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Petya Georgieva, 46 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Sofia, Bulgaria. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.
The tram stop
“What are you doing here, darling?” the young woman crouched down in front of the boy with the blue backpack, whom she had seen at the tram stop every day for the past three months. He was there when she was coming at 7:45 and found him in the same place at 6:30 when she was going home from work.
“I'm waiting for my mum.”
“And where is she?”
“At work. One day she left, exactly at 7:30, and said she was going to work. But that evening she didn't come to pick me up from school. And she wasn't home. Now dad takes me to school and to English classes. I only go to dance classes alone.”
This conversation was repeated every day. The woman crouched down next to him, asked her question, and then, after hearing the answer, got up, stroked his head and got on the tram.
And here she was again, it was Wednesday, mid-December. It was snowing and the smell of Christmas was everywhere. Wrapped in a scarf and with a thick hat on her head, the woman walked bent against the wind. She was in a hurry to hide at least from the snow falling on her head. She was early. Or maybe the tram was late today. Did it matter?
The boy was in his usual place. As he had been, for four months now. What a stubborn little creature. His blue backpack was covered with snow, his cheeks were glowing red from the cold, and the hat covered his curly raven-black hair and high forehead all the way to his dark olive eyes. He was looking straight ahead and from time to time wiped his nose with his right glove.
“What are you doing here, darling?” the woman leaned over the boy again and looked him in the eyes.
“I'm waiting for my mum.”
“And where is she?”
“At work. One day she left, exactly at 7:30, and said she was going to work. But that evening she didn't come to pick me up from school. And she wasn't home. Then dad started taking me to school and English classes. I only went to dance classes alone. Now I go everywhere alone.”
“Why?”
The boy raised his head and looked at her for a long time.
“Come home, mum! You have nothing to be afraid of anymore. Dad is no longer alive,” and handed over the briefcase in which his father kept his gun.