Gene closed the door behind him and walked inside the house. He immediately felt the familiar coziness that reigned in his family's home. But this time the atmosphere was a little unusual - in a small room, which was located next to the main entrance, three men were sitting at a table, who looked a little out of place. All three were dressed in formal but unremarkable suits, and they looked as if they had just come from another world, not fitting the standards of Gene's everyday life.
The first man was thin, with clear glasses on his nose. His age could be estimated at forty to forty-five years. He sat up straight, with a concentrated expression on his face, as if he was trying to remember every detail of what was happening around him. The second man was much older - gray-haired, very fat and with a good-natured expression on his face, which seemed as if he was genuinely glad to be there. The third man, young, but with some kind of tense aura, was holding a large bag in his arms, clutching it tightly, as if it was not just a bag, but something that needed to be protected at all costs.
Gene paused in the doorway, looking at his guests curiously, but with the same calm expression on his face that was always characteristic of him in such situations. He looked at Delia, who seemed to be beginning to realize that something was wrong, but was too young to ask questions. Gene exhaled and stepped toward the men.
"Greetings," he said, coming closer. "How can I help you?"
A thin man, apparently the eldest of the three, stood up and stepped toward him.
"Good afternoon," he began politely, but with some hidden determination in his voice. "We are Jehovah's Witnesses, and we urgently need to discuss important matters. Unfortunately, our car broke down somewhere on the highway, and we were forced to walk through the forest until we found your house. We hope that you can help us, at least for a while."
Gene narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to understand what was happening, but despite the unusual situation, he did not look alarmed. He was a man who was used to everything unexpected.
"You said your car broke down?" he asked, trying to catch the details. "Where exactly? Is there anything we can do to help you?"
The man in glasses nodded and continued:
"We were on our way from New York, rushing to do some business, and unfortunately, we got into an unpleasant situation. The car didn't let us down, but the tire went flat, and when we stopped, it turned out that something even more serious had happened. In general, we didn't expect to end up in the forest, and then... Everything just didn't go as planned."
The same fat man, gray-haired and kind-looking, also sighed, as if he was considering whether to intervene, but eventually added:
"We would be grateful if we could spend the night with you. The problem is that we can't wait too long - we need to move on as soon as we can. We have an important meeting tomorrow, and we can't afford to be late.
Gene looked again at his daughter, who stood in the doorway, listening intently to the conversation. He felt that perhaps he had to make a decision, and he did so, carefully considering each word.
"Of course," he said after a pause. "Please come into the living room. We'll do everything we can to make sure you can rest."
Delia, who was standing nearby, looked at the men curiously, but did not dare to intervene in the conversation. She noticed that the man with the bag, although silent, held it almost as if it were a valuable thing, and this caught her attention.
As the men walked inside, Gene invited them to sit down and offered them tea. Delia went back to her room but stayed to eavesdrop on the conversation, sensing that these men were somehow connected to what her father hadn't told her. She wondered why they couldn't just tow a truck or call the highway department. She was too young to understand that they simply needed to hide and remain unnoticed.
Time passed and Gene returned to the table, smiling at his guests and trying to create a calm atmosphere in which they could recuperate.
"We'll try to help you with the car," he said. "But keep in mind that there aren't many places to get help in this area. We're not in the very center of town, and these things are often complicated."
The man with glasses nodded, and the three of them sat down at the table, waiting for further decisions.
"Thank you," he said, and it sounded sincere despite the underlying tension in the air.
When Karen, Gene's wife and Delia's mother, approached the table, the atmosphere in the room changed. She was tall, with bright red hair that she always styled carefully, and a light but confident gait. In her hands was a carefully folded letter, tied with a tight string. She addressed the men standing at the table with a warm, but also slightly wary smile.
"Here, for you," she said, holding out the letter. "It's from Katherine. She asked me to deliver it personally to the first Jehovah's Witnesses who show up on our doorstep."
The men looked up in surprise, and their reaction was immediate. The thin man with glasses, apparently the eldest among them, first looked at the letter in confusion, and then turned his gaze to Karen, as if not quite understanding what was happening.
"Which Katherine?" he asked, tilting his head. "Why is she writing to us?"
Karen nodded stiffly, her eyes sparkling but the same calm smile remaining on her face.
"This is my aunt, she is a famous politician," she explained. "She asked me to convey this letter only to you, as representatives of your community."
