It was a bitterly cold day. I walked through the grimy streets of Violdigrev, Germany, tasked with buying something for my grandmother. The fragile glass of old shop windows and the cracked pavement only added to the filth and decay of this wretched town.
Suddenly, an irritatingly loud voice called my name.
"Hey, boy!"
I turned around and saw the last person I ever wanted to encounter—my landlady, the old loan shark.
"The contract's been running for seven weeks, and you still haven't paid a single penny?" she snapped, her voice laced with frustration. I lied, telling her I'd pay tomorrow. Surprisingly, she believed me and let me go.
I continued on my errand, making my way to a familiar grocery store from my childhood. As I pushed open the door, the warm scent of spices and aged wood greeted me.
"Welcome," a woman's voice chimed.
She was older but breathtakingly beautiful, her presence both gentle and captivating. My heart stuttered, and my lips trembled slightly.
Feeling awkward and flustered, I approached the counter and mumbled my grandmother's order.
"Is that all?" she asked kindly.
I nodded, my voice stuck in my throat as I handed over the money.
For a brief moment, as she took the bills from my fingers, our hands brushed. The warmth of her skin sent a shiver through me, making my pulse race. Flustered, I bowed my head in gratitude, gripping the groceries tightly before hurriedly leaving the store—my heart pounding.
Back at my rundown rental, I knocked on the door, and my younger brother lazily opened it. We didn't exchange words as I stepped past him, placing the groceries on the empty dining table. Without another thought, I retreated to my room, shutting the door behind me.
Sitting on my small, stiff mattress, I stared at the bleak walls surrounding me. The silence was suffocating, the air heavy with loneliness.
Reaching for a thick adult novel lying on my bed, I leaned against the pillow and started reading—driven more by boredom than curiosity.
Then, without warning, I stumbled upon an intense, explicit scene.
My breath hitched. The words on the page felt almost tangible, painting vivid images in my mind. My heart pounded, my body reacting instinctively to the forbidden temptation woven into mere text.
Shame and desire clashed violently within me.
Realization struck like a slap to the face. Disgusted with myself, I hurled the book across the room, its pages fluttering before crashing against the fragile wall.
I buried my face in my hands, shame burning deep into my chest.
"How weak was I? How easily swayed by lust and sin?"
The oppressive silence of my room was a punishment in itself, each second stretching into eternity. My thoughts spiraled into chaos, doubts and self-loathing twisting in my mind.
"Would my life ever change? Would I ever be free from this wretched cycle? Would I ever become a man who was truly happy, unburdened by these desires?"
Sitting there, drowning in guilt, I knew one thing—I couldn't keep doing this. I couldn't lock myself away, dwelling on thoughts that led nowhere.
With a deep breath, I stood up and turned my gaze to the fallen book.
I hesitated before bending down, picking it up with trembling fingers.
I should throw it away. I should burn it.
But another part of me refused. Instead, I hid it atop my wardrobe, wedging it between two dusty old suitcases.
I wanted to stop.
Yet, I wasn't strong enough to let go completely.
Trying to regain control, I tidied my room—straightening my bed, folding my blanket, putting everything back in order as if that alone could fix the disorder in my head.
Once satisfied, I stepped out of my room.
My brother sat on the floor, playing absentmindedly with his old, dirty toys.
I approached him and spoke in a calm tone while my other hand gently stroked his small head.
"Hey, Isman, why is your toy so dirty? Is that the one I bought for you last month?"
As soon as I asked, my little brother's face twisted with annoyance. He looked at me as if I were his enemy, then, without hesitation, he slapped my hand away, silently signaling that he didn't want me to touch him.
I was shocked. Hurt. I couldn't understand—why had my sweet and polite little brother become like this? With a heart weighed down by confusion and pain, I asked again.
"What's wrong, Isman…? Do you not like the toy?"
He averted his gaze, refusing to meet my eyes as if the mere sight of me disgusted him. Then, clutching his dirty toy tightly, he spoke.
"You never want to buy me toys. I saw my friend with a wooden toy car—one with real working wheels! I felt jealous… I wished I could have something like that. But knowing that you are my brother… that wish will never come true!"
My heart plummeted into the deepest abyss, as if it were being burned over an open flame.
His words shattered me. The words of someone I had cared for, someone I had worked so hard to provide for.
"My little brother… why have you become like this? Is this punishment from God for my sins?" I wondered, staring at him in silence.
I had no words to offer.
