(Present Time)
(Date: November 23rd, 2010)
(Thursday)
If I close my eyes, I still feel the weight of that night pressing against my chest: not just as a memory, but as something embedded deep within me—something that never truly left. It's not a story I share often; people tell me not to dwell, not to worry. But whenever violence erupts near Hanae, I see it in her eyes: the way she shuts down, the way her breath falters, the way her body forgets how to move—and I understand why. We were barely five, maybe six. The entire village was asleep, wrapped in the kind of midnight stillness that feels sacred, but our home was about to be torn open. A woman and her boyfriend—both drunk, both known for their volatility- forced their way inside. No one was aware of their presence. My mother woke up first and tried to reason with them, insisting they leave, reminding them they had no right to be there. But they didn't listen; they turned violent. I still remember the sound of fists colliding with flesh: the dull thuds, the sharp gasps, the way my mother's body crumpled under their rage. Hanae stood behind her, paralyzed—not from confusion, but from sheer terror. Then the woman reached for her, and something inside me snapped.
I was burning up with a fever; my left arm had already been sprained earlier that day—how, I don't even remember. But none of that mattered. I grabbed the nearest object: a rusted metal hammer, heavy and cold in my small hands. I swung. I struck her, but then her boyfriend turned on me. A beer bottle shattered against my head; blood poured down my face, warm and blinding. Then he stomped on my injured arm, grinding it into the floor. I screamed—raw, guttural, the kind of sound that tears through your throat and leaves you breathless. Hanae was sobbing; my mother lay barely conscious. And I lay there, bleeding, broken, unable to move or speak, watching them vanish into the night like shadows that had stolen something godly.
Eventually, someone must have heard; help came. But it was too late. They were gone. And the damage had already been done. Hanae never forgot; neither did I. Maybe that's why I hold on so tightly and protect so fiercely, hence why I feel like I'm guarding something fragile with everything I have. Because from the beginning, I was taught that if you love someone, you fight for them—even if you're small, even if you're hurt, even if it means bleeding for them. It probably sounds cliché. I get that. But I wasn't thinking about right or wrong—I was thinking about Hanae and Mom. Not everyone would've done what I did, and that's fine. I did what I could. That's all I had. Of course, with that much straining, I can feel the weight through my left arm and hand, as much as it hurts me. I will always feel it.
(Flashback)
The kitchen hummed softly: pot lids rattled, water boiled, spoons clinked against porcelain. The aroma of nudlová polévka (noodle soup) simmering in the pot drifted through the cottage. Dill. Carrots. A handful of thin egg noodles floating in warmth. It was the kind of meal meant to soothe everything that couldn't be said aloud. Their mother stood by the stove, stirring quietly, her body leaning forward slightly. The folds in her sleeves had deepened over the weeks, and the tiredness beneath her eyes didn't need explanation. Beside her, Barbara Černý worked with quiet efficiency—peeling vegetables with weathered hands and a knowing look.
-"Měla jsi těžkou směnu, Lenka?" ("Did you have a hard shift, Lenka?"), Barbara asked in concern. -"Dvě," ("Two") she replied, nodding without turning to make eye contact. Then, switching to English with a sigh: "I'm fine. Just a little slow today."
Barbara raised a brow. "You're always slow when your bones are crying."
Lenka chuckled under her breath, but it didn't reach her eyes.
-"I can't afford to cry or rest, Barbara."
- "That's a lie, and you know it," Barbara said, brushing carrot peels aside. "Every mother deserves to cry and breathe, Lenka. Even steel ones."
Lenka didn't answer, just continuously stirred the pot again.
-"Tomas and Hanae… they've never seen me in this current state"
-"They do," Barbara said. "They just don't say it out loud."
The front door opened.
Cold air drifted in like a whisper, then came the loud footsteps and panting.
Lara stepped into view first, one arm carefully supporting Hanae, who walked with her shoulders tucked and her sleeves tugged low. Her satchel hung loosely from her grip like an anchor. Behind them came Tomas, who's bruised and barely holding himself together. But yet, he's still retaining the same expressionless face of his.
