"Dear Mother"
Click—click—click.
Click—click—click—click.
"I am here, on Airbus 739 from Moscow back Berlin, I'm bringing your gifts including: two box of wine chocolates you like, champagne from Italy uncle sent you this summer, you favourite dress from Von the Tailor, and…-,"
I stopped, my eyes darting around to remember something. Then continued.
"and your favourite high heels from Louboutin, all packaged with my carefully to my dearest mother! I ate enough, read 15 pages of bible every days, calling auntie and uncle 3 times per week. On airplane I drank enough water, using mask to hydrate and using toner for skin as you always said, can't wait to see you, love you, hug you tightly.
Anna."
The tray table underneath my typewriter is shaking, but it too aligned with it perfectly. I adjusted my hearing aids behind my ears, twisting the tiny dials until the faint hiss of engine, small talking of peoples around me came through—a signal that my hearing aids still working after being dropped accidentally by some kids bumped into me at the airport.
"Phew…". I let out a soft sigh in relief.
My fingers hovered over the keys. I intend to write some diary for myself today.
"Click, click, clack…"
"Click, clack, click, click…"
Each strike on the keys sound perfectly, lift and press, lift and press and swipe "ding". That's the sound of happiness in my life.
"Click—click—clack"
"Click—click-click—clack—ding!"
Around me, the cabin buzzed. People whispered, the trolley wheels squeaked, shoes shuffled on the carpet. Mostly I couldn't hear it clearly; my hearing aids filtered it, fragmented. I tilted my head, fiddling with the dials to catch stray words, tiny cues from the world outside my bubble. But my focus was on the keys, the page, the rhythm. Click… clack… click…
A voice cut through faintly. "Ma'am…"
I paused, lifting my hands just enough to see lips moving. The attendant gestured toward my typewriter. I understood enough from the movement, from the tone, from the tension I felt around me. Stop typing? The word hovered in my mind like a warning. My chest tightened. My hands shook slightly; the rhythm I'd built was interrupted.
My hands hovered again, a tremor of frustration and panic, but I couldn't stop—not yet. Each letter had to be right. Each line had to be straight. Order. Control.
Finally, I pressed the last key deliberately. The final clack echoed through the small space, louder than it should have been. My hands lifted, resting in my lap. The letter lay there, each line perfect, each letter precise. I exhaled slowly, letting the vibration of the plane and the faint hiss from my hearing aids fill the quiet in my chest.
"Finally," I sigh out in relief, I gesture the flight attendant to ask her what did she said.
"Can you, lean closer and repeat?". I asked her.
"Ma'am, this typewriter sound is so perfectly with your concentration. But unfortunately, it disturbs other people around you. If you don't mind,…-," she trail off, look at me with her most genuinely face that she can make despite of her annoying eyes.
", even my phone and laptop are already in airplane mode, and now even my typewriter too?" I asked, voice low and precise, barely more than a whisper. My eyes didn't leave the keys. I could feel the vibration of the plane through my fingers, the faint hiss in my hearing aids. Everything else was intrusive noise, and I didn't want to listen.
The attendant blinked at me, clearly flustered. "Ma'am… the typewriter—there are rules. You can't—"
"I'm not doing anything that interferes with safety," I interrupted, tone clipped, controlled. "It's just ink and paper. Nothing wireless. Nothing dangerous. Why is that not enough?"
Her mouth opened, closed, unsure what to say next. I pressed a key deliberately, click… clack…, letting the sound punctuate my point. Each letter was a beat of order in the chaos of the cabin.
The attendant sighed, clearly frustrated. "It's… disturbing to other passengers."
I didn't look at her. I didn't care about other passengers. "Then they shouldn't listen," I said sharply, almost robotic. "I'm writing."
She straightened and took a step back, muttering something under her breath. I didn't respond. My fingers resumed their work, click… clack… click…, the sound a pulse in my chest, steady, grounding. Outside my bubble, the cabin moved on. Inside, the typewriter was my world, and nothing—not rules, not warnings—would break it.
I heard some muffled talk—a few indistinct voices drifting through the cabin, distorted and broken by my hearing aids. I twisted the tiny dials, adjusting the volume, trying to filter the blur of noise into something I could recognize. The hiss of the engines became sharper, more defined, and beneath it all, the vibration through the tray table and my fingers pulsed steadily, grounding me.
I glanced through the small oval window. The world outside had shifted—the faint glow of the city below, the blur of lights stretching into lines as the plane descended. The angle, the speed, the steady drop—it all registered in a rhythm I could feel more than hear.
I checking my bag, passport, keys, bus card, chewing gum, my hat, scarf, coat, and last but not least, my precious typewriter—oh, also my phone.