Without another glance, my brother stood up and ran off to his room. His hurried steps pounded against the fragile, broken floorboards, creating a harsh, grating sound that lingered in the air—just like the ache in my chest.
I gazed at the dirty floor where my younger sibling had just been sitting, feeling the immense weight of being both an older sibling and the backbone of my family.
My eyes began to sting and well up with tears. I rubbed my frail hands together, and a teardrop fell onto the dry, dusty floor beneath me.
Just then, I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. Turning around, I hoped to see a cheerful face that would lift my spirits.
But instead, I was met with an aged, weary, and sorrowful expression. It was my grandmother. Her eyes held a sadness that mirrored my own, as if she, too, was crying for me. We locked eyes in silence, and I tried my best to appear strong.
Wiping away my tears, I forced a wide smile and said,
"I'm okay, Grandma. Life just feels a little heavy these days."
She shook her head as tears streamed down her face.
"Don't lie to me, my dear. Your eyes will never be able to deceive me."
She pulled me into her frail embrace, her weak arms wrapping around me as if shielding me from the world.
And at that moment, I broke down. I sobbed uncontrollably in her arms, my mind consumed by the painful reality that she was ill—an illness that required expensive treatment.
I couldn't help but wonder: How shattered would I be if she were no longer by my side? The person I trusted the most, the one I cherished above all, the woman who raised me?
Breaking the suffocating silence, my grandmother spoke in a soft, feeble voice.
"My boy, I have been unwell for a long time... From now on, you must learn to live and take care of your sibling on your own."
"I understand, Grandma…" I whispered, resigned to the harsh truth that the illness within her would one day take her away from me.
With a gentle push, she slowly released me from her embrace. Then, with unsteady steps, she stood up and walked away, leaving me alone in the dusty, dimly lit living room.
I watched her go—her trembling, uncertain strides carrying her toward her bedroom. And as she disappeared behind the door, a chilling thought crept into my mind: What if I never see her again?
With questions and facts piling up in my mind, I rose from the filthy floor and made my way to my room, seeking rest. I closed my eyes, hoping that everything that had transpired today would vanish like dust in the wind.
I curled up, wrapping my bony, dry knees in my arms, my tear-filled eyes making the prospect of sleep an impossible endeavor. Frustrated, I opened my eyes once more and saw the adult novel I had hidden atop my old wardrobe.
I stared at it for a long time, an insatiable urge rising within me once again. Hastily, I got up from my bed, my movements frantic, and positioned myself before the wardrobe, my gaze fixed on the book above.
Standing on my toes, I reached out for the book—yet at that moment, my eyes caught sight of the suitcase atop the wardrobe, its reflective surface casting back the entire room, along with my own face. I saw my own reflection—my haggard, wretched visage, my expression contorted by lust.
A sudden wave of disgust and guilt washed over me, snuffing out my curiosity and desire in an instant. I averted my gaze from the suitcase, lowering myself from my strained stance.
Sinking back into my fragile, feeble bed, I came to a dreadful realization—if I did not stop, if I continued down this path, I would forever see this wretched, weak creature staring back at me whenever I looked into a mirror.
With a deep, unspeakable sorrow pressing upon my chest, I buried my sinful intentions, curled up, and once again attempted to sleep.
I was awakened by the song of birds at my ear. Slowly, I pushed myself up from the wretched mattress, stretching my brittle bones in preparation for the day's labor. My gaze drifted toward the window, and with a lethargic hand, I pulled aside the tattered curtain.
The sky was still dark, though not as oppressively black as the night before. A strange feeling stirred within me—a peculiar happiness, though I could not say why. Perhaps, in my sleep, God had seen fit to cleanse my soul, to rid me of the filth of yesterday and replace it with some sacred snowfall in my heart.
But I was undeserving of such mercy. I sat in silence, my eyes fixed on the vast, cold heavens above, the weight of guilt pressing against my chest. I was unworthy of divine grace, unworthy of even a fleeting moment of joy. And yet, was I not obligated to be grateful? Even if my sins towered over me, grotesque and insurmountable, should I not still bow my head in reverence?
I rose from my bed and reached for my old, worn-out coat, its fabric damp and clinging to my skin. I wrapped it around myself, then turned toward my desk, where an assortment of aged writing tools lay scattered. With slow, deliberate hands, I gathered them and placed them into my torn satchel.
As I turned to leave, my eyes caught the reflection in the mirror once more. That frail figure—draped in rags, with sallow skin and those same sorrowful eyes—stared back at me, its expression twisting my stomach into knots. I looked away.
