1985, Strandja Mountain: my father-in-law, a forest inspector on 42 hectares, opened the old coal furnace during a detour – what he found inside, he krilled all his life.

I can’t live in a country that makes me sign reports, listen to the forests cut “as planned” and keep quiet about what I see.

You can.
I don’t.

You are a forest inspector.
I am

a woman who doesn’t want to be inspected for the rest of her life.

I’m going.”

Here the letter ended.

After him there was a second sheet, folded separately, with another handwriting, but the same “G” at the end.

Christ unfolded it.

“Christ,

if you’re still reading, you haven’t left the box closed.

It could be a month, a year, a decade.

Years have passed for me.

It’s different beyond the border.

There are forests that don’t cut with plans, there are people who don’t ask you about your neighbors, there is another kind of silence.

It kills again, but quietly.

I’ll tell you the most important thing:

You have a son.

I don’t know if they’ll tell you.

They don’t say things like that to men like you here.
They tell them to men who want to hear them.

You didn’t want to.