Barbara gasped in shock, "Ježíši Kriste…" ("Jesus Christ…") Lenka turned, her spoon clattering as she stepped away from the stove. "Oh, moje děti…" ("Oh, my children…") Hanae blinked quickly, her head tilted downward. Tomas's lips appeared split. But what caught the most attention was his swollen cheeks and his temple that is still throbbing, and his bloody-red knuckles. Lenka's hand flew to her mouth. "What happened?" she whispered, voice trembling. Lara stepped in. "There was a fight that broke out." Barbara moved instantly, already rummaging beneath the sink. "Sedni si, Hanae." ("Sit down, Hanae.")
Then to Lara: "Světlo u stolu, prosím." ("Light near the table, please.") Hanae sat gently at the edge of the table, biting back a wince. Her hands trembled in her lap. Lara crouched beside her, guiding her sleeves up slowly. "Oh, sweet girl…" Barbara whispered, her voice threading between Czech and English. "No one should ever touch you like this." She dabbed ointment over each bruise with soft cotton. "Tohle bude štípat, ale pomůže." ("This will sting, but it'll help"). Across the room, Tomas still hadn't moved. His posture was strained, his shirt tugged at the shoulder from the scuffle. Lenka stepped toward him.
-"Tome," she whispered. "Pojď sem." ("Come here").
He walked slowly to her side. Lenka cupped his cheek with trembling fingers, brushing the blood near his temple.
-"Máš bolavé oči." ("Your eyes look hurt.")
-"I got there," Tomas whispered. "Just in time."
Her hand hovered at his lip, dabbing a wet cloth gently across the split.
-"Vypadáš jako táta." ("You look like your father.") "To je... v pořádku?" ("Is that... okay?"). Tomas said, lowering his gaze.
She smiled through a tear. "It means you protect without hesitating." Lenka guided him to a chair and unwrapped fresh gauze.
-"I'm sorry I wasn't there."
- "You were busy with cooking," Tomas said. "You're always busy with work and cooking. So we never got to see you."
She looked at him, long and deep. "Vařit je má láska, ale vidět tě zdravého je moje modlitba". ("Cooking is my love, but seeing you well is my only hope"). Tomas gave a small nod, swallowing the rising warmth in his throat. Then, almost absentmindedly but full of meaning, he repeated her old phrase:
-"If someone picks a fight… always fight back. No matter the cost."
Lenka froze for half a breath. Then laughed softly—the sound cracking through the heaviness like a thread of sunlight. "Haha… you remembered that and took it literally, huh?" She brushed the cloth once more across his cheek. "Můj pomocníček." ("My little helper"). Tomas managed the barest smile. "Yeah," Lenka kissed the top of his head before reaching for more ointment. Her hands didn't stop moving. But her heart was more tranquil now. The boy who had listened when she didn't realize she was being heard... was sitting beside her, bruised, courageous, and still her helper.
Across the table, Barbara dabbed the last bit of balm across Hanae's wrist and whispered: "Hotovo, zlatíčko." ("All done, sweetheart"). Hanae stood slowly and walked across the room toward Tomas. Her steps were uncertain. But her arms opened, and she embraced him tightly. Tomas smiled into her shoulder, soft and warm. But inside? Regret pressed heavily against his heart. He had come just in time. But not soon enough. He hadn't noticed the bruises when they first appeared. Didn't notice the cardigan sleeves creeping longer. Didn't ask when her hairstyle changed, or when she stopped answering. She had been hurting, and now she was holding him.
He whispered, "I'm sorry I was late." She squeezed tighter. "You weren't." Barbara lit a candle on the counter. Lenka returned to the stove, the soup still warm and waiting. Lara leaned against the doorway, eyes full but muted. And in that small kitchen, crowded with aching hearts and bandaged wrists, there was no need for more words. Everything that mattered was already being held.