At this moment the second man, grey-haired and fat, leaned towards his comrade, who was sitting next to him, and, quietly whispering, added:
"Have you heard anything about Katherine? I know she had a lot of influence on politics. They say she's very close to high places. It could be... important."
The third man, who had been silent until then, suddenly became animated. He was younger than the others, with an intense look and a bag that he kept on him at all times. He stood up quickly, as if he sensed that the situation had suddenly taken a turn.
"Give me that letter," he said, holding out his hands to Karen.
He spoke decisively, but there was a hidden worry in his voice. "I'll take it and pass it on."
Karen looked at him and raised an eyebrow slightly, not understanding why the man was in such a hurry. But she handed over the letter, deciding that she would not ask unnecessary questions. She trusted her husband, after all, and understood that his intuition always told him when something was important.
The third man grabbed the letter, ignoring the look his companion gave him. He began to carefully unfold the paper, as if it were not just a piece of paper, but something much more significant to him.
Karen walked away, slightly puzzled by their reactions, and finally sat down on the sofa to rest after a long day. There was a pause in the room as the men studied the letter carefully.
The third man glanced at his companions for a moment before beginning to read the letter aloud. Gene and Karen, as well as the other men in the room, fell silent, watching his actions intently.
"So what does it say here?" asked the thin man in glasses, looking at him.
The third man did not answer, but began to read the contents of the letter out loud. His voice was even, but with some tension.
"Dear Jehovah's Witnesses," he began, "I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I, Katherine, am writing to express my sincere thanks and appreciation for the way you, through one of your own, have helped me find my way in life.
Karen, standing nearby, frowned. She couldn't help but notice that this opening sounded unusual for the person she knew. Katherine had always been a strong, independent woman, a politician with strong principles. But there was something different here-something personal.
The third man continued reading:
"I knew a lot of people in New York, and among them there was this amazing person - Paul Buher. We met one evening, after a Doors concert, when I was walking home. Paul invited me to have tea at his house, and from that moment on we became good friends."
Gene and Karen exchanged glances. It seemed that their interest in the letter had only increased. It was unlikely that either of them could have imagined that they would be in a house where such personal correspondence was being discussed. But the man who continued reading ignored them and continued:
"Paul Buher showed me the true path, helped me understand what is important, and showed me my place under the sun on this earth. With his help, I was imbued with the teachings of Jehovah's Witnesses and felt that I had found my true purpose. This was an important discovery in my life."
Karen shook her head slightly. She had heard a lot of talk about Jehovah's Witnesses, but she had never thought that her niece would be associated with such a worldview. The letter had said so much about Paul Buher, and Katherine herself had spoken of him with such reverence, as if he were not just a friend, but some kind of mystical guide.
The third man, having finished reading this long paragraph, continued:
"In the end, I want to meet this person again to thank him personally. But since I can't do it right now, I'm passing this letter on to you, Karen. After all, you're the wife of a lawyer who, being a person who often communicates with interesting people, will be able to convey my wish to a Jehovah's Witness who may end up in your home."
The man paused, and silence fell over the room. All the while, Gene watched the proceedings closely, feeling the atmosphere of tension fill not only his interest, but also a sense of uncertainty.
"So, Karen," the man continued, "I hope that this letter will reach Paul Buher through the Jehovah's Witnesses. I am sure that you will be able to pass it on to the person who will be able to fulfill my request."
As he finished reading, the silence in the room became more noticeable. Karen stood nearby, her hands clenched into fists, but her face showed no emotion. She understood that this meeting and letter could have more serious consequences than just gratitude for help.
Gene was finally the first to break the silence.
"Well, it looks like we're going to have to talk to this Paul Buher," he said quietly, but there was determination in his voice. "We'll help if it's really someone that important."
Karen nodded, but her eyes were slightly worried. There were too many questions going through her head, and she wasn't sure she was ready to get the answers.
"I don't think it will be that simple," she added quietly. "If Katherine spent so much time thinking about him, then he may be more than just a Jehovah's Witness... But now that we've started, we'll have to see it through to the end."
The third man with the bag stood up again, glancing at the others. His expression was serious, and he seemed to be already thinking about how to deliver the letter to Spider Buher, but everyone felt that this task was more difficult than they could have imagined.
Delia sat by the window, looking out at the street, trying to figure out what this strange feeling was that had come over her. Was it happiness? Perhaps just peace? Either way, she felt strange, almost as if something significant was happening in her life that she hadn't been able to figure out yet.
