On it – the furnace. That same furnace, only many years ago. Open, smoke rises from the throat, and two figures stand in front of it. A man with a hunting rifle, dressed in the old type of forest uniform, and a woman, young, with a towel on his head, smiling, with his hands on his waist, as if laughing over something the man had just said.
He flipped the picture. On the back – with a pencil, slightly faded:
“1962, our furnace. G.”
D.
From one letter a person can stumble.
The woman in the photo looked suspiciously familiar. He was the kind of woman who in Strandja called “strong” – a face with sharp features, eyes in which there is more laughter than fear.
Christo felt something in the stomach – not hunger, but memory.
He took a second picture.
On it – the same man, but already in a formal forest uniform. Next to him – two children, a boy and a girl, perhaps 7‐8 years old, sitting on a fallen trunk, with backpacks. On the back – “First class, ours.”
“Ours” – whose?
He took a breath, put down the photos, and unfolded the first sheet.
“Christ,
If you’re reading this, then someone opened the furnace.
It could be you. It could be another. There may have been people I don’t know.
I left this box here because this place is the only place I’m not afraid of. The forest won’t betray me. People – can.
