On cold autumn evenings, when the wind blows through the bare branches and shadows stretch across the walls, our house seems to groan with silence. I have made it a habit to light a candle, play old music on the turntable, and look at the black-and-white photographs on the shelf. Their little smiles, tiny hands stained with blackberries, big curious eyes… how did everything fade away like that, without a trace of return?
One Sunday morning, I found Jason staring blankly at the ceiling. I sat down next to him, took his hand in my trembling one, and said, “You know, my dear… we were good parents.” He sighed softly. He didn’t say anything, but a tear rolled down his cheek.
In the village, people still respect us. Mrs. Nicoleta sometimes brings us cheese pie. Father Ioan asks us at every service if he can lend a hand. But the children… they are no longer ours. They belong to the world. To a hurried future, where old age means nothing but a burden.
On Christmas Eve, I cooked stuffed cabbage, as I do every year. I set the table for two. I turned on the lights at the window, with the childlike hope that, maybe, just maybe… someone would cross our threshold. No one came. Only the neighbor’s dog barked briefly in the backyard, like a knock on a door that never was.
And yet… one spring evening, after the snowdrops had emerged from the ground, I received a letter. Handwritten. With blue ink and the scent of old perfume. It was from Irina. She said she missed us. That she finally understands. That she is coming home.
Jason looked at me then and smiled. “Maybe we haven’t been forgotten after all,” he whispered.
And, for the first time in a long while, I felt that the light was not just coming from the candle… but also from the soul.
If you still have parents alive, call them. Hug them. Because for them, your voice is worth more than any gift.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
