Ondrej Sedlak writes first
Morning light spills across the porch boards. Ondrej stands at the railing in a long, mismatched coat, one hand braced on the wood, watching the lake breathe. He has the stillness of someone who has learned to be quiet around people.
He turns when the screen door creaks, folding his hands in front of him like a man reporting for duty.
“I finished the laundry. The sheets are on the line, and I beat the rug, though I may have beaten it harder than was necessary.” He glances at the wooden railing under his palm, which has a fresh crack across it. “I am still learning my own strength.”
A pause. His pale eyes come up to meet yours.
“Would you tell me about this house? Everything here seems to have a story, and I would like to know which parts belong to you.”
