Autumn evening. The silence is broken only by a mischievous seagull drifting above the lake. It glides on waves of a breeze that pushes through the tall grass on the shore all the way to the feet of little Johny. He barely notices its touch. His eyes are fixed on the virgin peaks of a massive glacier in the distance — a glacier beneath which our story unfolds.
Beneath the glacier, a village stretches out like a quiet painting. Narrow roads, wooden houses, lights in the windows. On one of the streets stands a restaurant full of guests. Laughter and the clinking of glasses echo through the rooms all the way into the kitchen.
There, a different world reigns.
“One chateaubriand, risotto, and two schnitzels!” the chef commands.
“Yes, chef!” comes the response in unison.
The team answers precisely, without hesitation. The team — except for one.
He stands aside, wrapped in a chef’s jacket, his rough expression stirring fear at a glance. He stands with his head lowered over the board. With firm movements, he prepares meat for the next orders. He does not look up. He does not say a word.
“Didn’t he hear?” the new colleague asks quietly.
“No,” replies the other, without emotion. “He doesn’t speak. He only listens.”
And so it is.
A silent man among flames, steam, and steel. His hands work precisely, almost flawlessly. As if his voice has moved into his fingers, into the knife, into the rhythm of work. As if everything he once wanted to say, he now says only through food.
When the evening ends and the last plates leave the pass, he lifts his head, takes off his apron, throws a jacket over his shoulders, and leaves. Without goodbye. Without a single word.
His body moves through the streets of the village, absorbing a cold he himself does not perceive. He walks slowly, as if his legs carry him on their own, without decision. He keeps going until darkness and cold swallow him.
In the morning, he is back.
As always.
Right on time. He lowers his head and continues preparing, as if the night did not exist.
Today the kitchen is quieter. Only he and the chef are working. The chef paces back and forth and finally says, “I have to leave for a few hours today, you’ll have to hold it here.”
For the first time, the silent cook looks at him. Just for a moment. Then he nods slightly.
“I can handle it alone,” he says in a whisper.
A brief silence fills the kitchen.
The chef looks at him for a moment, as if unsure whether he really heard that voice. Then gratitude flickers across his face.
“Thank you.”
The cook only nods.
The door closes. The footsteps fade. The kitchen remains his.
The flames of the burners hiss. Knives lie ready. Distant, muffled laughter of guests drifts in. And in the middle of it all stands him — alone.
For a while, he works. Automatically. One movement after another. Oil, butter, meat, salt.
He stops.
He leans his palms on the counter and lowers his head.
And he begins to cry.
Not violently. Not loudly. Just quietly, as if even the crying had no right to be heard. Tears fall onto the cold steel and he stands there, broken in the middle of work, in the middle of the day, in the middle of a life that continues regardless of what a person has lost.
He closes his eyes.
“Thank you” — why is it so easy now? Why…?
Smoke fills his thoughts, a smile appears on his face.
His hands move on their own. The meat sizzles, the butter foams, the knives fall exactly where they should. The kitchen lives and he with it. Everything has its place. Everything makes sense.
Clink. He glances aside. A message. He smiles.
Clink, clink. One after another. He wipes his hands on his apron and picks up his phone.
“When will you finish?”
“I miss you.”
“I’ll come for you..”
He smiles more. Briefly, naturally. “In a moment.”
For a moment, he stops. In that second, everything is simple. He is here. She is here. The world holds together.
He puts the phone down and continues.
But something moves. Quietly. Subtly. Like a shadow that does not yet have a shape. Out of nowhere, an image appears in his head. She is standing in front of the restaurant. Waiting. Someone walks past her. Maybe stops. Maybe says something. Maybe smiles.
Unnecessary. He pushes it away and continues working.
Clink. He looks again.
“Just a moment ❤️”
A small, warm heart. And yet he cannot feel it fully. Only part of it. The other part is already thinking — who will be there, who she will meet, why she feels the need to go somewhere else.
He grips the phone a little tighter, then immediately lets go. He takes a deep breath.
“Don’t do this,” he tells himself in his mind.
He knows it. He knows it is not real. He knows he loves her. He knows she loves him. And yet the feeling does not leave. It just waits.
In the evening, she stands beside him. Close, calm, as always.
“We’ll go out for a bit,” she says gently.
He looks at her. For a moment.
“With whom?”
“With a friend… maybe someone else will come,” she answers quietly.
He nods, but something tightens in his chest.
“You don’t have to go,” he says before he can stop himself. He immediately corrects it. “I mean… if you want, go.”
She looks at him longer. She understands.
“If you don’t want, I won’t go,” she says.
Without pressure. Without defense. Just for him.
And that is the worst part.
Because he knows he should let her. He knows he should say “go” and truly mean it. But that feeling…
“I just don’t want…” he begins, but does not finish. He cannot explain it without it sounding wrong. “I don’t want to limit you.”
She smiles softly. “I’ll go for a while… okay?”
He nods. “Okay.” And this time it sounds right. At least outwardly.
When she leaves, everything stays the same. Only he does not.
He works precisely, automatically. But in his head, the same image returns. Again and again. Possibilities, not reality. And yet stronger than anything real.
Days pass and she adapts. “If it bothers you, I won’t go.” “If you want, I’ll stay.” She never pushes, never resists. She just takes away parts of herself.
