Mila runs back to me, breathless. She asks if the water is blue all the time, if there are smooth stones instead of sand, if people really sell corn and ice cream right on the beach. She wants to know if she can fly a kite there and if she can take shells home.
I tell her yes to everything as I pack slowly, not much, but carefully. The cash is counted once and slid back into the envelope. The papers go into the inner pocket of my sling bag, the one I wear across my body without thinking anymore. That bag doesn’t leave me. It never has. It never will. I fold Mila’s sweater last, smooth it with my palm, and zip the bag shut.
I pack a light lunch for the way, a couple of boiled eggs, thick slices of smoked sausage, a small wedge of soft cheese, and a few sweet buns that hold their shape in a bag. I tuck in a thermos of hot tea and place napkins on top so no one has to worry about spills.
I take the lunch bag in one hand and Mila’s hand in the other, lock the door, and we step out into the morning.
Dominik is outside with the car. I hear the hood lift, then the sound of metal settling as he checks the oil. He wipes his hands on a rag and closes the lid with a solid thump that carries across the courtyard. He doesn’t say much. He looks around once, then nods.
We leave without ceremony. The streets thin as we head south, buildings give way to open road, and the city loosens its hold mile by mile. Mila hums to herself in the back seat. I watch the signs change and listen to the engine settle into a steady pace. The muscles in my face loosen and my shoulders drop a notch.
We don’t try to outrun the road. With Mila in the back seat, we keep the speed steady. We drive until the light shifts, until her questions taper off and her voice softens, then we stop for the night.
We take motels off the highway—places that smell of detergent and boiled water, with thin curtains and beds pushed close. I wash her face in sinks that drain slowly, lay her down while Dominik checks the locks without being asked. We eat what’s warm and filling, and she falls asleep to the sound of pipes and trucks rolling past in the dark.
Each morning, the land changes. Fields turn rough. Trees gather thicker. The sky pulls wider. We stop to stretch, refuel, and buy fruit from roadside stalls where no one asks questions. Mila counts trucks, then clouds, then just watches the road.
“How far is the sea?” she asks when we pull into a roadside cafe outside a small town.
“Not far now, baby,” I say, lifting her onto my hip.
“You’re doing well,” Dominik says, smoothing her hair back. She leans her head against me, her arms tight around my neck.
On the last day, the road bends more often than it runs straight, and the sky feels clearer. When the hills rise ahead and the light gets brighter, I know we’re close.
“I can smell the sea,” Dominik says from the driver’s seat, and he smiles.
The Lada is dust-lined, its wipers streaked from roadside washes, and the floor mats hold crumbs and wrappers from too many rushed meals. Mila’s hair is flat on one side, her shoes are off, and her stuffed fox is upside down on the seat. Dominik’s shirt clings to him at the collar, and my back aches from sitting too long, but we’re all smiling, even if no one says why. Mila laughs just to hear herself. Dominik reaches for my hand. I don’t let go.
After another hour’s drive, we see them. Gulls, skimming and scattered, riding the wind near the road.
“Look, Mommy,” she says, pointing out the window. “Those birds.”
She noticed without either of us drawing her attention to it.
The approach into the town is long and uneven. The road drops in small stages, past freight yards and half-finished buildings, then opens up into stretches of green that look almost careless after the north. The heat changes as we drive, warmer, heavier, and when the sea finally shows itself between buildings, it doesn’t announce anything. It’s just there.
Dominik pulls into a small hotel near the edge of the city, clean, with balconies facing a road lined with palms that sit easily in the landscape. We unload without hurry. When we step out of the car, the warmth and the salt tang settle on my skin, and Idraw in a deeper breath. Mila tilts her head and lifts her face, then grins wide, all teeth and joy.
We stay a week. Long enough for Mila to sleep through the nights without stirring at every sound. Mila learns the elevator buttons and argues that she’s old enough to press them herself. Dominik lets her win on the third day.
Then we move into a small house on the edge of town. The sea is close enough that we catch the salt in the breeze, but not so near that we hear it at night or see people heading toward it.
We choose the house ourselves. It sits on a low hill behind a simple fence, with a narrow stone path leading to the door. There’s no traffic outside, and the land opens wide in front of it.
Dominik leaves in the morning for a short shift at the local hospital. It’s small, closer to a clinic than a full hospital. He’s back before noon, smelling of disinfectant and stale coffee. His shoulders stay tight. His name is on the rota now. He signs in and out. People see him every day.
In this neighborhood, mornings repeat. The same faces at the corner shop, the same nods, the same doors opening and closing without anyone lingering. A woman with two dogs who never speaks. A man who waters his plants like it’s the last thing left to tend. No one looks too long, but they notice.
On the second day, a woman from next door brings soup in a pot wrapped in a towel. She asks how old Mila is, whether she eats well. Mila stands behind my leg, watching. I don’t push her forward.
In the evening, we walk to the park. It’s ten minutes out, with a cracked fountain that still runs and benches set too close to ignore each other. There’s a slide, two swings, a merry-go-roundthat groans but turns. Mila runs, climbs, calls out. She makes her own space.
I sit on a bench near the fountain. If a woman takes the seat beside me with her child, we trade a look. I call Mila. I say it’s time to go before it gets dark.
Once the door is locked and the lights are on, there’s nowhere to step aside. Every movement, every sound carries.
I hear Dominik even when he moves slowly. He doesn’t pace, but he doesn’t rest. The boards shift under his feet. He opens cupboards with care, sets things down like noise would cost him. I find myself listening for the next sound before it comes.
