He didn’t say “Gina.” He didn’t say “my son beyond.”
But there was more to this answer than it seemed.
The box was in the basement.
Sometimes, when he went down to get a jar of chutney or a rusty tool, Hristo would look at it. He wouldn’t open it. He wouldn’t move it. He would just make sure it was there.
“A life I haven’t lived,” whispered in his head.
He continued to live the life he had chosen:
to be the father of one son in the village, the husband of one wife, the forest inspector of 42 hectares.
To go to work, to count trees, to write reports, to bake meatballs in the yard.
And somewhere in what seemed like a normal everyday thing, this box was like a stone in the shoe – it doesn’t stop you from walking, but it makes you step more carefully.
When he got sick, his heart began to “skip.” Doctors were talking about medication, rest, diet. No one talked to him about Strandja, about the furnace, about Gina.
One night, before entering the hospital for another procedure, he summoned his son to the yard.
“I have to tell you one thing,” it began, with that tone that people use when they know there may not be a next time.
Stefan sat on the bench, expecting “banal” – some forgotten mortgage, hidden money, old sins.
“That day in Strandja…” – Hristo began.
Who “the last day”?
“In 1985,” he said softly. “The furnace.”
And he told the story.
He told the story of the fog, of the furnace, of the box, of the photographs, of the letters. Of Gina. Of “You have a son.” Of “a life you didn’t live.”
Stefan listened to him with eyes that grew wider and wider.
Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
“Because I didn’t know what you were going to do with it,” Hristo replied. “And I didn’t want you to make it an occasion to quarrel with your mother, to feel cheated. That truth was not about your table. It was for mine.
“We have a brother somewhere,” Stefan whispered.
– You might have – his father corrected him. – You might not have. Gina might have written to hurt me. She might have written the truth. I didn’t check. And now there’s no way.
– There was a way – the son insisted. – After the 90s, you could have searched, asked, to…
– And if I found him – interrupted Hristo – what would I give him? Me. At 60. Sick. The past. The time for his father was when the furnace was still smoking. Then I chose to stay here. This cannot be fixed with a quick trip abroad.