Suddenly, her gaze fell on the gate where the car was parked. An ordinary moment, an ordinary picture: a yard, a path, a parked car... but something caught her attention. The lid of the car's trunk slowly rose, and a hand carefully extended out. A boy's hand. Delia froze, rooted to the spot. She recognized that hand. It was Jerome! He was standing there, in the trunk, and waved at her with his hand, in which he held something white - a handkerchief. She could not understand what it meant.
It all happened too fast for her to process. Instead of running to the car and making sense of this strange gesture, she just sat there, stunned by what she had just seen. Her heart was beating faster, and her head was filled with chaotic thoughts. Why was Jerome in the trunk? How did he get there? And what did he mean by that?
The silence in the room was broken by Gene, who just noticed the expression on his daughter's face.
"Deedle, what's wrong?" he asked, noticing her confusion. "Why are you so surprised?"
Delia quickly snapped back to reality, pretending that nothing strange was happening. Her face instantly assumed a feigned seriousness, and she glanced at her father.
"Oh, it's just..." she smiled weakly "I'm surprised by my great-aunt's request. Well, you know, she's always so unusual in her affairs."
Gene didn't seem to suspect anything suspicious. He simply nodded, not paying attention to the fact that his daughter was clearly not in her usual mood.
"Aunt Katherine... always has surprises," Gene said with a smile, changing the conversation to something more neutral. He turned to the men sitting at the table. "So, friends, shall we continue?"
Delia continued to look out the window. She had long since gotten used to the fact that her father often said one thing, and she felt something completely different. She did not listen to him - her thoughts were far away. Everything was repeating itself in her head, like an old cassette player that was jamming. Jerome in the trunk with a handkerchief, his movement, his gesture, and suddenly - a strange feeling of déjà vu.
Her eyes went back to the boy, who was now standing in front of the car. Jerome, clearly relieved that his "operation" had been a success, now held the handkerchief in his hands, still waving at her. Delia felt something click in her memory.
At that moment, she remembered. The memory came as a clear frame from the distant past - three years ago, when she had not yet gone to kindergarten. It was that day when she sat by the window and looked at the gate. Behind it stood another boy. He looked about the same as Jerome. But his name... it was like a lost word. Delia tried to remember it, but she could not. The boy also waved a handkerchief at her, standing at the gate of her house, and she, like then, could not understand what it meant.
She felt that there was something important connected to this memory, something that her mind was perhaps trying to hide. Why the handkerchief? Why those gestures? And why did she again feel this strange but powerful sense that these events were somehow connected-that there was more than just coincidence between that boy and Jerome?
"Deedle?" Gene's voice called out to her again, but now she couldn't look away.
He said something about being patient with relatives, but she couldn't focus on his words.
Jerome, meanwhile, had moved closer to the gate, and Delia watched him, her fingers curled on the windowsill. She saw him rummage in his pocket, then pull out his handkerchief again and wave it at her, as if she should understand something important.
A memory flashed through her mind again. That boy from the past, with the scarf... He was at the gate, too. He wanted to tell her something, too. But why couldn't she remember anything? Why was everything so blurry?
Delia decided she had to find out what this connection was. That boy... and Jerome. It all seemed familiar and strangely close, as if some invisible bridge between her past and present had suddenly become visible.
"Dad," she said, turning to her father, "do you remember if we ever had a boy visiting us who often came with a handkerchief?"
Gene raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised by her question. He shrugged.
"I don't know, dear," he said, shaking his head. "Maybe you're just confused. I don't think there were any such children. You were probably just playing childish games. Your memories are so strange."
But Delia felt his words fail to obscure the veil that had fallen over her mind. Something important had happened. Something she couldn't explain.
She looked back at Jerome, who had finally removed the handkerchief, looking towards her window. His gaze was a little tense, but there was also some insistence in it. Delia realized that the boy was hiding something from her. But what?
Karen, minding her own business, decided not to waste any more time talking to men. Looking at her watch and everyone present, she made the decision easily.
"As a housewife, I can't afford to waste time on idle chatter," she said, smiling, but her voice was firm. "Everyone to the dining room. I'll set the table."
She turned and walked away, and Gene, pretending not to notice her bossing everyone around, stood up and followed her. Delia followed him, but her gaze was still fixed on the window, where Jerome stood behind the gate. He seemed to still be waiting for her gaze, but she pretended not to notice him.
