Marcin’s hands rested at ten and two, careful but relaxed. He kept glancing toward Casimir in the passenger seat, as if to make sure he was really okay this time.
“So, uh,” Marcin said, breaking the silence with a laugh that felt too small for the air between them. “I finally did it. Got this car just yesterday.”
Casimir turned his head, the streetlights painting fleeting lines of gold across his face.
“It’s nice,” Casimir said softly. “You’ve wanted one for a while, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. I’ve had my license forever, but… well, money, you know?” Marcin grinned sheepishly. “Finally saved enough from the job at the fast food place. Used, but runs like a dream.”
Casimir smiled faintly, eyes back on the window. “You deserve it. You’ve always been patient.”
Marcin chuckled. “You make that sound like a virtue.”
“It is,” Casimir said. His voice was calm, almost melodic, “Patience is just another name for faith. To wait means you still believe something is worth waiting for.”
Marcin blinked, momentarily distracted by the reflection of Casimir’s pale face against the window—the way it merged with the passing lights, looking both alive and ghostlike.
He tried to lighten the mood. “Man, you really make everything sound profound. I’m over here just excited my heater works, and you’re turning it into philosophy.”
Casimir smiled again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s the difference between comfort and meaning, I suppose.”
They drove past the old university park, where the lamps burned low and empty benches glistened from the drizzle. Casimir’s gaze lingered there, far away, almost nostalgic.
Marcin caught it. “You sure you’re alright? You’ve been quiet ever since the hospital.”
Casimir turned his head, meeting his friend’s eyes. “Quiet is good, Marcin. It keeps the noise of the world out.”
Marcin frowned slightly. “You scared me, you know? The way you screamed… I thought—” He stopped himself. “Actually, I don’t know what I thought.”
Casimir looked at him kindly, almost tenderly. “Then don’t think of it. I’m here now.”
Something about that I’m here now carried an eerie certainty, like a man who knew his presence itself was temporary—and yet absolute.
Marcin nodded slowly, turning back to the road. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”
The windshield wipers squeaked once, then fell into rhythm again. Neither spoke for a while.
Casimir leaned his head against the glass, his reflection gazing back at him—a perfect twin in the dark. His own eyes, hollow and endless, stared into themselves.
“Marcin,” he said finally, his voice barely above the faint rattle of the engine. “Do you ever think about what it means to be remembered?”
Marcin hesitated. “Sometimes, I guess. Why?”
Casimir’s gaze didn’t move. “Because some people live just to be forgotten. And some people…” His reflection smiled faintly. “Some people were never supposed to exist at all.”
Marcin swallowed, uneasy, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “You’re talking weird again, man.”
Casimir’s tone softened instantly, disarming. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to sound grim. Just… thinking out loud.”
“Yeah, well—save the existentialism for class, alright?” Marcin joked, though his voice shook slightly.
Casimir finally turned from the window, that serene smile returning. “Of course.”
They passed under the final streetlight before the dorms. For a brief second, the glow illuminated Casimir’s profile—so calm, so perfectly composed—that it almost looked divine.
And yet, in his eyes, the reflection of the dying light looked exactly like fire.
***
The dorm hall smelled faintly of detergent and rain. The hum of the radiator filled the quiet between them as Marcin pushed open the door to Casimir’s room.
It was spotless—as always. The blinds were half-drawn, a single desk lamp casting a pale halo across the desk, where a few philosophy books lay stacked neatly beside a small glass of half-drunk water. The window fogged slightly from the cold outside.
Casimir set his satchel down carefully, almost ceremoniously, like every motion had its place. He moved quietly through the small space, folding his coat over the chair, then sitting down at the edge of his bed. The faint exhaustion still lingered in the droop of his shoulders, but his face was calm, collected—unnervingly so.
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Marcin placed Casimir’s jacket on the hook and turned to him.
“You sure you’re alright, man?” he asked, voice soft but searching.
Casimir looked up, a polite smile forming. “I am, Marcin. Truly.”
Marcin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, since the doctor said you get the rest of the week off, don’t do too much, alright? Just… rest. Don’t read anything heavy, don’t stress yourself out. Promise me that. Oh yeah, Anna told me that your philosophy professor is excusing you from assignments for now, too."
"Very well." Casimir gave a small nod. “I’ll rest. I promise.”
Marcin crossed to the window, peeking through the blinds for a second. Outside, the narrow dorm street gleamed wet under the sodium lights. A postal truck was pulling away from the curb, its red taillights blinking as it turned down the lane.
“Oh,” Marcin said, a faint grin breaking through. “It’s mail day.”
Casimir raised a brow. “Is it?”
“Yeah.” Marcin turned toward him. “You want me to grab your mail while I’m down there?”
Casimir tilted his head slightly, that same soft composure returning. “Only if it’s not a bother.”
Marcin chuckled. “Of course it’s not a bother.”
Casimir reached into the upper pocket of his blazer and drew out a small keyring. The key to the dorm mailbox gleamed under the lamp. He held it out to Marcin between two fingers.
“Box number four-twenty,” Casimir said. “Just down the hall, bottom row.”