The hum of the cabin shifted, a subtle change as the landing gear deployed. I noticed the slight jolt through my seat as the plane touched down, then rolled along the tarmac. I exhaled slowly, letting the vibrations and my finely tuned senses take in every detail—the shudder of the wheels, the blur of lights, the muted chatter around me.
"Welcome to Frankfurt am Main Airport," the voice blared, too bright, too cheerful. The speakers above my head cracked with static, but my hearing aids caught it anyway, stabbing my eardrums. I winced, lowered the volume, and watched lips move around me—families, couples, strangers flooding into the aisle like they'd been freed from captivity.
Not me. I stayed seated until the crowd thinned. Less contact, less chance of being brushed against.
The airbridge reeked of disinfectant and recycled air. My suitcase wheels clicked against the floor—too loud, uneven. I counted each sound in my head. One-two-three. Reset. One-two-three. It kept me from looking at their faces.
One hand holding suitcase, one hand holding my typewriter tightly against my chest—is hella heavy for real.
At passport control, the officer repeated himself twice before I tilted my head, fixed my hearing aids, and muttered, "Yes." His eyes lingered too long on me, like he wanted more. I gave him nothing. He stamped, waved me on. His eyes never leave my typewriter.
Then the carousel: bags colliding like dull bodies. Thump. Thump. I clenched my jaw. My case appeared, edges bruised, mine. I yanked it off, wiped the handle three times with the cloth in my pocket. Always three. Only three.
"Welcome to Frankfurt," another sign declared in big letters, polished glass around it catching too much light. I smirked. Yeah, welcome. Let's see how long I survive here.
—§—
I bought a water bottle from the convenience machine nearby, the clunk of plastic tumbling down making me flinch. I hated that sound—too sudden, too cheap. The bottle felt too cold in my hands, the condensation slick. I wiped it with a tissue before twisting it open.
Subway was close enough. I pointed at a sandwich, avoided eye contact with the boy behind the counter. His mouth moved too fast, and I didn't care enough to ask him to slow down. I just shoved coins across the counter, took the paper bag, and left before he could ask anything else.
Sitting by the glass wall, I bit into the bread. Chewing drowned the hum of the terminal for a second, gave me something I could control. Bite. Swallow. Bite. Swallow.
"Not bad not good". I talked to myself, looking around the terminal. So crowded today.
I finished my sandwich, took out my small planner, give a tick on "Afternoon light meals"—finished and carefully put it back in my bag.
Walking out of the arrival hall, my suit a trailing behind me, the glass door hissed open. Cold Frankfurt air slapped into my face, freezing, but nothing can compare to Moscow's winter. The city stretched beyond, lights , I tightened my grip on table and suitcase.
"Welcome to Frankfurt," a voice behind me calling my name, "miss Anna."
A man holding my name on an wooden board—Hugo, my father's most trustable driver of all the time. He was older, gray at the temples, his suit pressed like it had been ironed twice.
I didn't wave. I didn't smile. I just walked straight toward him, dragging my suitcase behind me. He dipped his head politely.
"Miss Anna."
"Well, i don't think that you easily forgot how i look and have to use this board to find me." I gestured to the board. "And it even made from wooden, where your ipad—i bought you but maybe you don't like it much?"
He chuckled, opening the car door for me. "Well, i gave it to my son, he studied University this year, he will need it,"
He took my suitcase from me without asking. I flinched at the touch, at the idea of his hands on my things, but said nothing. Control wasn't always possible. I let it go, barely.
"Miss Anna," he said again as he shut the trunk, sliding into the driver's seat. His voice was flat, but not unfriendly. "Your father told me to drive carefully. I told him that was impossible in Frankfurt traffic."
I blinked at the back of his head, the way his ears twitched as if waiting for my reaction. I didn't give him one.
The car eased out of the airport lane. Lights blurred against the window, neon, halogen, too many reflections.
He chuckled once, low in his throat. "You're quieter than usual. Either jet lag, or you finally ran out of things to argue with me about."
"I don't argue," I muttered, staring at the condensation running down my water bottle.
"No, of course not," he replied dryly, eyes fixed on the road. "You just… correct people with deadly silence. Much scarier."
I almost smiled—almost. Instead, I pressed my lips together and watched the highway unwind, the speedometer needle climbing steadily.
Hugo tapped the wheel, humming faintly off-key. My hearing aids caught the tune, distorted, broken, but the rhythm was there. It irritated me, and at the same time, it anchored me. Familiar.
"Your father will be glad you're back," he added after a pause. Then, with a sideways glance in the rearview: "Though I don't think you are."
My fingers tapping on the window, softly but steady.
"One—Two—Three, One—Two—Three"
I whispering, ignoring completely any conversation relating to my father.
