THE HOUR

The clock struck 4 p.m., at least ambiguously. Marcin looked at the silver dial with almost disgust. The black pendulum swung stubbornly, measuring time. Wouldn't it be better if clocks didn't exist? Marcin's thoughts drifted somewhere near the ceiling, morphing into a gentle jog. The pale walls of the room seemed hostile to him; he felt their blind indifference to his impatience—human ingratitude to the passing minutes. And that foolish desire to turn back time. How ridiculous people were!

He suddenly jumped up as if the couch had scalded him. He involuntarily turned to the window, where the street was visible through the curtain. People, as usual, were walking along the curbs...

But things had been different before. Marcin could feel it. Things wouldn't get any better. Nothing made sense now. Not to him. Not after her death.

And yet, people had walked along the curbs then, too.

But something had happened. Clocks hadn't annoyed him before; the walls weren't hostile. And this wasn't just grief over the loss of a loved one. It was something more. He now realized that something was wrong with the world, that no one understood him. In the most difficult moments, sympathy was reserved for him—at best. At worst—hatred.

Yes, he felt guilty. He knew more about Joanna than anyone else. And he had failed.

The windows shook with the clatter of a passing truck. Marcin withdrew his hand, removing his fingers from the cold glass. His thoughts raced again, almost touching the ceiling. He had to focus for a moment. Time now flowed from one trembling window to the next. Like the beats of a tormented heart.

Wearily, he collapsed onto the couch. The soft leather greeted him quietly, this time offering solace like the shade of a large tree in the summer heat. Lying there, he looked below and saw the swaying shadows of delicate beech leaves... He reached out to feel the fine, cool grass with the back of his hand. A pink clover flower fell between his fingers. He tore it off involuntarily, turning to look at Joanna. Her steady gaze betrayed no emotion. Her lips twitched in a slight, pensive frown at the touch of the sweet flower. She looked down at him slightly, and a faint smile appeared in her eyes. He thought then that this was the most beautiful moment of his life.

They would never experience an afternoon like this again. Why hadn't he said he loved her then? Why had he never said it?

He saw his hand fall lazily to the floor. Beneath his fingers now, he felt only the soft carpet. How rough it was against her hair!

His gaze moved from his hand, along the curled pattern of the carpet. He stopped at the old, dark chest of drawers. He knew he shouldn't do this, yet his gaze rose slowly, almost hypnotically, higher and higher. Drawer after drawer...

When he opened the topmost one, he felt a shiver. The slightly ajar window opened quietly, letting in a fresh breeze. Strangely, in August, an almost autumnal chill touched him. Marcin glanced at the gently billowing curtain for a moment longer. However, his hand reached again for the note lying at the bottom of the drawer…

"My dears! Forgive me for what I'm about to write. But I must ask for even greater forgiveness. I really can't do it anymore. Today… You'll find out, anyway. I love you all very much. Remember that! I've always loved you. Always…"

He couldn't read any further. Whenever he picked up the letter…

He took it. He took it from her house because he knew it was for him. Addressed to everyone, but to him most of all. He felt it, he simply felt it.

The curtain fluttered louder, and downstairs he heard the door slam. A draft. Just like back then. When was it? Wednesday? Thursday?

Yes, it was Thursday…

"Where is she!?" he shouted.

"Where!?"

Joanna's mother didn't even move. She sat staring at the beige curtain with brown patterns. He stood silently for a moment, when suddenly a draft closed the door behind him. The breeze knocked a piece of paper off the table, which slid along the leg of a nearby chair. When he recognized Joanna's handwriting...

"You never took her seriously. She trusted you... I don't know why." Her voice was dry and bitter, but those were the last words he heard from her.

He took the letter and left.

He could forget about Joanna. After all, she was just one of the tenants in his house. Not the first, and not the last... Although he already knew that no one would live here after her.

He could forget about Joanna. Really?

It was impossible, and everyone knew it perfectly well. Besides, even if she weren't there...

He remembered everything. Even their first conversation. She'd called the number in the ad—his, of course. She wanted to rent one or two rooms cheaply. She'd left her husband and was looking for a place to live again. She didn't want to live with her parents again. He'd thought then that she was just another two-month tenant. But she'd lived here for six months. Only six months...

Often, when she went shopping, he'd looked at her from his window. She always seemed so fragile. He knew it. He damn well knew it!!! He slammed the drawer shut with all his might. The dresser creaked, smashing into the wall. A small shadow quickly disappeared from under the crack in the door. Marcin began to watch him. That is, he imagined he was still there. Sometimes he imagined someone was with him. A shadow that knew what he was thinking. And judged his decisions. His every, even the smallest, move... But now that shadow was real. So why had he allowed himself to be deceived by another illusion?

"I'm too easily deceived," he thought. His greatest illusion was that nothing would change, that he would have time. Six months was a long time. How human it is to waste six months! He went back to the window. He looked at the pale, daytime moon looming in the bright blue sky.

In the evenings, sometimes even at night, he heard a melody drifting from below. As soon as he heard the first bars of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata," he would get up and look out the window, searching for the moon. He promised himself that when Joan played it under a full moon, he would come down to her and tell her how he truly felt. But that never happened. She had never played that sonata in his presence either… Did she know what he intended?

That sound… How much he would give to hear it then. How much he would give to hear it again…

He could forget about her… Never! Never! Never!

The first bars of the "Moonlight Sonata" slowly spread across the empty apartment. Marcin froze. Sounds emanated from below, one after another, as if from a dark tomb. The clock on the wall began to strike 5 p.m. Marcin suddenly jumped and ran to the door. He ran down the stairs, leaving the clock's steady chimes behind him.

In the living room, a ten-year-old girl sat at the piano. As if she hadn't heard the footsteps on the stairs, she played Beethoven with great devotion.

"I'm leaving, but my heart is at peace. I know you will take care of my beloved Kasia. My mother is too old and can't cope with a sick child. Besides, you, Marcin, understand this best. Everything is already arranged. Thanks to the insurance money, Kasia will be able to undergo surgery. You shouldn't have any problems obtaining adoption rights either. And one last request. For Kasieńka, this is supposed to be an accident. It was always supposed to be an accident. Besides, you, Marcin, understand this best. You are the only one who can help her. Please."