The men, meanwhile, remained seated in the living room. The third of them, with the bag, continued to stare at the television, where the news was being shown. The usual information about foreign policy, international news, but it was the moment when the screen changed to images from France that caught their attention. The news was quite alarming: it was reported that food imports into the country had fallen in the last two days to the lowest level since the last economic crisis.
"See how it's getting worse?" said the first man, who was wearing glasses. He was looking at the screen, squinting. "It's all the consequences of global instability."
The grey-haired man sitting next to him nodded. He seemed worried himself, but then he noticed his companions talking quietly among themselves.
"This could affect prices," added the second man, noting the change in the economic situation.
The third man, who was holding the bag, also thought about it, but his gaze did not leave the screen. He spoke a little more quietly, as if to himself:
"In situations like these, you always need someone to show you the right way, you know? That's why we're here."
Karen walked into the dining room and everyone, including Gene and Delia, followed her. The room smelled of freshly brewed tea and fragrant buns. Karen sat down at the table and looked at the guests.
"Please sit down," she said, gesturing to the chairs. "I'm not going to waste your time, so please don't be shy."
Gene sat down next to her and looked at her concentrated face. He knew that she did not like small talk and preferred everything to be to the point.
"Listen, if this conversation is so important to you," he said, addressing Jehovah's Witnesses, "then let's get down to business right away. What exactly would you like from us?"
The Jehovah's Witnesses looked at each other and one of them, who was with the bag, opened it, taking out an old, worn envelope.
"We're looking for people who are ready to hear the word of God," he said quietly. "We're not bothering, but... this path may be important."
Gene, sensing the tension in his voice, paused.
"I think we should get to know who you really are," he said, looking at their serious faces. "Why us?"
The witness with glasses answered first.
"We are looking for those who will open their hearts. Sometimes the most unexpected people come in search of truth."
Karen stood up, pretending not to be interested in the conversation. She went to the window and looked out at the yard. Something cold flashed in her eyes, as if she was wondering how much time she would have to spend on such guests.
Delia sat at the table, picking at her soup with a spoon, clearly lacking any appetite. It was the lentil soup her father loved so much. But it was too greasy and heavy for her. She tried to eat at least a little, so as not to attract attention, but all her thoughts were on what was happening outside the windows. Jerome. He was sitting somewhere beyond the gates of their house, still hidden from view, and she knew for sure that he was waiting for her, as always.
"As soon as I'm done, I'll go out," Delia thought, trying to focus on what was in front of her.
But every sip of soup was like a heavy burden, and it seemed to her that time was dragging on slowly, like a fog that would never clear.
"You don't like lentil soup?" Gene asked her, looking at her almost untouched plate in surprise. "It's your favorite."
Delia looked up and met her father's gaze for a moment, but then turned away, staring back at her plate.
"I'm just not hungry, Dad," she lied, trying to keep the awkwardness out of her voice. "Maybe later."
Gene, not noticing her strange mood, nodded and continued talking to Karen about some business. This gave Delia a chance to dive into her thoughts again.
Finally, dessert was placed on the table - two cream puffs and two boxes of marshmallows. Mother always said that marshmallows were something special for her husband. Gene loved sweets, and especially marshmallows. Delia took a cake, but as she felt it melt in her mouth, she only sank deeper into her emotions. She dreamed of one thing - how to get out of the house to meet Jerome.
The cake was too sweet, and her face twisted from the excess of taste. But she couldn't let it show that she didn't like it. In fact, she barely heard what her parents were saying anymore, and she was mentally planning her escape.
When the coffee without sugar or cream was placed on the table-the regular black coffee she and Karen drank in the morning-Delia finally felt that the meal was nearing its end. She raised the cup to her mouth, took a sip, and set it back on the table. Noticing that everyone seemed to be finished with the meal, she decided it was time to act.
Delia took the last sip of coffee, put the cup down on the table and looked at her parents without raising her head. Gene and Karen exchanged glances and Delia felt their gaze, full of some slight wariness. It was clear that they were discussing something, but not saying it out loud.
Karen smiled a little wider than usual, and Delia realized that her mother probably knew more than she thought. It made her think for a moment, but she quickly looked away to hide her confusion.
"Can I go outside?" Delia asked, keeping the impatience out of her voice.
Gene looked at her across the table and, without waiting for Karen's answer, said:
"Of course, go, but don't stay long."
Delia rose quickly from the table, feeling the tension of anticipation dissolve. She did not look back, lest she notice the look she might catch. Step by step she walked down the hallway, her fingers sliding over the coat rack, but she did not linger. There was only one thing on her mind: to meet Jerome.
