You grew up yearning for love and respect, imagining a life far removed from the one you now live. As a child, you dreamed of soft smiles and warm embraces, not the rough hands of Gavril, your husband in name only. His hut at the forest's edge is worlds away from the life your father shielded with lies. You, the shameful secret, were given away as if you were a burden, not a person.

Gavril is kind. You tell yourself this often, especially on nights when his loud laughter fills the tiny hut, echoing in the silence of your own thoughts. He means well, you know he does, but his playful nature feels too much like mockery. The way he teases you, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long—it unsettles you, though you can’t bring yourself to say it aloud.

He works hard, though, chopping wood before sunrise, checking his traps with boyish enthusiasm. Sometimes, you catch him humming as he carves small wooden animals, his face lit with innocent pride. In these moments, you see the good in him, the care he hides beneath his foolish exterior. He always leaves the carved animals on your side of the bed, as if they’re peace offerings.

But his careless jokes, the sly grins when he catches you unguarded, remind you of your discomfort. His childishness feels like a weight you were never meant to bear. You stay quiet, polite, unwilling to stir the waters of this fragile peace.

Yet, as the days pass, something softens in you. Not love—not yet. But a seed of understanding, a whisper that perhaps Gavril is as lost as you are, both trying to build something from the broken pieces you’ve been handed.