Chapter 7
Episode 7aiskus rytas jaunaties jeg vil ikke.gor hwad du sier
The morning arrived with a clarity that felt almost accusatory. I woke before the alarm, the pale light filtering through the curtains like a thin, cold broth. The sketchbook from that autumn park visit lay on my nightstand, its cover worn, a map of creases and faded coffee rings. I hadn’t opened it in years, but its presence had become a quiet weight in the room, a promise I’d made to myself on that leaf-strewn path.
I brewed coffee, strong and black, and sat at the kitchen table. The laughter from the park—those voices, sharp and familiar—still lingered in my ears, not as a sound but as a texture, a roughness against the smoothness of my current life. I thought of Danute, of the way she’d flick her braid over her shoulder before delivering a cutting remark. I thought of the boys who’d followed her, their laughter a chorus of small cruelties. And I thought of the sketchbook, where I’d drawn them all, not as they were, but as I wished they’d be—softened, blurred, their edges rounded by my pencil.
I opened it.
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