And her world slowly shrinks. Less laughter, fewer people, less of her.
He sees it. But differently.
He sees that she is with him. That she stays. That she loves him.
One day, it is spoken. Not aloud, not directly, just as a thought that can no longer be suppressed.
“He still writes to you.”
She looks at him. “He’s just a colleague.”
He nods. He knows it. And at the same time, he doesn’t fully believe it. He hates what his mind can create.
“It’s just… I’m not comfortable with it,” he says quietly.
She nods. She does not resist, does not defend herself. “Okay,” she replies.
And that’s where it ends. Outwardly.
A few days later, she sits beside him. Quiet, calm.
“We have an end-of-year dinner at work,” she says carefully. “I’ll go there… okay?”
He stops. Just for a moment. Everything starts running in his head at once. Images, voices, possibilities that never happened, yet feel more real than reality.
He knows what he should say. He knows he should say “go.”
He looks at her.
“I don’t want you to go.”
He doesn’t accuse. He doesn’t shout. He just says it.
And with that, it is decided.
She looks at him. Not angry. Just quietly.
“Okay,” she replies.
That evening, they stay home. Next to each other. And yet not completely together.
When she falls asleep, he stays awake. He looks into the darkness and begins to cry. Quietly, so as not to wake her. So no one would see. So that even he himself would not have to fully admit what is happening inside him.
He knows he ruined it. He knows it wasn’t right. He knows he took something from her again.
And yet… in that moment, he couldn’t do otherwise.
When the crying fades, he lies closer to her. She moves. She wasn’t fully asleep.
“Do you love me?” she asks quietly.
Her voice is soft, but underneath it there is fear. Real fear.
He rises on his elbow and looks at her. “Yes, I love you.”
He is silent for a moment.
“Will you stay with me?”
He takes a deep breath. “I wouldn’t be able to live without you.”
They move closer together.
For a moment, there is silence. Then he strokes her hair, slowly.
“Do you love me?” she asks again.
“You are the only one I want in my life,” he whispers.
He closes his eyes and continues, as if speaking more to himself than to her.
“I will take you…” he pauses for a moment, searching for words, “…I will take you, open the door here,” he grabs his chest, “and place you into my heart. You will live there. It is entirely yours.”
She presses closer to him. She wants to believe it. So much.
He needs only her.
She needs the world too.
And love, no matter how great, cannot always replace the space to breathe.
Days pass outwardly calmly. Without big explosions, without scenes. Just small things that repeat. Looks that last a second longer. Questions that don’t need to be spoken aloud. Silence that settles between them more and more often.
He tries, holds it inside, swallows words before they come out. He convinces himself that this time will be different.
But it takes little. A message he notices. A name that sticks in his head. A memory of something that never happened, yet sounds convincing. And it comes again. Not violently, more tiredly.
“That colleague…” he begins.
He stops. He knows it has no meaning. He knows she has heard it before. And yet he says it.
She looks at him, not accusing, just tired. And that is worse than anything before.
“I can’t handle this,” she says quietly. Without emotion, without defense. Just a statement.
The silence between them is heavy. He lowers his gaze. He knows what she means.
“I’m trying,” he says as a last attempt to explain that there is no bad intention in it.
He looks at her. He truly sees her. Standing in front of him, still there, still with him — and yet already as if halfway gone. He sees that she is not happy.
And for the first time, he just accepts it.
He slowly nods.
“I know.”
That word hangs in the air. Without fight. Without more sentences.
She lowers her eyes. Maybe she expected him to stop her. To say something more.
But he cannot hold her like this anymore, precisely because he loves her so much.
There is silence between them.
They are close and yet so far.
And in that silence, it ends.
An empty apartment. An empty life.
From tears, he shapes her. Just as he wants to have her in his memory. Without flaws, without fear, without moments that pulled them apart. He places her on his palm and opens the door of his empty, grey heart. She steps in. And before he closes it, he enters there with her. That is where he lives now. That is where he feels loved.
His body remains outside. An empty shell that provides only an ordinary life. Without purpose. Without energy. It just walks through grey streets and senses a familiar cold that it no longer even perceives.
It is morning. The body arrives at work and begins the usual routine. Movements are precise, learned, focused only on the reality it can handle. Everything goes as it should. Except for a small mistake. The knife catches differently than it should. A second of inattention. The blade cuts into his finger. He jolts.
Darkness.
He is completely cold. Drops of sweat on his forehead. He is shaking. He opens his eyes. He is lying on a bed in a warm room, covered by a blanket with a floral pattern. His breath slowly returns. For a moment he just lies there, trying to understand where he is. Then he turns to the left and feels her. Her scent. The warmth at his side.
For a moment, he does not believe it. But that scent is real. He hugs her and in that moment his life fills with happiness.
She moves, wakes up. She looks at him, sees his expression. She smiles gently, kisses him, and quietly says: “It was just a dream.”
They get out of bed. The morning is quiet, calm. On the sunny terrace, they make coffee. He sits opposite her and notices every detail — the light, her movement, her presence. She is here.
He leaves for work. The kitchen welcomes him with the same noise, the same rhythm. Apron, knife, flame. He starts his shift. But this time with a smile, with the feeling that life is fulfilled.
And among the sounds of orders, he now hears that beautiful clink again.