Moving toward the door, I grasped the handle carefully, my fingers trembling slightly as I eased it open, cautious not to disturb the morning's fragile tranquility. Once outside my room, I shut the door behind me, ensuring not a sound was made.
I turned to leave the house when my gaze fell upon my younger brother, still asleep on the worn-out sofa. His small hands clutched a battered toy train, its surface dull with grime. A deep pang struck my heart. This toy—I had purchased it with the little money I had scraped together, but even in its broken state, it had become a source of ridicule for him. His friends had mocked him for it. And yet, here he was, holding onto it as though it were a priceless treasure.
I stood there for a moment, watching him in his peaceful slumber, then spoke in a hushed whisper, barely audible even to myself.
"Isman… I will fight. I will buy you the toy you truly want… and I will find a way to cure our grandmother."
With those words, I stepped out of the house, my tattered satchel slung over my shoulder. I shut the door quietly behind me, slipped on my black, battered shoes, and once again set foot upon the cracked and filthy streets.
The path to my workplace—a dingy, disreputable office where I toiled as a meager ghostwriter, a lowly journalist—was not far. Even from here, I could see the silhouette of that dreary old building. A peculiar excitement stirred within me as I quickened my pace.
For the first time, I felt something close to joy at the prospect of work. But this, too, would pass—I knew it would.
Reaching the entrance, I knocked upon the rickety wooden door, its frail frame groaning in protest. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a familiar figure.
She stood before me—a woman of delicate beauty, her chestnut hair catching the faint morning light, her pale blue eyes warm and inviting. She wore a traditional German dress, her presence a stark contrast to the wretchedness of this place. And, as always, a gentle smile graced her lips.
"Good morning, Mr. Zaramov," she greeted me, her voice smooth and comforting.
"Good morning, Ms. Bertha," I replied, my voice quieter than I had intended.
And thus, another day began.
I walked past her, and a familiar sensation crept into my mind. The old but well-kept wooden walls surrounded me, their scent mixing with the thick, soothing aroma of wax candles. The room was quiet—eerily so—occupied by only three other workers, each hunched over their own writing.
I made my way to my desk, slowly unpacking my writing tools—a white-feathered quill, a small inkwell, and a stack of thin, slightly yellowed paper. Sitting down on the rickety old chair, I adjusted myself to its familiar discomfort before dipping my pen into the ink.
Then, my eyes drifted toward the young man seated beside me—Wilhelm Aldorick. He was my age, yet something about his presence felt heavier, more certain. I observed him for a while, watching how he carefully arranged his words on the page. His gaze was sharp, unwavering. His thick brows furrowed ever so slightly—a man utterly consumed by his work, one who held himself to the highest standard.
Curiosity gnawed at me. What had captured his attention so completely? What thought had shackled his mind so thoroughly?
I leaned in slightly and spoke.
"Good morning, Herr Wilhelm Aldorick. What are you working on today?"
His hand did not falter, nor did his eyes leave the page. He simply replied, his voice even and measured:
"A novel on war and national identity. It follows the journey of a young woman, determined to become a soldier, walking the same path her late grandfather once did."
I listened to his words, letting them settle in the air between us. A story of a woman seeking a place in a world that would never truly be hers. I pondered over it, my gaze lingering on the ink staining his fingertips.
And then, without looking at me, he added:
"But she will never reach that dream. A woman may never become a guardian of her nation. She may only guard the heart of the man who will fight in her stead."
"Very well, continue your work. And—hey, I must say, I admire your writing style. You remind me of a certain Swedish author."
I spoke these words with an air of casual appreciation, yet Wilhelm did not lift his gaze from the page. A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across his lips, and with the slow, deliberate motion of a man unfazed by the world around him, he gave a slight nod. Then, without another word, his quill resumed its dance across the paper, his mind already lost in the world of his own creation.
I tightened my grip on my own pen, dipping its tip into the inkwell, watching as the dark liquid spread through the nib, ready to spill forth onto the waiting page. But in that moment, a thought clawed its way into my mind—a cruel and unrelenting truth.
I would never write as he did. Never would my words carry the weight, the depth, the sheer force of conviction that his did. My prose was brittle, my sentences feeble—mere fragments of thought strung together without the soul that made true literature breathe. Wilhelm Aldorick was an artist, a man who sculpted meaning from ink and silence. I, in contrast, was but a mere tradesman of words, filling empty columns with news of mundane occurrences in this decrepit German city.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.