"Well," he chuckled softly, "he tried anyway"
I was still tracing raindrops down the glass when the driver's Bluetooth chirped, glowing blue on the dashboard.
The name that appeared froze my lungs.
Father.
"Should I—?" the driver asked carefully, already knowing the answer.
I glanced at it, i can feel a churn my stomach—worried maybe.
"I could tell that you already fall asleep," he offered with a small smile.
I swallowed. "No. Pick it up."
A click. Then his voice filled the car—calm, commanding, the kind of calm that pressed like a blade.
"Anna."
"Yes, Dad."
"Did you land safely?"
Yes."
"Good. Hugo found you?"
"Yes."
Silence. Then, measured words:
"How long you will stay here? I trust you have good news for me today, about Interpol application."
My nails dug crescent into the plastic bottle, the bottle crackling. I keeping myself quiet.
"Answer me, Anna." His voice soft but firmly, dead seriously about knowing how long i will stay.
A cold feeling spreading behind my nape, then i fixing my posture, fingers rumbling on my thighs.
"I will tell you when i get there, dad, i feel bit tired, could be jet lag,", I pretend .
"I hope you don't scatter my dreams away like dust, or mostly to yourself like your mother did with herself."
Hugo kept his eyes on the road, but I saw the faint twitch of his mouth in the mirror. "Sir," he said casually, "I assure you, she hasn't scattered anywhere. She's sitting right here. Seatbelt fastened. Still in one piece."
A humorless exhale came through the speakers. My father ignored him.
"Anna. Be home before dinner. We will discuss this properly. And I expect answers. Clear ones."
The line clicked dead.
The car was too quiet after. My hearing aids buzzed with the absence, a ghost of static filling the gap he left. I pressed my palms flat on my knees, forcing them to stay still, forcing the rhythm to even out.
Hugo let out a dry little cough. "Cheerful man, your father. Calls like that, you don't even need coffee to stay awake."
I stared out the window, watching the dark highway fold into itself, and said nothing.
"Yeah, he successful to become my nightmare already." She whispered under her breath.
Staring outside of the street, Frankfurt in my eyes just very simple—streets, cars, houses, buildings,…
My hearing aids caught the city in pieces—horns muted, distorted, voice bouncing, footsteps tapping. It wash chaos filtered. I trying to fix my hearing aids, but is useless, I turn it off. Yeah—is all silent.
I traced the lights with my eyes, counting them in groups of three—one, two, three; one, two, three—just to make sense of the disarray.
"Hugo," I asked him softly, "can you bring me to that place?"
He didn't look at me right away. Just a pause — long enough for the sound of the windshield wipers to fill the silence.
"You mean… St. Martin's?"
I nodded.
Hugo eyes still focused on the road, his expression neutral, "Well you know, your father will definitely freaking out if he know you visited that place again."
I almost smiled — almost. "He doesn't have to know."
The city blurred outside the window; streetlights stretched into streaks of amber and rain.
The car stopped a few meters from the gate.
The rain had softened, but the sky above St. Martin's was still the same grey that used to swallow every winter of my childhood.
I stepped out. The air smelled of wet stone and dying lilies. The iron gate creaked as the wind brushed past it — a sound that felt almost like the church was breathing.
From here, I could see the spire. Still blackened by smoke after all these years.
They said it was lightning. They said it was an accident.
I didn't cross the gate.
Somehow, standing there, between the rain and the silence, I felt like I was trespassing on something sacred.
Or something that had once been sacred, before it learned to rot.
My hand tightened around the rosary in my pocket — the one I had found in her drawer, months before she died.
Behind me, Hugo waited in the car, engine still running. I could feel his gaze even without looking.
Maybe one day I would walk inside.
But not today.
Not when the walls still whispered her name.
A priest appeared behind the window.
He seemed to acknowledge my presence — eyes met eyes, his figure pale and distant behind the glass.
He gave me a nod.
Just that — a single nod, slow and deliberate, like he had been waiting.
"Anna," Hugo voice breaking my eyes contact. I turned and walk back to the car, sliding in it.
As the car moved, I looked one last time through the rear mirror —the window was still there, but no one behind it. He disappeared.
"Still wanna wandering around more?" Hugo glance at me through the mirror, his eyes curiously.
"Home." I replied curtly, leaning against the window to look outside the street passing, feeling the breeze slip through the small crack of the half-open glass. The city moved in a blur of gray and gold—streetlights bleeding into the rain-slick pavement, strangers wrapped in their own hurried lives.
"Home," I whispered again, but it no longer sounded like a destination. It was more of a question—one that the streets, the lights, the wind all refused to answer.
"Well," I think to myself. "Welcome home, Anna."