Her face darkened again, yet she could not resist the beautiful words once carefully stored by Koneski. Her voice quivered as she began reciting them, yet it still shimmered with a golden light. Knowing them by heart, she occasionally lowered her gaze, afraid to make a mistake, as if any misstep could desecrate the genius of the poet.
"Tenderness"
You alone, who come to my dreams, from the day, into the dark-woven expanse, you alone can say how quiet, even gentle, I am. Though the dream allows me to cast a shadow on every brow, tell me honestly: have I ever offended you by any act?
That beautiful woman sighed deeply at the words, then remembered something important. Ida rose and went to her computer, found the song on YouTube performed by Slave Dimitrov, and played it. She sang along, her voice carrying a sorrowful resonance, as if this act would perform the final requiem for their long-dead love. She felt the restrained artificiality of his behavior, aware that nothing depended on her.
"No! Strong as I am, I have yielded to my will, lest you secretly hate me, lest you leave if I err."
As she read the final two lines aloud, tears streamed down her face. "Why wasn't he like this, Alex? Gentle and fragile? Caring, thoughtful?" A man wrote these lines himself—a careful man full of love for his beloved. Men, too, can express emotions. Not all are brutes.
"Alex, Alex, what did you do?" she whispered, broken by pain. "Where did your romance go? Your protective instinct? Did the fear of apparent helplessness dominate you? Or did testosterone at some crossroads pull you away from me into the unknown?"
Her trembling voice barely uttered the last verse. Tears filled her eyes; her wet cheeks glowed like morning dew on roses.
She questioned herself in despair: Was God punishing her? For what act, or inaction, did she suffer so long? Could it all be a coincidence? Did unseen forces guide life, or did she stumble blindly into every new situation? Who truly holds responsibility for a person's life? Was it higher intelligence, poor upbringing, or something else entirely? Her mind sought evidence.
She lifted her eyes to the sky, clasped her hands, and raised them toward the heavens. Ida wanted to believe that somewhere, something noticed her, that the universe might acknowledge her suffering. In moments of collapse, exhausted and tormented, nothing mattered more than the decisions of unseen forces.
She recalled her baptism at twenty-two: standing in church with her godmother, under the watchful eyes of saints, reciting words she had never pondered before. "Do you renounce Satan?" she repeated, as instructed. Until then, she had lived a simple life, guided by her own judgment, never contemplating divine rules.
Now, faced with ritual and faith, a shift occurred inside her. Perhaps consequences would appear later, when the "installed chip" of fate began sending signals. Over time, she increasingly turned to God, though never fully submitting to church rules, never embracing blind faith. Her family had been secular, focused on pleasure rather than spirituality. She came to understand only with age, through suffering and education.
Yet she still believed in some higher power, however undefined. In moments of weakness, her faith was a lifeline. Sometimes she told her children, "God tests the strongest and most enduring. He tempts and challenges them. And not just God." She often debated such topics for hours, more for herself than with them. "Sometimes nature itself seems to intervene, proving Darwin's theory of natural selection. Perhaps Alex is my executor, and I still struggle with the strings of invisible forces."
Thoughts collided in her mind, intertwining with doubt and fear, yet she sought rational explanations for her suffering. She prayed, expressed gratitude, kissed the icons on the wall, and finally sat calmly with her coffee. The sweet-bitter taste offered brief comfort, her red hair cascading over her back.
Still, unease lingered. Her eyes wandered restlessly across the room, settling only on the phone—the sole calm object. She could think of nothing but his accusations, his stubborn refusal to understand. Frustration and despair consumed her. "Another wasted day," she sighed, seeing the dim room around her. She had forgotten even to eat. Helpless, she lay in bed, staring at the wall for hours, her mind exploding with thoughts and ideas, fleeting like shooting stars, each disappearing as quickly as it appeared.
A galaxy of thoughts swirled inside her, rich with the unexplored. Exhausted by the day and her own mind, she could barely move to the bedroom. She covered herself with a blanket and fell asleep, cocooned in a rose-colored underlay, surrendering to the night.