Her steps were measured and confident, but with each step the tension in her chest flared. Mom and Dad probably had no idea what she was really about to do. Delia had always believed that the boys she had ever interacted with should be afraid of her. She decided that she would not give them a chance to see her vulnerability. She had to be stern, as if she did not care about their gaze, but on the contrary, they should be afraid of her reaction. Only in this way could she feel strong.
She thought back to those moments when, as a little girl, she had felt the boys huddling around her, trying so hard to appear rude and unapproachable. Suddenly, the unexpected truth was revealed to her - all those games, all those strict masks were just a way to hide her fear. The fear of being weak.
And so, as she walked towards the exit, she mentally decided that she would not show the slightest weakness. With each step, her face became more serious, and her heart beat wildly. She had to become something no one had ever seen her before.
Finally, she came out into the yard. It was dark, only a faint light from the window illuminated the narrow path. Delia stood for a moment, holding her breath. Her gaze took in every corner, every shadow. And then, in the distance, she saw him-Jerome, who seemed to have been standing and waiting all this time. He looked a little confused, as if he didn't know what to expect from her.
Delia took a step forward. Her steps were firm, as if she was already completely confident. She wanted to appear unapproachable, but looking at Jerome, she realized that her eyes gave everything away. She tried to hide her true feelings, but in Jerome's eyes everything was clear. He noticed her doubt, her timidity.
Delia walked up to him resolutely, lifting her chin slightly without saying a word. She couldn't afford to lose face. The boy was silent, still standing, clutching the handkerchief she had noticed earlier. His eyes were full of expectation, but there was also a strange concern in them. The girl was seething with emotion, and she could no longer contain the irritated flood that had built up over the past hours. Her gaze was sharp, and her voice was full of fury.
"How dare you, Jerome?!" she roared, coming closer, her eyes blazing. "Are you crazy? Don't you realize that my dad is one of the best lawyers in New York?! How could you climb into his trunk like it was your personal toy?!"
Jerome, standing in the shadows by the gate, listened calmly to her reproaches. He was slightly surprised by such a barrage of words, but, strangely enough, he remained calm. There was neither fear nor embarrassment on his face, only slight bewilderment.
Delia didn't stop there. She continued:
"I've always noticed you sneaking glances at me like some kind of lovesick idiot! What, you thought I wouldn't even notice you? And then you sit in the trunk like no one would understand!" Her voice was getting louder and louder. She stuck her tongue out at him, thinking that was all it took to put him in his place.
However, Jerome suddenly raised his hand, as if calling for silence. His face was serious but calm, without a hint of confusion or aggression. He looked at her with eyes full of some strange inner light.
"Do you know how cool it is to ride at the speed of sound?" he said, his voice quiet but confident. "I'm on my own road, and I have somewhere to go. I'm following my rainbow, and I can't stop. I have something to do, but I can't linger, because there's something important waiting for me ahead.
Delia, not understanding what he meant, paused, hesitating. An echo went off in her head, all her irritation dissolved in a strange silence. She looked at him, as if trying to understand what he meant. Jerome continued:
"There is only one way to know what lies ahead. But you can't see it, you have to trust what you can't see and take it with you."
Her heart skipped a beat. These words, so strange, so profound, somehow suddenly broke through the barrier of her discontent. At some point, she felt that not only his words, but also his gaze seemed to be beginning to penetrate her soul.
Delia thought about it. She felt she couldn't stay in this tense moment any longer. She could continue to argue with him, or she could change something. She took a step forward, without knowing why, deciding she had had enough of playing these roles.
"You're right," she said, her voice softer but confident. "If you want to escape, I'll help you. You follow me. I'll set you free!" With these words, she took another step, and her eyes, now burning with determination, met his. "We'll escape this city! I can do it, just trust me!"
Jerome raised an eyebrow, but there was a mysterious smile on his face. He was not as surprised as Delia might have expected, but rather took her words as something completely natural.
"Okay," he said, and his answer was full of some unknown promise. "Then let's go. You'll show me the way."
Instead of the usual words of thanks or apology that she might have expected, he simply smiled back at her - genuinely and warmly, as if they had both just decided something important, without saying a single unnecessary word.
Delia had no doubt about her decision. She had never felt so determined and strong as she did in that moment. It was more than just a fleeting decision. It was the moment she felt in control of her destiny.