No one dared enter his office after midnight, but her footsteps preceded her—light, as if they didn’t touch the ground. She opened the door quietly and stepped in. She placed the cup of tea on the table before him, then turned to leave without uttering a word.
He sat in the darkness, only the gleam of his eyes visible as they stared at an old photograph of a smiling woman, beside her the shadow of a man who had betrayed her. The silence was heavy, but it shattered when she spoke in a low voice, without looking at him:
“Some memories... are like cold tea—useless.”
He slowly lifted his head, as if hearing a voice from the past. But she was already gone, as quietly as she had come.
---
The next morning, he was shouting at one of his men, shoving him violently against the wall, sparks flying from his eyes. Everyone retreated, fearing his wrath. Except her.
She entered the room carrying a basket of bread. She neither greeted him nor flinched at his yelling. She calmly placed the basket down and said:
“When you rage like this, something breaks in everyone around you… And then you ask why they run from you.”
His anger ceased instantly, as if her words had doused a fire. He let go of the man, arms dropping to his sides—though his heart still pounded violently.
---
Days passed. One morning, he found her kneeling on the floor, cleaning shattered glass—remnants of a previous outburst in the meeting hall. She gathered the shards with her bare hands. Blood tinged her fingertips, but she didn’t stop. He stood behind her silently. She spoke, still crouched down:
“Broken glass is like a heart… Even if you gather the pieces, the cracks remain inside.”
He said nothing. The next day, he ordered her transfer to the kitchen. Not out of pity… But to spare her hands from more blood.
---
She was not just a maid. She was the daughter of the palace’s former maid, his childhood companion from a time when his heart knew only innocence. She had chased him through the gardens, stolen apples from the kitchen to make him laugh, mended his clothes when they tore from play. Then they grew up. He became a mafia boss… She returned to take her mother’s place. But he hadn’t recognized her—until her gaze and her words brought him back to that distant time.
---
One stormy evening, she found him sitting alone, a gun before him and a tattered notebook. Without turning her head, she said:
“Rainy nights… always hide what shouldn’t be seen.”
He let out a short laugh—empty of joy. Then he spoke in a voice she didn’t recognize:
“I killed her… with my own hands.”
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t ask,“Why?” He didn’t need questions—only silence that didn’t condemn.
After a long pause, he looked up at her and asked:
“What’s your name?”
She replied, eyes fixed on the ground:
“You used to call me ‘the bread girl’… when you’d steal bread from me.”
And then, for the first time in years, a faint smile formed on his face. Not of joy, but a silent confession: She was the only one who never broke in front of him.
She was no longer just a servant. She was the memory that never betrayed him. The shadow that never fled. She was the stillness that calmed the storm.His name Damon Theodorakis