„Where did you get this photograph?“ Jonas went pale when he saw the image of his long-missing father.
When Jonas came home from work, his mother was watering the flowers on the balcony. Bending over the hanging baskets, she gently stroked the leaves. Her face gave off a special kind of calm.
„Mum, you’re a proper busy bee,“ Jonas said, taking off his jacket and putting his arms around her shoulders. „On your feet all day already?“
„Oh, this isn’t work,“ she said, waving it off with a smile. „It’s rest for the soul. Just look at how everything’s blooming. The scent — it’s as if we’re not standing on the balcony but in Kew Gardens.“
She laughed softly, warmly, as she always did. Jonas breathed in the delicate smell of flowers and couldn’t help remembering how, back when they had lived in the shared flat, they’d had one single pot with a wilting geranium on the windowsill.
Much had changed since then.
His mother now spent a lot of time in the little garden house he had bought her for a milestone anniversary. A small place, but with an enormous plot where she could grow whatever she pleased. In spring she raised seedlings; in summer she worked in the greenhouses; in autumn she preserved the harvest in jars. And in winter she waited for spring to come round again.
But Jonas knew that however much she smiled, there was always a quiet sorrow in her eyes. One that would not go away until her dearest wish came true — to see again the man she had waited for all her life.
His father. One morning he had gone to work and never returned. Jonas had been five then. His mother said that that day, as always, he had kissed her on the temple, waved to his son and said, „Be good.“ Then he had walked away, not knowing it would be forever.
Missing-person reports followed, months of searches. Relatives, neighbours, acquaintances — they all whispered: „Maybe he did a runner.“ „Maybe he has another family.“ „Or something terrible happened.“ Only his mother said the same thing every time:
„He wouldn’t have simply gone. He can’t come back.“
That thought still gave Jonas no peace, more than thirty years later. He was certain: his father would never have left her. Never.
After school Jonas went to university to study engineering, although in secret he dreamed of journalism. But he knew he had to stand on his own two feet quickly. His mother worked as a nurse at the hospital, did night shifts, never complained. Even when her feet burned from all the standing and her eyes were red, she only said:
„It’s all right, my boy. It’ll be fine. Concentrate on your studies.“
And he did. But at night he searched online databases for missing people, examined old records, wrote in forums. His hope did not die — on the contrary, it grew stronger, became part of him. He became persistent. He grew up knowing that he had to be there for his mother in the place where his father was missing.
When he got his first well-paid job, he cleared every debt, opened a savings account, and eventually bought the garden house. Then he said:
„There, Mum, now you can rest.“
She cried that day, not hiding her tears. He simply put his arms around her and whispered:
„You’ve earned this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.“
Jonas himself had begun dreaming of a family. Of a home that smelled of fresh bread and stew. Where on Sundays the people he loved would gather and children’s laughter would echo through the rooms. But until then he kept working. He saved, built up capital, so that one day he could go into business for himself. He had skilful hands and had always liked tinkering.
Yet deep in his heart one wish burned: to find his father. He wanted that man to step into their lives one day and say:
„Forgive me. I couldn’t come back sooner.“
And they would understand, forgive him, and the three of them would fall into one another’s arms. Then everything would finally be the way it was supposed to have been.
Sometimes, when Jonas thought about his father, he could still hear his voice. Felt himself being lifted up and heard him say, „Well, my little hero, shall we fly?“ before catching him again, laughing.
That night he dreamed of him again. This time his father stood on a riverbank in an old coat, calling to him. His face was blurred, as if Jonas were looking through mist — but the eyes, grey, deep, familiar, were the same.
Jonas had a steady job, but a salary alone doesn’t make you rich, especially when you have plans of your own. So he often worked evenings on the side — repairing computers, installing smart-home systems. In a single evening he could manage two, sometimes three jobs: printer trouble here, internet down there, software updates — he knew his stuff. Older people especially liked him: polite, patient, never pushy. He explained things in plain terms and never pushed unnecessary extras.
That day a job came through an acquaintance: a wealthy family — a gated estate on the edge of the city, security staff, admittance with ID only. They wanted someone to set up their home network.
„Please come after six. The lady of the house will be there and will show you in,“ the message said.
Jonas arrived on time. After the check at the gate, he stopped in front of a large house with white columns and picture windows. The door was opened by a young woman in her mid-twenties, slim and petite, wearing an elegant dress.
„Are you the technician? Please, come in. The equipment is in my father’s study. He’s on a business trip, but he wanted everything finished today,“ she said with a gentle smile.
Jonas followed her down a long hallway. The air smelled of expensive perfume; everything felt sterile, almost clinical. In the living room stood a grand piano; on the walls hung paintings, bookshelves, framed photographs. The study was functional: dark wood, a green desk lamp, a large monitor, and a leather executive chair.
Jonas nodded, took out his tools, and began. Everything went normally — until his gaze fell on a photograph on the wall. A young couple. A woman in a white dress with flowers in her hair. Beside her, a man in a grey suit, smiling. Time had marked his features, yet inside Jonas a voice said, loud and clear: *That’s him. Father.*
He stood up, stepped closer, stared. Grey eyes, the same cheekbones, the same dimple when he smiled. Unmistakable.
„Excuse me… who is that in the photograph?“ he asked hesitantly.
The woman looked at him in surprise.
„My father. Do you know him?“
Jonas didn’t know what to say. He stared at the picture as if he had seen a ghost. His heart beat so wildly that she must have heard it. At last he brought out with difficulty:
„I think… maybe. Could you…“
He merely nodded, turned round, and left the house for good, knowing that some pasts are better left alone.
