Looking at my phone, I see: six thirty. It's still too early to call Mom or Katrin. Those two voices are the dearest, the most important to me. But I don't want to disturb their morning peace. I want them to sleep a little longer—wrapped in the blanket of silence, in their cozy worlds. We'll finish shopping by one, maybe two. That's when I'll call. With good news, warmth in my voice, with a smile already forming somewhere deep inside.
I get out of the car. The morning air embraces me with its coolness. There are a lot of cars—like an anthill, everything around is already alive, breathing, moving. The market hums, shouts, cries out with its voices—familiar, rough, alive. Bustle, crowding—it all feels familiar, almost like home.
We know the best way—walk around, talk, check the prices. Then—load up. If the parts are small—we carry them in a bag. If they're heavy—we haul them together, or I go to the truck bed and load them myself. Everything is practiced, tested by time.
Today the market is generous. Stalls are colorful with goods, metals glint in the sun like fish on a hook. Boxes clink, vendors shout over each other, attracting customers. Work is buzzing. We argue, laugh, switch to short, businesslike phrases. Everything happens smoothly.
By the time we get ready to head home, the whole truck is tightly packed—like a treasure chest. Spare parts lie in rows, neatly, like trophies after a long campaign. Viktor is satisfied. It shows on his face: at the corners of his eyes, in his relaxed smile. Fatigue mixes with satisfaction—we've done everything we wanted. Honestly, hard, down to the last box.
The clock reads three in the afternoon. We've only just started the way back. We stayed long—yes. All because of loading: something falls out, something doesn't fit, even the truck bed seems stubborn. As if the truck were alive—with character, with mood. But we manage. As always—together.
"Vi, can I step aside to call home before we start driving again?" I ask him, my voice slightly muted. That feeling is already washing over me—like the warmth of memories, voices, the smell of home—filling me in advance, like a quiet wave before the tide.
"Yeah, I don't mind. Say hi to them. By the way, can I stay with you or your mom? Vera won't let me in until she finishes cleaning," the man asks plaintively, stretching out his words like a boy asking to sleep over at a friend's place.
I put my hand on his shoulder, hugging him in a friendly way. It's a warm, strong gesture—like an anchor that keeps us from drifting alone.
"Of course, Vi. There's always a place for you, even if your stay takes a few days," I reply, feeling something tighten inside with gratitude.
After everything he's done over the years—watching over me, pulling me out of darkness when I seemed like a stranger to myself—how could I refuse him? And, in the end, he's not just my friend. He's our friend. Mine and Katrin's. And that's something more—it's family, not by blood, but by soul.
"Thanks, Max. Go on, I saw how eager you were to call them," he smiles, winking and waving, as if sending me on a short but important journey—to connect with those who are home.
I nod in agreement and step aside a little, away from the buzzing market and cars, where the noise drowns out thoughts. I dial Katrin. My heart tightens in anticipation—a familiar feeling before hearing her voice. A voice that in a single sip could fill me with quiet, warm me like a blanket in bad weather. But… she doesn't answer. One ring. Two. Three. Silence.
Strange. A slight unease settles in my chest, as if something in the world is off, and the usual harmony cracks. This call, so ordinary, suddenly sharpens every feeling—anxiety, tenderness, vulnerability. I know I can't talk to her for long—the time presses, and the road lies ahead. It's noisy in the car, and speaking there, especially about personal things, means literally shouting to the whole cabin. And Vi is beside me. No matter how close we are, a conversation with a loved one is still intimate, something to hold in your hands and heart.
I give up on that attempt and call Mom. She answers almost immediately—her voice is joyful, warm, as if a ray of sunlight passes through the phone, wrapping me in warmth.
"Max? Hi. How are you there?" I hear on the other end, and I feel the corners of my lips lift.
But still… something in her voice makes me pause. Either she's hiding something, or everything really is fine. I can't tell which is more real yet.
"Hi, Mom. Where's Katrin? I can't reach her," I go straight to the point, not stretching the conversation.
