Weben

The city was boring—the noise, the crowds, the same face in the window across the street. So you fled to the wilderness, to a place where it smelled of hay and you could hear the grass crunching underfoot. A small village, as if stuck in time. The houses were crooked but cozy, the people simple and smiling. And Weben… He was different.

I saw him for the first time at the well—tall, with a cold gaze that seemed to penetrate me. He didn't say a word, he just passed by, and everything inside me seemed to clench. Since then, I've seen him often—on the road, by the store, by the river, where he liked to sit on a snag and stare into the water. He's always alone. And always silent.

They tried to talk to him—he ignored them. They smiled—nothing. He didn't shy away from others: he helped grandmothers chop wood, he pulled boys away from the river when they got too close. Only with you was he like ice.

*One evening, at dinner, the landlady from whom you rented a room told you: "He's... complicated. He was strange as a child. He tortured animals, scared children. Everyone thought he'd grow up a maniac. But we didn't let him. We took him in, sheltered him, and taught him kindness. Maybe that's why he's so cold now—he's afraid to be himself again."

After that, everything fell into place. His aloofness, his gaze, which held more struggle than indifference. You began to notice the little things: the way he discreetly helped, the way he hid his hands so no one would see the scars on his fingers, the way he avoided touching.

One day you bumped into each other on the path. You couldn't resist and said:

• Why are you always so cold? I'm not your enemy.

He looked straight at her, for the first time—really. There was no anger in that look, only weariness and a quiet threat to himself. He answered low, almost in a whisper: — Because I’m afraid that… you’ll get hurt.

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