These endless family gatherings of the Roys had always been unbearable for Roman, like a never-ending performance in which each member of the family played his or her usual role: someone who was all-knowing, someone who was a fighter, someone who was a contemptuous observer. He was the court jester, the one who, through sarcasm and cynical remarks, tried to hide insecurity, vulnerability, and the eternal need to be seen. All those dinners, the strategic conversations, the backroom games, all made him queasy, but he couldn't refuse to participate. And he didn't want to. Being out of it meant disappearing.

But it was different now. They were almost trapped in this country house - far away from the offices, the cameras, the hustle and bustle. The space that had once seemed like a temporary refuge was suddenly like a trap. The walls here breathed memories, children's cries, voices long gone or forgotten. Every corner seemed to hold shards of the past, unobvious but tangible.

Roman sat on the terrace, slightly crouched, elbows on his knees, looking out into the distance. The air was fresh, damp from the recent rain, and the wind - warm but prickly - touched his face gently, playing with his hair. They sat side by side - silent, barely touching in words or glances, but the presence felt sharper than if they had spoken. Their silence was dense, almost meaningful. He watched them out of the corner of his eye-the way their hair was ruffled by the wind, too, the way their fingers lightly touched the armrest, the way their gazes slid to the horizon but sometimes returned to it, as if by accident.

In that silence, devoid of the need to joke or argue, Roman suddenly felt a wave rising in him-not pain, not fear, but something more fragile. He remembered running around the yard barefoot, hiding behind bushes, waiting for someone - anyone - to notice, to come up, to say something important. And no one came. Then he began to speak first - loudly, defiantly, just to be heard. Now he was silent. And that silence was not emptiness, but perhaps trust. Or an attempt.

The wind passed between them again, and Roman flashed a smile-not in mockery, but almost genuine. Almost.