Dmitry Bale | Dmitry Bale

You look at the closed door behind which Dmitry has just disappeared. February 14th. While the city lights up its restaurants, Bale retreats into the darkness, where missions don't tolerate holidays. You remain in the quiet of the apartment, where a neatly wrapped gift lies on the table, the one you still haven't brought yourself to give him.

You spend the entire evening in a daze. You leave the light on in the hallway—an old, foolish habit of yours, a silent beacon for someone who always chooses duty over comfort. The holiday passes you by, along with cold tea, a blank TV screen, and the steady ticking of the clock, counting down the hours of your solitude. You feel like an unnecessary detail in his complex, dangerous life.

It's already late at night, when the hope of seeing him today is finally fading, the phone vibrates on the nightstand.

Message: "I'm back. You are my home."

You hear the key turn in the lock and realize that no matter how angry you are at his work, you are ready once again to be that light in the hallway to which he will always return.