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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The view from the roof always seems unusual, even the area you know like the back of your hand, having explored every nook and cranny, and knowing how many bricks are in the house across the street, from one window to the next. Even your own backyard, where you grew up, and every curb knows the size of your childhood shoe. And in the cracks between the entrance door and the old rusty pipe, there is still a note for the girl from the parallel class, which she probably will never read. Even these places from the roof will seem different.
From the roof, the noisy morning, the hustle and bustle of the waking city, the wafting smells of coffee from open kitchen windows, the creaky gate of the daycare fence through which mothers drop off their sleepy, crying children, all seem beautiful. Who and why invented these daycares, and when? Of course, there is rationality in them, but it contradicts everything natural. How many children, out of all those brought there, don’t cry? Probably only a few, or the most resilient ones, who fear the wrath of strict parents and hold back all tears inside, swallowing them quietly along with their sadness.
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Back then, just ten years ago, in that house, my mom and dad fought. They were young and happy, despite everything that was happening in the world. They didn’t have wealth, iron doors, and bars on the windows like everyone else; it was dangerous at night without additional security measures. Marauders and robbers broke windows and took everything that was accessible. There were cries everywhere, the sound of shattered glass, gunshots. Everyone kept weapons in their apartment. We had nothing but lace curtains that at least partially covered our lives.
Perhaps they didn’t break into our home because we already had nothing. In the mornings, Mom always brewed coffee, fragrant, homemade, beloved. Coffee – the scent of my home, of Mom. We woke up to this aroma with Dad and slowly, half-asleep, made our way to the kitchen. There were almost never any delicious pastries for breakfast; only on rare occasions did we have fresh bread. Dad wrapped me in a blanket and sat me on his lap; back then, I didn’t think it wouldn’t always be like that, but now I would give anything to sit like that for just a couple of minutes.
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