Date: September 30th, 1970 (Wednesday)
Time: Night after dinner
Location: Our shared room, corner desk
Dear diary,
After everything, after bruises and blood and Band-Aids that didn't quite reach deep enough, we all sat down for dinner. Barbara Černý told a story about tripping over her laundry basket and blamed it on her cat (which doesn't exist). Hanae laughed a little too hard. Lara followed suit. Then somehow jokes started flying like cherry pits, and the quiet house wasn't so quiet anymore. The girls get loud when they're healing. I don't mind it. I don't talk much at home unless something needs saying. At school, I wear that smile, nod when called, and hold clipboards like shields. But here? Home is different. Home is where stillness feels like safety. Right now, Hanae's in the other room, wrapped in bandages and surrounded by warmth. I can hear her laugh through the walls, even as her voice dips and flickers like she's still carrying today's shadow. Lara keeps talking, and Mom hums while prepping night tea. Barbara claims she could outdance us all on a dance floor, despite her bad knees. It's… enjoyable. It's clamant but it's lovely. Hanae's brave. Just not the kind of people people expect. Fighting back isn't her style; it jars her soul. Brutality makes her shut down. Her body froze while her heart tried to keep beating. She's loud about most things, but when distress shows up like that? She becomes speechless. Fragile. I hate that she had to feel it. I hate that I didn't stop it sooner... I didn't feel brave. I felt useless; still, she held me like she meant it. Overall, I'm glad she's surrounded right now.
(Timeskip)
(Date: December 18th, 1970)
(Friday)
December had settled over the village like a knitted blanket: soft, frayed, comforting in its silence. The rooftops wore thin veils of snow. Chimneys puffed steady smoke. Mornings arrived wrapped in frost and fog: the kind that made breath visible and footsteps echo more softly. Inside the cottage, life moved differently now. With their mother working double shifts, the heart of the house hadn't been abandoned—just entrusted. The twins picked it up with quiet confidence. Tomas and Hanae shared the rhythm between them: one stirred the pot, the other scrubbed dishes. One swept the floor, the other folded laundry into tight squares. Their mother used to protest, murmuring "Nechte to na mně" ("Leave it to me"). Each time she walked in. But her body was too fatigued now, and her children too stubborn in empathy to let her keep pushing herself. It was Hanae who hummed in the kitchen now—off-key, but proud. And Tomas, chopping onions with the focus he usually reserved for algebra problems. Of course, he cried as he continued chopping the onions. They didn't see it as a chore. They saw it as making the house more lively.
-"I don't mind it," Hanae told Lara one evening, flour streaked across her cheek. "It's kind of like solving a puzzle, just messier and...more instructional reading." Said Hanae, laughing nervously, as she was reading the cookbook.
- "I'd like to solve fewer puzzles involving raw eggs," Lara teased, handing her a clean bowl.
Even Ms. Černý had started stopping by more often—bringing fresh bandages, warm bread, and persistent advice.
-"Lenka's strong," she said once, setting down a pot of Borscht (sour soup). "But strong ladies still need someone to say, 'I've got this,' or 'You're doing just fine, kids.'
And the bruises? Tomas still carried them. School had quieted since autumn—especially for Hanae. The boys didn't tease her as much anymore. But for Tomas, the trouble still lingered. Sometimes a shove. Sometimes a glance that said "next time". He tried to lie low, but somehow, conflict found him. Still, he endured; he didn't whine. Instead, he worked. In the afternoons, Tomas helped the villagers: hauling wood, clearing snow, mending fences with nails too tenacious for old hands. They paid him in low counts of paper, but abundant amounts of coins, bread, and sometimes stories. He stored a little in a cracked jar beneath his bed, used some to buy Hanae extra gloves when hers tore. Even bought Lara a caramel bun once, when she looked too exhausted to smile. Handed some to his mother, even when she refused, since she needed them. And she always smiled softly. The kind of smile that says thank you without words.
