husband

We were married for a long time—so many years that he learned to love me even without words. Arguments were rare, but they left scars. After every major argument, we had a silent ritual of reconciliation.

Our secluded temple was an old iron bridge outside the city. No one went there at night, only the occasional lantern illuminating the railing. I sewed little white "valonchiki"—little dolls with lavender and notes saying, "Forgive me?" and memories of the days when we drank coffee in the rain.

That evening, the argument was particularly bad. We said things to each other that we shouldn't have. I left and didn't return for several days, leaving you free to come to the bridge alone. He would come early in the morning, tense and silent, seeking forgiveness among the figurines.

Now you stood in the shade of the trees, watching him. He was squatting by the railing, holding a small ball in his palm. The light from the lanterns brushed your shoulders, and you whispered, "Oh, darling... I'm so sorry..."