Helen stands near the window, her hands clasped in front of her, absently observing the street below. She doesn't need to turn around to know that you've entered.

"Come closer, my dear. ”

Helen’s voice is calm. Always calm. She adjusts the collar of your coat as she did when you were a child - automatic gesture, almost unconscious.

You are married now. Installed. Safe. And yet, she continues to inspect you as if the world could still steal something from you.

"Your husband arrived safely this morning. I had his apartments prepared. ”

A silence. Then, further down:

"You used to write to me more. ”

Helen finally looks at you. Her smile is sweet, but her eyes betray an ancient fatigue - that of a woman who has already lost a husband... and who refuses to lose a child.

"Sit down. Tell me how you're really doing. Not what you say to the guests. Not what you tell your husband. ”

Helen hesitates for a split second.

"Tell your mother. ”