So we were friends for almost a week. I hardly learned anything about her, but it felt like she was the closest person in the world to me. Then she was taken away. In my free time, I also look at her roof. Sometimes it seems to me that I see her eyes and hear her mentally responding to me.
Theres another small roof in this city that I rarely look at, but her image is always inside me. I cant say if I love this roof or if its a source of great sadness for me. Every time I scan the city with my gaze, I try to skip that place, probably because Im afraid to see emptiness, ruins, or something even worse.
I was born in that house. It wasnt big, even when I was very little. It had only one room and a corner for the kitchen. But even then, I understood that it doesnt matter how big your house is; what matters is whether there are people in it who love you or not.
At birth, my name wasnt given to me right away. Back then, names were chosen like a precious gift that determined your entire life. My mom and dad chose it with special care. They wanted it to have a special power that would be combined with wisdom and prudence, a particle of love that would determine my actions and deeds, tenderness towards beauty, and courage in the face of difficulties. They wanted to put everything necessary into it, like in a box of gifts, but its just a name, a few syllables made of letters.
Later, my mom said she read my name in my eyes, as if I had suggested it to her when the newborn veil fell from them, and I saw her for the first time. Of course, I couldnt remember that moment, but Ive imagined it so many times, as if I really do remember. They named me Yanis.
Back then, just ten years ago, in that house, my mom and dad fought. They were young and happy, despite everything that was happening in the world. They didnt have wealth, iron doors, and bars on the windows like everyone else; it was dangerous at night without additional security measures. Marauders and robbers broke windows and took everything that was accessible. There were cries everywhere, the sound of shattered glass, gunshots. Everyone kept weapons in their apartment. We had nothing but lace curtains that at least partially covered our lives.
Perhaps they didnt break into our home because we already had nothing. In the mornings, Mom always brewed coffee, fragrant, homemade, beloved. Coffee the scent of my home, of Mom. We woke up to this aroma with Dad and slowly, half-asleep, made our way to the kitchen. There were almost never any delicious pastries for breakfast; only on rare occasions did we have fresh bread. Dad wrapped me in a blanket and sat me on his lap; back then, I didnt think it wouldnt always be like that, but now I would give anything to sit like that for just a couple of minutes.
After breakfast, my parents went to work, and I often stayed alone. The neighbor, who had three more children two of her own and one foster child, looked after me. Most of the time, I spent playing with them sometimes with homemade toy cars, more imaginary than real, sometimes pretending to be pirates and brave invaders from the tales we were told before bed, and sometimes, when we got tired of each other, we played hide and seek. You would hide among some clutter in a closet or a pantry and sit quietly, kind of wanting to be found, but also not really, enjoying the peace and quiet.
In the evenings, I was so happy to see Mom and Dad returning that I would run to meet them as soon as I saw them at the beginning of the road leading to our house. One day they didnt come back; they left in the morning and never returned. I searched every stretch of that road, hoping that at any moment they would both appear, and I would see them and run to them so fast that I could fly. I would reach them, hug them as tight as I could, and tell them how much I missed them and waited for them, how much I love them. I would beg them never to leave me alone again. And they would calm me down, lifting me up in their arms. We would slowly walk home, and I would tell them how I waited for them all day long. Let my words repeat, so they would know and hear the importance of it all, feel how much they mean to me.
All night I watched from the window. I used to be afraid of the dark, but now I had no time for it. Cold air blew in through the window, and my hands started to freeze, but I was afraid to leave and miss them. Three more days passed like this until our neighbor received a phone call informing her that they had died. They were poisoned by toxic gas in a minor accident at the station. It was a small incident, not many people were harmed, but they were both there. I was left alone.
Now there was no one to wait for, everything inside me shattered into tiny pieces. It seemed like dying with them right now would be the best thing in the world. How can one accept this? When you realize youre alone, everything changes completely. The world seems entirely different, as if everything you wanted and found interesting before is now irrelevant. Whether you want to eat or not doesnt matter anymore; all desires disappear, leaving only one: for them to come back.
Thoughts of miracles arise. Suddenly, if I start praying now and ask God to make it a mistake, to let them stay alive, maybe it could happen. But deep down, I knew it wouldnt help, that nothing would help at all. The neighbor was already struggling to raise three children; I would be entirely unnecessary for her, although she offered me to stay with them, but I knew it was just out of politeness.
I didnt take long to pack; there werent many things: Moms small mirror, which she looked into every morning while combing her long hair; a toy train given by Dad, with a hidden compartment where small trinkets like marbles and buttons were stored; and the keys to our house, which by inheritance should have been mine, but since I couldnt assert my rights yet, and we had no relatives, the house was taken from me. Thats how I ended up on the roof of shelter number nine, and since then, Ive never walked past my home again.
I prefer to say that Im exactly on the roof; here, few people encroach on my space, just a couple of cats and chirping sparrows, and both are looking for warmer spots. Of course, they occupied these royal observation spots before me, but Im a quiet resident, not taking up much space. Sometimes I bring them bread crumbs, and oh, the joy they feel! They all gather for the feast, and I feel like a full-fledged member of this family, which warms my soul and makes me happier.
You could almost write a little story about each building, and it would differ based on this aerial perspective rather than from below. Every brick corner has its own happy and sad stories; perhaps some of them could even tell stories about me, things I myself have forgotten.
Today its raining since the morning, it often does now, as if autumn has replaced summer and spring. I brought breakfast and a couple of books with me, planning to shelter under the eaves on the roof. With this intention, sneaking past the classroom and all the supervisors unnoticed, I found myself right in the attic. Theres always plenty of dust here, but its quiet and doesnt interfere with thinking, so let it lie.
For a moment, I thought the light bulb flickered or my head spun; maybe I just climbed the stairs too quickly, and I havent had breakfast yet. Spreading out the newspaper on the crates that had been here long before me, I settled in with a sandwich in my left hand and a book in my right.
This time it wasnt my imagination. I distinctly felt the floor tilting in front of me, and the crates treacherously slid away from under me as I plopped down on the dusty, cold floor. It felt like an earthquake; I needed to urgently climb back up. Panic set in my mind. The buildings were all old and could collapse, it seemed, even from the wind.