"Lead to the archive room," Stoyan said. "There's everything about your father."
"And you?"
I will follow you if you release me.
Daniel looked at the straps.
He meant to say no.
He wanted to leave his grandfather tied up, as he had left his father in this story.
But he couldn't.
Despite the anger, it was his grandfather.
The man who taught him to ride a bike.
Who showed him how to cut a tree without hurting yourself.
Who made him slices of honey when his mother worked late.
His hands trembled as he unbuttoned the first strap.
The skin on Stoyan's wrists was red and scraped.
"How long have you been here?" asked Daniel.
Since I came back from the funeral.
"What?"
I wasn’t in the coffin.
Then who did we bury?
Stoyan hesitated.
One of the guardians.
Daniel pulled back.
"No.
"It was necessary.
What does it mean to be “imposed”?
He was dead long ago. Just his body... – Stoyan stopped. “We don’t have time.”
Daniel unbuttoned the second belt.
Before he could make it to the third, the lights went out.
Everyone.
There was a total darkness.
Then there was the sound of dragging steps.
And someone's voice.
Very quiet.
Standing...
His grandfather stood still.
"Don't answer," he whispered.
The voice was heard again.
Closer.
"Stoyan, son...
Daniel felt the hair on his hands go up.
The voice was a woman's voice.
Old.
Warm.
"Is that Grandma Anna?" he whispered.
Stoyan turned pale.
"No.
But it sounds like her.
"That's why you don't answer.
There was crying from the darkness.
Stoyan, come. I'm so alone.
Daniel almost dropped the belt.
Then he heard something scratching on the stone.
Somewhere in the hallway.
Close.
He pulled the third belt.
Stoyan fell forward.
Daniel got him.
It was lighter than you expected.
As someone who's been sick for a long time.
"The corridor," Stoyan said. "Now."
They're leaving.
The archive room was small and full of metal cabinets.
In the middle was a desk with a dusty computer from an old model. Next to it — folders, tapes, tapes and boxes with inscriptions.
Daniel closed the door behind them.
On the other side, something hit her.
Once.
Then a second time.
Stoyan leaned against the desk, panting.
"Find the "Boris Stoyanov" folder.
Daniel started digging.
The cabinets were stacked by years. 1974. 1982. 1991. 2001. 2011.
Find a folder with a red label.
“BORIS STOYANOV — SUBJECT 47.”
His hands were shaking.
Object?
"Open up."
There were pictures inside.
His father.
Younger. Exhausted. With a beard he had never worn.