-"Děkuji, můj pomocníček," ("Thank you, my little helper,")
(Date: December 24th, 1970)
(Thursday)
Christmas Eve had arrived with soft snowfall and the smell of cinnamon brushing the air, but the cottage didn't carry its usual hum. The small fire tree in the corner blinked with faint lights, handmade ornaments trembling slightly when the heat kicked in. But the living room stayed quiet. Their mother should've been there. She was supposed to be home on Christmas Eve, Christmas morning, and the two days after. The calendar was marked. Hanae had folded the napkins into stars. Tomas had stocked firewood by the door. Lara had brought peppermint cocoa mix. Everyone had prepared to finally be together. But the phone call changed everything. Lenka's voice had cracked as she whispered,
-"They need me at work. My boss wouldn't let me take a day off."
She tried to smile when she zipped her coat, but Tomas saw through it. Hanae did too. Now, the twins stood at the window inside Barbara Černý's house, watching their mother walk through the snow; her steps slow, scarf pulled tight, the cold biting at her coat. Streetlights lit her silhouette in muted orange.
-"This isn't fair…" Tomas said, whispering, eyes narrowing. "Mom's supposed to stay home."
-"I know…" Hanae murmured, forehead pressed against the glass. "What's with the sudden change of mind? Christmas was her break." Tomas's jaw tightened. "Do you think fighting her boss would do something?"
Ms. Černý, sitting nearby and stirring a mug of tea, looked up calmly.
-"Oh no. I don't think harming the boss would do any good, Toma-" Ms. Černý replied before getting cut off by Hanae. "Hell yes, it would!" Hanae began, heated.
-"Hanae," Ms. Černý snapped back. "Your mother wouldn't like you saying that word."
-"Fine," Hanae sighed, shoulders slumping. "But still... It's messed up."
Muteness overed for a beat, just long enough for the wind outside to creak against the windowpanes. "I mean…" Tomas said after a moment, his voice fainter now. "All we can do is wait for next time. Mom's schedule shows she's off for New Year's. Both Eve and Day. So... it'll be a make-up," Ms. Černý nodded. "That's the spirit." Hanae didn't respond, but her head turned slightly, her eyes drifting toward the fire crackling across the room. Eventually, the house warmed with the scent of tea and candles. The radio played a mellow Czech carol, the kind that stretched through winter like a lullaby. The mood lifted just enough for Hanae and Lara to begin chattering again, sharing old school jokes, teasing each other about boys and books. Their voices bounced gently through the house, bright enough to make Ms. Černý laugh out loud.
Tomas lingered at the bookshelf, eyes scanning rows of book spines until his fingers settled on a thin book with a blue cover and faded edges. He took it without thinking and stepped outside. He needed air. The wind was strong, but weak enough to walk through it without getting blown away. The snow crunches under his shoes with each step, but he didn't shiver. Tomas had grown up outside most of his life; his body trained slowly to adapt every season like it was just another layer. Summer heat, Autumn frost, Winter bite. Or even Allergy Season. He wore his red maroon hoodie, oversized against his frame, teddy bear pajama pants, old sneakers, and thick socks rolled unevenly above his ankles. It was mismatched, but it was comforting.
The hill wasn't far; past the chapel, past the row of frozen hedges. He reached the small bench perched against the forest's edge; the one facing the valley, where the sun dipped just low enough to paint the world in gold. Then he sat down, while doves flew past in the air. He opened the book and didn't read it right away. He just watched the last warmth of the day scatter across the snow like breadcrumbs. Behind him, laughter echoed faintly not only from Ms. Černý's house, but the entire village surrounding him as well. And for a moment, Tomas didn't feel forgotten. The sun began to drop behind the trees, brushing the forest hill with burnt gold. Tomas sat peacefully on the bench, knees drawn up slightly, book half-open on his lap. He hadn't turned a page in minutes. The silence was perfect, not lonesome. Just necessary. The wind moved gently over the snow, rustling dry branches overhead. That's when he heard it. Footsteps: Faint, Deliberate. He didn't need to look. Everyone had a rhythm. Hanae's more on the playful side, since she walked as if she were skipping. Lara was light but determined, like she walked to prove something, but not to anyone else. Still, he turned, slowly, just to see her standing behind him; bundled like a burrito in a deep green blanket, which nearly swallowed her small frame. A big, puffy jacket puffed around her shoulders, her long fur-lined pants brushing the tops of sturdy boots. A red scarf looped three times around her neck, and her glasses fogged slightly with her breath. Her black hair, let loose from braids, fell in soft waves over her shoulders, parted to the side by the wind. She looked smaller in the cold. But brighter.
