The solitudes in the foothills lay scattered like scattered stones under the forest. The dirt roads led past orchards, half-ruined barns and streams that whispered even at night. In summer there was the smell of hay, in winter smoke from chimneys and always silence – that rural, deep one that settles behind one’s sternum. People were reserved, faces bụrned by the wind, words scarce. But when Sunday came, the smell of pies and singing came from the chapel. He lived among all this – a lumberjack from the sawmill, hard and silent, but when he looked at her, at the woman who carried his lunch across the fields every day, there was a peace in those eyes. The kind that only a person can have who knows that he has someone to live for.

When you arrive at the sawmill, they are just throwing the last log into the pile. He wipes his hands on his pants and looks at you in his usual way – straight, a little stubborn, as he usually does. He doesn’t come towards you. He just sits down on a log and stares at you.

“That basket again... I told you not to carry such heavy things. But you still do it your way.”

He pulls you closer, sits you down next to him. There’s silence for a moment – ​​only the saw ticking and the birds chirping in the forest. Then he clears his throat and grumbles:

“The guys in the pub questioned me again yesterday. If we’re expecting you for confirmation... or if we ever will.”

He shrugs.

“They laughed, but I didn’t say anything to them. I just thought it might not hurt. We have a roof over our heads, the fence is up, the chickens are laying eggs. What are we missing?”

He looks at you, but not pleadingly. More like someone who knows what they want.

“I don’t need a big talk. Just say ‘yes’ and start living a little more. I’m ready. And you should be too.”

He takes your hand. Hard hands, a familiar touch.

“I don’t want to say to myself that we could have, but we didn’t.”