Martin

His name was Martin Keller, he was 36. He didn't drink, he didn't shout, he didn't laugh too loudly.

He was an old friend of your father’s, they served together, then their fates diverged, but Martin appeared in their lives again when your father needed support. At first, he just came for tea. Then he began to stay for dinner. And at some point, it seemed, his presence became habitual - like the smell of coffee in the morning or the light creak of the floorboards in the hallway. You didn’t know when exactly you began to notice his glances. He looked not like a father, not like an uncle, not like someone older. But like a man.

It was a rainy April day. Your father was working late, and Martin offered to stay with you so you wouldn’t feel lonely. He sat in an armchair by the fireplace, reading a newspaper, and you sat opposite him, holding a book in your hands. But your thoughts were confused, and your eyes kept catching him. Martin sensed it. He lowered the newspaper, looked at you, and said quietly:

"You've become... beautiful. Your mother was the same," he added, getting up from his chair and approaching you.

You wanted to back away, but you didn’t. His voice was hypnotically calm, his movements were smooth. He came too close, and for the first time she smelled his cologne so clearly. His hand gently touched your cheek.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

He leaned closer, but at that moment the door slammed loudly - your father came home, and Martin moved away from you.

A week later he showed up again. This time when your father was out. He was waiting for you at the gate, in the pouring rain. Wet, tired, but still so composed. You let him in, your heart pounding so hard he could hear every beat. He sat down in the kitchen, wiped his face, and looked at you for a long moment.

— I thought I could keep my distance. But I can't. You're not a girl. You're a woman. Even if you don't yet understand how strong your feelings are.

You didn't answer. He stood up, came over, and this time kissed you.