The sun caught her cheek, glowing against her flushed skin. Tomas didn't react much. Just studied her for a second longer than usual. She's always looked pure, but this is different, he thought. Like…a chrysanthemum blooming… Not that he'd say any of that out loud.
-"W–why are you out here in the c–cold, T–Tomas?" Lara asked through chattering teeth, arms clenched tightly around the blanket. "Just needed to clear my head for a bit. That's all."
His voice remained level as he turned back to face the horizon, adjusting the hoodie tighter around his neck.
-"Y–you're insane."
-"Not really, I'm probably the most sane person you've met," he replied, with the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
She didn't laugh. She just shuffled forward and sat beside him, blanket still wrapped, shoulders nearly touching his. Her boots tapped gently against the frozen ground.
-"You know it's going to be fatal for you out here, right?"
-"Yeah? And yet you came out too." Tomas fired back, appearing unfazed as always. "Okay, I came out because I wanted to see if you're alright."
Lara said, her voice steady despite the chill. "Or at least find out what you're doing up here all alone." That made him raise a brow, just slightly. A flick of surprise—but not displeasure. "That's… surprising," he murmured. She looked up at him, eyes clear behind foggy lenses. "So is that hoodie?" she teased softly. "You look like a half-asleep owl," Tomas smirked, just a little. Then the forest quieted, as both of them are now sitting peacefully. The light curled gently behind the trees. The blanket rustled, the breath drifted, while two hearts, one loud, one silent - shared one bench as the world turned slower beneath the snow.
Tomas leaned back slightly, letting the last thread of sunlight soak into his cheeks. Beside him, Lara shifted in her blanket burrito cocoon, her boots tucked under the bench like a squirrel storing acorns. "This bench needs a heater," she mumbled, pulling the scarf tighter around her nose. "I don't think the forest comes with upgrades," Tomas answered, still watching the horizon. "I'd settle for a toaster," she said. He let out a puff of air that could've been a laugh or just the cold leaving his chest.
-"I never thought you'd come out here," he said after a pause. Lara shrugged. "I didn't plan it. I just felt like it." Tomas looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "You felt like hiking up a snowy hill, wrapped in a blanket, just to sit on a frozen bench?" In a quizzical tone, "I felt like seeing you," Lara said matter-of-factly. "That counts." He blinked.
She didn't say it with bravado or sarcastically; just truth. For a moment, Tomas didn't emit. He stared straight ahead again, the golden light tracing the edges of the snowy trees. Then:
-"I like it when you're muted."
-"I like it when you speak," Lara grinned. "It's like spotting a fox. Irregular. Friendly."
-"Alright, I'm not that rare, Lara".
-"You are," she insisted, bumping his shoulder lightly. "You only talk when it matters. That's what makes it count more."
Tomas didn't respond right away. The cold had numbed most of his limbs by now, but his heart felt... more cordial. They sat in stillness for another minute. Then Lara added:
-"You know, when you spoke earlier? That really helped. Even if you didn't say much." Tomas turned to her again, eyes steady.
-"I sometimes don't know the specific words majority of the time."
-"You don't need to," she said. "You showing up and speaking what you have in mind is just enough."
