Chapter 2: Second Day

Sunlight slipped through the half-closed curtains in thin golden stripes, painting the bedroom floor in lazy patterns. I woke slowly, the way you do when the body registers warmth before the brain catches up. There was a soft, steady pressure on my chest small, familiar, breathing.

“Maryium?”

A sleepy mumble answered. “Yes…?”

I cracked one eye open. There she was: my five-year-old daughter sprawled across me like a living blanket, cheek squished against my shirt, dark hair fanned out in every direction. 

Her little arms were wrapped around my neck in a hug that was half cling, half conquest. “Aww, sweetheart… why are you sleeping on my chest?”

She didn’t even lift her head. Just tightened her grip a fraction. “Because I wanted to.”

I couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped. Of course. The simplest reason in the world.

Over on the other side of the bed, Arinika was still lost to the world. One arm flung over the pillow, mouth slightly open, hair a glorious mess across her face. 

She looked exhausted even in sleep beautiful, stubborn, tired. Different shifts were killing us lately. I left for the warehouse at eight, home by two. She clocked in at the hospital at five, dragged herself back around eleven. 

We passed each other like ships in the night, stealing kisses in the hallway, whispering goodnights over cold coffee. All of it for Maryium. Always for her.

I lowered my voice to the softest register I had. “Hey… Mommy’s still sleeping.”

Maryium peeked over my shoulder, then giggled tiny, conspiratorial. “Hehe, she looks funny.”

“She does,” I whispered back, matching her hush. “Let’s not wake her yet, okay? Queen Mommy needs her rest.”

Maryium nodded solemnly, then promptly ruined the seriousness by poking my cheek. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah, soon. But first…” I shifted carefully, trying not to jostle her too much. “Let’s get up and make something. Pancakes? Eggs?”

She planted both hands on my chest and pushed herself upright, straddling me like a tiny general surveying her domain. “No. First I want a story.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Already? It’s barely morning.” “Grandpa’s story,” she insisted, eyes big and unblinking. “Please?”

How do you say no to that face?

“Fine, fine.” I reached sideways, fingers brushing the bedside table until I found the diary. The leather felt cooler now, less dusty, like it was getting used to being handled again. 

I propped myself up on one elbow, careful not to dump Maryium off. She settled immediately against my side, head on my shoulder, ready for storytime.

I opened to the next page. The handwriting was the same careful, a little wobbly, forever seven years old.

1946 Munich

Today me and Bob were on a line to get bread. We had low hopes, but luckily we got a piece. It wasn’t even enough to fill one of us, but we still shared it and ate it. It was surprisingly boring. We laughed again. Even though I couldn’t talk, Bob always understood what I mean.

At the very bottom, in smaller letters, almost hesitant:

Was bread always like this?

I let the words hang in the quiet room for a second. I could picture it too clearly: two skinny boys in patched coats, standing in a line that snaked around a bombed-out corner, clutching ration cards like they were treasure maps. 

The bread probably coarse, grayish, more sawdust than flour split between them. A single bite each, maybe two. And still they laughed. Because what else could they do?

Maryium’s breathing had already slowed again. Her head grew heavier against my shoulder. I glanced down. Eyes closed. Tiny snores starting.

“Heyyy,” I whispered, giving her a gentle nudge. “Wake up or you’ll be late for school.” She grumbled something unintelligible, burrowed deeper into my shirt, and went right back to sleep.

Unbelievable.

I closed the diary with a soft snap and set it back on the table. The room was still quiet except for Arinika’s faint breathing and the distant hum of the city waking up outside. Morning light had crept higher now, warming the edges of the bed.

I looked at my daughter completely conked out again, one hand fisted in my shirt like she was anchoring herself to me and then at my wife, who had somehow managed to steal half the blanket in her sleep.

We were tired. All three of us, in different ways. But moments like this… they felt like the real ration. Small. Shared. Enough.

I leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Maryium’s head.

“Five more minutes,” I murmured, even though she couldn’t hear me. “Then we really have to get up.”

The diary sat quietly on the table, waiting. There were more pages. More hungry days. More laughter in the ruins.

But right now, the only story that mattered was the one breathing softly against my chest.

To be continued…