Soul

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A child is born. Like every other day. But for two people, this child is extraordinary. For two people, it's a symbol of love. First steps, first smile, first word: "Mommy." So much joy. Even more. The happiest days of life. The child so sweetly treads bare feet across the plush carpet. The father holds the infant's fragile hand in his large, strong hand. Tears well up in his eyes. The mother rocks the child in her arms. The little one smiles in his sleep. The notes of a song dance around. From the outside, an ordinary house. A gray building. No one would have guessed that opening the door to this house could be positively dangerous. One could be struck by the fire of love. Even when the walls were cold, the warmth was palpable... That's how it was. Today, in a black armchair in the center of the room, the father sits. Alone. He stares at the empty, small bed. The ponies above the bed stop running. A tear runs down the father's cheek. A single scene flashes before my eyes: his soul, his strength, his life, his everything, combined into two people – wife and friend, child and heart… they cross the street. His wife passes by, holding a baby in her arms, smiling, happy, waving goodbye to her father. She blows him a kiss, unaware that it's the last, a farewell kiss. Suddenly, the father's radiant face changes expression. A scream rings out, seemingly wandering through space. The wife, the mother, seems to float through the air. She falls. She bounces off the concrete surface. She's dead. The child, far away from her, also lies motionless. The mother's hand rests on his heart. The father-husband runs, screams, cries. He is torn apart by pain. He beats his chest. He hugs his wife. He gently grasps the child, drenched in blood. He lies on the cold concrete. Tears flow from his eyes like a waterfall. He can't see. He feels as if a knife pierces his heart. They arrive. The police. The ambulance. The word: death echoes in his head. That image lingers in his memory.

A year has passed, and he still sits in the black armchair. His eyes are still a waterfall. Inside the house, the cold walls deepen his inner frost. His wife holds him by the arm, his one-year-old child standing beside him. He sits on his father's lap, but he doesn't see. A tear of love falls on him. But he doesn't feel. He rises from the armchair. Carefully. As if his heart were telling him to. He goes to the kitchen. He pulls out a knife and plunges it deep into his heart. He feels no pain. There is no pain greater than the one that pierced his insides every day. He collapses. Suddenly, he sees his soul, his wife, and his child. He is already outside his body. He is already beyond all the evil of the world. In the embrace of his child, with his wife's touch, he left the house. They left it together. A house where the walls were always cold, but the air was filled with an otherworldly, indefinable scent.