And for once, Tomas didn't try to shrink from the moment. He let it rest between them, two kids on a hill, a sunset wrapping the world, and the zeal of companionship stronger than the frost at their feet.
Lara tucked her legs beneath the blanket tightly, nose nearly buried in her scarf, as the glow of the sun softened behind drifting clouds. Tomas stayed beside her, still facing forward. Of course, still the quiet brick wall he is. But something in him consoled.
-"You know," Lara whispered, her voice threading between the wind, "One time when I was younger, I thought sunsets were skittish."
-"Skittish?"
-"Yeah," she said, smiling behind the scarf. "Like the sun didn't want anyone staring too long, so it'll blush from embarrassment and leave as quickly as possible."
Tomas didn't answer right away. However, he liked that thought. His eyes tracked the scenery. "I think they linger," he murmured. "Just long enough for someone to miss them." Lara blinked slowly, her glasses fogged again. "So… you're like a sunset too." That made him look at her more directly.
-"Calm down, Ms. Poetry. I'm not that poetic."
-"Too bad. I already decided you are," she teased.
Within seconds, things died down, and no one talked. The blanket between them, a soft bridge of warmth, neither acknowledged. Tomas's sleeve brushed Lara's, and she didn't move away. Instead, she stared at the sunset as if it might offer her courage. Lara's fingers kept fidgeting with the edge, folding, unfolding, pressing it flat. Tomas noticed, but didn't say anything. He was still watching the scenery, the way the last light bled into the clouds.
-"…I wonder if you'll be okay"
-"Hm?" Tomas turned his head.
She blinked, startled by her own voice. "Nothing," she said quickly, shaking her head. "Just, never mind." But her tone was off. Too clipped. Too rehearsed.
Tomas didn't let it go. "Lara." She didn't look at him. Her glasses had fogged again, and she was pretending to clean them, but her hands trembled slightly.
-"You said something. What was it?"
-"I didn't," she reacted, too fast. "I didn't mean to."
He leaned in, trying to catch her eyes. "You okay?" She hesitated. Her lips parted again, like she might try. Might say it again. Instead, she laughed, thin and anxious, and waved a hand like she was brushing away a fly.
-"Forget it. I'm being weird."
-"You're not." Tomas frowned
But she was already shifting, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, eyes locked on the sunset again. Tomas stayed reserved, but his mind was racing. Whatever she almost said—it wasn't anything. And now, it was everywhere between them.
Tomas didn't know what to say after Lara's sudden retreat. Her "never mind" still echoed between them, louder than any confession might've been. She hadn't looked at him since, just stared out at the sunset like it might swallow her whole. So he did the only thing he could think of.
-"Want me to read to you?" he asked, voice softer than usual, almost unsure.
-"You? Reading more? I thought you loathed reading" Lara turned, surprised. He rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. "One chapter wouldn't kill. So don't you dare interrupt."
-"I can handle that," she said, agreeing joyfully
Tomas grabbed the thin book he'd brought, which was on his lap, and now into his grasp. Opening the book, as the pages smelled like old libraries and soft winters. He flipped it open to chapter one, cleared his throat, and began. His voice wasn't perfect. It stumbled occasionally, caught on words. But it was steady. And Lara listened. Her knees curled beneath her, her breath slowed. The blanket wrapped around them felt warmer now—not just from the fabric, but from the presence beside her. As he read, Tomas watched her from the corner of his eye. She wasn't shivering anymore, and her fingers stopped fidgeting as well. Her gaze had softened and was no longer distant. When the chapter ended, Lara didn't speak. She just leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. The braid-waves of her hair brushed his hoodie, and Tomas didn't flinch, nor spoke. But inside, something pivoted. A small, glowing pocket of serenity opened in his chest...even a faint sense of liking towards Lara as well. The kind that made the world stop rushing for once. Below the hill, the village glimmered with distant lamps. Inside the houses, pots simmered. Candles flickered. Trees blinked. But up here?
There was just a boy and a girl. And a bench that was no longer cold.