He never told me about that train ride across Russia, my father. I didn't even know about it until I found mother's diary hidden away in the closet, and by then it was too late to ask. As a child, I always wanted to know things about him, and he would always take the time to tell me stories from his life, like little lullabies whenever I couldn't sleep at night.
There were sparks there, unspoken subtleties and traces of a broken man. I didn't see them back then of course, but years later they helped me puzzle the pieces together to understand him a little better. What worries me is the gaps, the elements he left out, and the more I think of it the more I worry. Why didn't he tell me, why could I never know what finally pushed him over that edge?
Chloe is consumed by the little mysteries, she knew my father too and wants to help me understand. She's promised me to find the lady in black, no matter what secrets it might uncover. When S came back on Wednesday she had other stories to tell, equally fascinating to a dreamer like Chloe. I won't share them just now, but I can tell you that after watching the Godfather triolgy last night we felt that even the greatest sagas sometimes just can't measure up to the absurdities of real life.
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