When Julian took me to Sofia for examinations or meetings, strangers sometimes stopped me on the street.
“My God…” a woman with white hair and a refined scarf whispered once. Her eyes filled with tears. “That can’t be…”
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” I asked.
“No… sorry…” he turned and almost ran away.
Such moments were becoming more and more. Strange glances, trembling lips, smiles that stop in the middle.
They looked at me like they were seeing a ghost.
Who’s Catherine?
One night, while I was fixing the library in his office, I dropped a book. It fell, the pages flew over the floor, and a photo burst from the inside.
On it – a woman around the forties, with her hair up, in a white laboratory apron. He holds a test tube in his hand, smiles slightly. Beautiful, intelligent face.
On the back – inscription: “Katerina. 1999.”
My stomach curled up like a fist.
I recognized the smile.
Because I saw her in the mirror every morning.
The same slightly raised corner of the lips. The same tiny wrinkle on the left when the smile is semi-ironic.
I’d seen her on the portraits on the walls, but I always thought I was suggesting.