"She woke up this morning and asked me where you are. I told her, and then she went back to her room. I checked on her, but she's still sleeping," Mom answers plainly, without extra emotion. But in that simplicity, something pricks—perhaps her care hiding between the lines, like a soft veil.
"Okay, don't wake her. Take care of Mary, please. I'll be home by evening," I ask, feeling a warm wave of relief wash over me. Everything is fine. They're home. Under care. And that's what matters.
"Okay, Max, it's no trouble. Let her rest, I'll stay with the granddaughter for now," she replies with gentle care, the kind only mothers have when speaking about their children and grandchildren.
"By the way, Mom, can Vi stay with us at your place tonight? You know Vera will scold him for cleanliness," I add, with a smile in my voice, almost pleading that she won't refuse, especially in these matters. We both know—Vi isn't just a guest. He's family.
"I don't mind. The house is big, there's room for everyone," Mom surprisingly agrees easily. Too easily. I expected at least a few minutes of reasoning, maybe even a playful protest. But… no. Calm, confident. As if she's been waiting for this question. As if the table is already set.
"Thank you so much," I say sincerely, feeling the last bit of inner tension dissolve. Like a tight knot in my chest unties, and it's easier to breathe.
"Mom, we have to go now. So in about four to five hours I'll be home. See you," I say, noticing Vi already waving at me—a familiar gesture: "time." In that gesture, there's something more than just a signal. It lifts me from my inner world and returns me to the shared one.
"Okay, see you this evening, son," her voice is the last thing I hear before hanging up. I close my eyes for a second, absorbing the feeling—like a quiet forgiveness, like a promise that everything will be fine.
I put the phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath. The air smells expensive. Work. Home. And somewhere in between—life. Real life. So real that I even want to squint slightly, as if to avoid spilling it.
We get into the car and drive home. The cabin holds a pleasant silence, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and the occasional sounds from outside—the rustle of tires on asphalt, gusts of wind. We both feel a satisfying fatigue, as if the day squeezes us like a sponge. The way back takes the same amount of time, but we still have to stop at the workshop first. There, we unload the spare parts—boxes, crates, parts smelling of metal, oil, and rubber. Everything must be handled carefully to avoid damage. The cold air of the workshop, lit by harsh white lamps, makes everything feel especially mundane and exhausting. After the morning's work excitement, physical and mental fatigue presses down on us. And the road home is still ahead.
The trip takes about three hours, plus an hour or an hour and a half to unload, and only after that can we head home. Altogether, it takes up to five hours. Five long, drawn-out hours—and each feels like an extra kilogram on the shoulders.
I won't get home before eight in the evening. Vi and I don't even try to talk on the way—just silently staring into the darkness outside the windows, each lost in his own thoughts. My head hums slightly from overexertion, but there's also a light sense of satisfaction—the day is hard, but productive.
Yes, this trip takes more than a full day. We have to consider that we spend several days preparing for it: lists, packing, sorting. Everything carefully, with attention to detail. But since we have many orders from the website, it's worth it. The business is growing, and it requires effort. It's like nurturing something of your own—difficult, but meaningful.
I return home at nine in the evening with Vi. We step inside, and a complete silence envelops us. Thick, like a library at night. Only the kitchen emits a warm, slightly muted light—a beacon calling us deeper into the house. We head there automatically, as if something intuitive guides us.
Mom sits at the table. She's alone. Sitting, lost in her thoughts, a cup of tea in her hands. Her gaze is downcast, sadness frozen on her face. A slight stoop, trembling fingers, lips pressed slightly together—she looks like someone who has been silent too long. Her presence is sad, somber.
Something tightens inside me.
What could have happened in the eighteen hours I've been gone? As if a whole life has passed here without me. Where are Katrin and Mary? Okay, Mary could be asleep at this time—she's almost three, and by nine in the evening she usually sleeps soundly. But my beloved… Katrin should definitely have woken up by now.
With complete incomprehension and growing anxiety, I enter the room intending to find out. My steps echo my own tension. A heaviness grows in my chest, like before a storm you cannot yet see, but know is near.