settle now, truly.
The one in white coat arrived in ten beats of the clock, the door opening like a page turned. He moved straight to Hanna, bag small in hand.
How does the body feel? he asked, calm as still water, drawing the band for pressure. Does the head turn? Sickness rise?
Hanna tried to speak yet only nodded, voice caught. Taras stood close, ready if needed.
Soon the tools went back, the man stood straight.
Better take her to the house of healing, he said, serious. The strain ran deep, and years ask care. Watch at least a day under eyes that know.
Yes, right away, Taras said, no pause. I will bring her to the private place now. Care is stronger there, the rooms kinder.
The doctor lifted one brow yet said nothing against it, shoulders moving as if to say coins open doors, especially for the living body.
Well, he said. Ready yourselves. I will note the path and first marks to speed the door.
He filled the paper, signed, pressed the mark. He checked Hanna once more, saw the calm beginning to spread, breath slower, color returning soft.
It will pass, he said gentler, to both. Only keep the mind still.
Taras gave thanks, helped Hanna gather what little she needed, mind already tracing the fastest way to the clinic and the papers that would open the bed.
At the healing place she was taken at once. They had barely crossed the first room when a woman in clean cloth smiled and led them to the looking room. The healer waited, middle years, eyes steady, hands sure.
He spoke greeting, gave his name, began the check. Pressure first, then the beat of blood, questions on when the dark feeling started, if it had come before. His voice stayed even, without extra edge yet without cold, the way one learns after many seasons.
When done he nodded.
Tests and closer look needed. Nothing sharp yet, but better to see all.
Taras kept her hand, not letting go. He held his face quiet but inside the chest pulled tight. Her fingers stayed cool, eyes tired, making his own beat quicken.
It will pass, he said over and again, eyes on hers. You only carried too much. We will learn the shape of it, and they will send you home.
Hanna gave a small smile, face still pale yet the sharp fear gone from her look. She pressed his fingers in answer, showing she heard and tried to hold the words.
I felt the wrongness coming, she said low. The inner knowing… it never lies to me.
Taras swallowed, the words cutting sharp with the knowing of how much she had giventime, strength, even quiet healthso he could grow, learn, build. And he had nearly brought her the worst thought of all.
Forgive the scare, he whispered, throat tight. I will not turn from your knowing again. Truly.
Hanna lifted a hand slow, touched his cheek, fingers soft as they had been when he was small and came home scraped or with marks that stung.
The living is what matters, she said plain, yet the warmth in it eased the pull inside him. The rest can wait.
They waited for the next steps, hands still joined. The hall moved with feet and voices, yet for them only this small circle existed, the warmth between palms and the quiet sense that together the trouble would pass.
Taras stayed near without stepping away. At one turn he took the phone and found the chief’s number. He told the matter short yet fullHanna had been taken by worry, now watched in the healing place, he remained.
The chief listened, then breathed out.
I hear. Do not carry weight for the journey awaythis time I will go. Only let her mend.
Thanks, Taras said low. It means much.
Call if a need rises, the chief added, voice softer. We stand ready. Perhaps roots or other help…
Taras gave thanks yet turned it down. Colleagues wished to steady him, yet the only need now was this place beside her. He was here, breathing, holding. For her that was the truest cure.
Days in the place moved like slow water, even. Morning brought the healers’ walk, then checks and talks. Hanna returned by small stepscolor evened, voice firmer, eyes less hunted. Still the ones in white asked for two more days of watch, to be sure.
Taras slept in the chair by the bed, hard yet he grew used. At first every sound woke him, later it became the way to see her breathe, to watch her eyes open with the light and turn to him with a smile.
One evening the sun sank, light through the window painting the walls gold and rose like distant fires. Hanna spoke, voice clear yet soft, as if the words had waited long in a hidden pocket.
I always feared you would step out and not come back.
Taras looked up, seeing her not only as the one who cared but as the woman who had carried that quiet fear through the years.
Why? he asked, simple and open.
You stand too much on your own feet, she said, a small curve to her mouth. Even small, you tied your own laces though they slipped loose again. No help wanted. At learning place you packed alone, checked twice, never left a page behind. You would not let me near, saying I know my way. Pride filled me, yet sometimes I felt you slipping from reach. No longer the one who ran with a hurt knee, but one walking ahead without looking back.
Taras listened, something warming in the center. He had not seen that his way of standing alone brought both pride and the shadow of loss. He had thought the path rightstudy, work, solve, keep burdens from her.
He took her hand, held it as when she once led him along paths.
I go nowhere, he said, steady. Nor will I. You remain the first in my days. I did not know the worry sat so deep. Forgive.
Hanna stroked his fingers.
Now you know. That is enough.
He held her hand again, warm with cool tips, the old feel. He kept the hold light, looked straight.
Mother, I will not leave you. You are what I hold dearest, he said, all the truth he could place in the words.
Hanna smiled, the shape trembling yet bright. New wet shone in her eyes, yet these were of easing and care. She touched his fingers as if to confirm the solidness.
Only that you find joy, she said gentle. A circle, little ones… to know people stand near who hold you and can be trusted.
Taras thought, and Lesia’s face rosethe one he had walked with for weeks, same work, time after the day ended. She listened well, spoke when needed, made the air easy yet deep. Each time he had meant to tell Hanna, something held the wordsfear she would think the care would lessen, or no right shape for the telling.
There is one, he said at last, the words coming after a small catch. Lesia. We share the work. She stands apart. With her the day flows without weight, yet she hears what is not spoken.
Hanna’s eyes brightened, the old smile returning, the one for his tales of work or odd days.
Speak of her, she asked, rising a little on the rest. How did the path cross?
Taras began, taking time, choosing each picture so Hanna could see Lesia as he did. With each telling the air grew lighter, as if a door long closed had opened.
She fits, he ended, the smile small. Yet I feared the telling. Thought you would worry the space between us would change…
Hanna laughed, light and full, no shadow in it.
Foolish one, she said, tapping his arm light. Joy for you brings joy to me. Have I ever barred your road? I wish only your gladness. Just remember the mother who holds you stays, even when a new circle forms.
Taras smiled wide, the last tight place inside loosening.
Never forgotten, he answered, pressing her hand once more. And thanks for the hearing.