Marcin took the key, pocketing it. “Got it.” He gave Casimir a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right back, yeah?”
Casimir’s lips curved faintly. “Totally.”
Marcin laughed, waving as he turned for the door. “See you in a minute.”
The door clicked softly behind him.
The hallway outside was dim and narrow. His footsteps echoed lightly as he descended the stairs, one hand on the cool metal rail.
He passed a few students—half-asleep, phone in hand, shuffling toward vending machines. Everything about the dorm felt comfortingly mundane after the night they’d had a few days prior.
When Marcin reached the ground floor, he turned into the small alcove by the entrance where the mailboxes lined the wall. They were old and metallic, the numbers worn but still legible under the overhead light.
“Let’s see…Uhmm....” Marcin murmured, scanning the rows. “418… 419… ah. 420.”
Casimir’s box sat on the bottom row, the small keyhole glinting faintly. He crouched down and slid the key in, twisting until it clicked open with a dry sound.
Click!
Inside were a few envelopes—one from the university administration, one plain white, and one thick brown envelope with no return address. The brown one looked older, the paper slightly wrinkled as if it had been handled too many times.
Marcin frowned. “Huh. Weird.”
He gathered the letters in his hand, shut the box, and stood. For some reason, his fingers lingered on the brown envelope. No sender. No stamps. Just delivered.
He hesitated, staring at it for a second longer. Then he sighed and shook his head.
“Probably nothing,” he muttered, starting back upstairs.
But as he climbed the stairway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the envelope was definitely something.
Marcin climbed the last few steps, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor. He balanced the stack of envelopes in one hand, the strange brown one tucked neatly on top.
When he entered Casimir’s room again, the air was still. Casimir was exactly where he’d left him—sitting on the bed, posture immaculate, eyes half-lidded as if deep in thought. The only light came from the lamp by the desk, painting a warm halo over his pale features.
Marcin closed the door softly behind him.
“Got your mail,” he said, walking over.“Couple from the university, one white envelope… and this one.”
He lifted the brown letter between two fingers. “Weirdest of the bunch. No sender, no stamps. Just sitting there.”
Casimir looked up, his expression unreadable for a moment before a small, polite smile surfaced. “Thank you, Marcin.”
“Where should I put them?”
“On the desk, if you don’t mind,” Casimir replied.
Marcin crossed over, setting the stack down in the neat space beside Casimir’s books. His gaze flicked once more to the brown envelope—it almost seemed out of place amid the sterile order of the room.
Casimir noticed.
“I’d like to see that one,” he said quietly.
Marcin hesitated for half a second before handing it over. The paper crinkled under Casimir’s touch, soft but deliberate.
“You gonna open it?” Marcin asked, half teasing, half uneasy.
Casimir didn’t answer right away. He turned the envelope over, examining the creases, the uneven fold at the edge. Then he faced the window—his silhouette outlined by the dull orange glow from the streetlights outside—and slid a finger beneath the flap.
The paper tore with a soft, surgical sound.
Marcin pretended to busy himself straightening the books on the desk, but his eyes kept drifting toward the reflection in the window. He could see Casimir’s face there—a faint outline, calm, intent, the light from the lamp flickering across his features.
Casimir pulled out a single folded letter.
He read in silence.
The corners of his lips curled—slowly. It wasn’t quite a grin. More like a shadow of one, something subtle, practiced.
Marcin turned slightly. “What’s it say?”
Casimir folded the letter neatly, the sound of the paper precise in the silence. “It’s from a friend.”
Marcin blinked. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Casimir said softly, tucking the letter into his jacket pocket. “An old acquaintance.”
The faintest pause.
Outside, a tram rattled past the street, its dull rumble echoing through the walls.
Marcin scratched his neck. “Weird way to send a letter, though. No return address, no stamp—just shows up like that.”
Casimir turned back to him, smiling with faint amusement. “Some friends prefer… discretion.”
Marcin chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah, guess so.”
Casimir’s gaze drifted back toward the window, his reflection faint and ghostlike in the glass. His expression was serene—but something in his eyes had changed. A quiet gleam. A thought already turning itself into motion.
“Thank you again, Marcin,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “For everything today.”
Marcin waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, man. Just glad you’re okay. Get some sleep, alright?”
Casimir nodded. “I will.”
Marcin lingered a moment longer, uncertain, before heading to the door. “Night, Casimir.”
“Goodnight.”
The door clicked shut.
Casimir stood there for a long while, unmoving. Then he drew the letter from his pocket again, unfolding it under the lamplight.
Come to Wroc?aw’s adult entertainment area tomorrow night.
I know who the ‘missing’ student’s mother is.
Gotta rid of her before she gets on us.
— Anders.
Casimir read it once more, his smile deepening—not out of joy, but understanding.
He looked toward the window. The orange streetlight cast long shadows across the floor.
“She can go into oblivion with her child” he murmured. “So… we’ll give her that.”
He folded the paper with care, tucking it back into his pocket. Then he turned off the lamp, leaving the room in silence.
Only the faint reflection of his smile lingered in the window’s glass.