He came into the kitchen one afternoon, in the middle of my work, and he pulled up a small wooden stool, and he sat down beside me, and he said nothing at all.

For a whole hour.

He simply sat with me, in silence, because he was wise enough to know that there were no words that could touch a wound like that one, and brave enough not to fill the silence with the useless ones people reach for.

When he finally stood to leave, he put one old hand on my shoulder, and he said the only thing worth saying.

“You are not alone in this world, Helena.”

And then he left the room.