The yellowed paper carried my notes - memories of days I feared I would forget. I began to write down what I could remember of that day's lessons. The teachers' words, important concepts, even expressions that had touched me in some way. It was a lonely habit, but a necessary one. I needed to anchor my mind in something that wouldn't go up in smoke.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Until a soft sound - a knock on the door - interrupted my dive.
"Come in." I said, trying to stay calm despite the discomfort. I hated being interrupted when I was concentrating. It was like being abruptly pulled out of a dream.
I turned my face slowly and saw the two girls entering. They both had long, dark hair and walked into the room with hesitant steps. Something was wrong. At first, I didn't understand what they were doing there. They looked at each other and shyly raised the hem of their skirts.
I remained motionless.
Their faces were red - not just from embarrassment, but from something deeper. Their eyes were moist, glazed, and there were dry trails of tears on their cheeks. They had cried. A lot. And now they were standing there in front of me, as if they had been thrust into something they didn't fully understand.
My stomach churned.
My eyes wandered unintentionally over their fragile, underdeveloped bodies. The innocence was still there, visible behind the forced gesture. I shook my head slowly. I already knew - back then, the world viewed sex differently, almost crudely. Many started early. I myself had lost my virginity at twelve. Not with pride, but with resignation. It was expected. It was what happened.
But now... no. Not after everything. Not after what I've lived through, what I've seen, what I've lost.
That's not what I wanted. Not like this. Not with fear in my eyes and silence on my lips.
I took another deep breath, this time to contain the heaviness in my chest.
Those girls didn't need a gesture to mark them. They needed someone to see them. To say: it's not like that. To show them that there was still room to refuse what the world was expecting so soon. And if no one was going to do that for them... then it would be me.
I thought about sending them away.
The idea struck me like lightning: to stand up, raise my voice and tell them to leave. To leave me alone. That this kind of thing wasn't acceptable.
But I stopped.
One second was enough.
Not out of hesitation. But out of fear. Not of them - but of my father.
Because I knew the real reason behind his "kindness" in offering shelter to their families. There was no compassion, only interest. And that interest was now becoming clear: he wanted to use them to "cure" me. To "comfort" me. As if they were objects. As if they were tools. As if they still had a choice.
My father had always been kind. Or at least he knew how to pretend well. But behind that calm smile was a cold-blooded man. If I kicked the girls out now, if I sent them away with visible rejection marks... their families wouldn't be here in the morning. That much was certain.
The best-case scenario? They would be taken to the guards. Slaves. Toys. Discarded.
I swallowed.
I looked at them. So small. Dark hair like mine. Similar faces, as if they were slightly distorted mirrors. Ten years old. Just that. Children. Eyes wide and frightened, as if they didn't even understand what they were doing - or why they were there.
I couldn't allow them to be punished for something they didn't choose.
"It's not necessary." I said, my voice soft and controlled. "But I'm cold tonight. If you want, you can help me warm up the mattress."
They both stopped lifting their skirts immediately. It was as if an invisible tension had dissipated. Their shoulders relaxed. They were so innocent that they didn't even understand what I had actually said - or what they had been instructed to do.
And that, as painful as it was, gave me a little relief.
I wouldn't do anything to them. Not ever. But maybe, just maybe, if the others believed that yes, they could remain safe. That they had "played their part". That I was "getting better". Even if it was all an act. A necessary lie.
I went back to my desk. I sat down more firmly this time, trying to anchor myself in what made sense: study, knowledge, order. I picked up the heavy quill again and, on the paper in front of me, there was a hand-drawn rectangle, taking up a third of the page.
Inside it, I had sketched the image of a plant. Its thin leaves, its narrow stem, the small fruits that grew next to the flowers. Below, I began to write its description: common name, properties, uses, dangers. Everything we had learned about it over the years. That was the aim of the book - to bring together in one place my family's herbal knowledge, scattered and poorly recorded in old biographies.
The door opened again.
The two had returned - now dressed in soft, white pajamas. Sleepwear that barely covered their knees, but which nevertheless gave them a pristine appearance. Dark hair covered part of their faces. And their black eyes watched me intently, without blinking. They looked like identical dolls placed side by side. Part of me wanted to cry, but I just continued to feign control.
Vera approached first. Her steps were small, almost timid. She looked at the notebook on the desk, then at me.
"What are you writing, brother?" she asked in a delicate voice.
(Brother.) The word echoed inside me like an anchor. It was the role I needed to play. Protector. Fraternal. Safe.
Nora, on the other hand, remained silent, slightly behind. She was even shyer. But her eyes showed curiosity - and fear.
I closed the lid of the ink and rested the quill on the edge of the jar. I turned to Vera with a gentle smile, as honest as I could manage.
"I'm writing an idea." I replied. "This is a book of herbs. It describes all the plants our family has ever known—their properties, uses, even how to grow them. I thought it would be useful to have everything organized. The information was scattered throughout old manuscripts and biographies, all in disarray. So... I decided to put together this compendium."
The two of them listened carefully, their eyes now alight with genuine curiosity.