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CHAPTER FIVE, A Blaze Called Solana ❝ Can I not look? ❞
four years ago Zagreb, Croatia
THEKITCHENWASQUIET EXCEPT for the low murmur of the radio, tuned to the morning news. A faint crackle accompanied the announcer's voice, blending with the comforting aroma of fresh bread, fried eggs, and ajvar. Axel entered silently, just as he had been taught, and slid into his usual seat at the sturdy wooden table. The lace curtains on the windows swayed gently, and the room was filled with the soft golden light of a crisp Zagreb morning.
His mother was at the stove, turning eggs in the pan with a wooden spoon, her movements efficient and deliberate. Without turning around, she addressed him.
"You didn't air out your room this morning," she said, her tone calm but firm. "A zatvoren prozor je zatvorena glava." [A closed window is a closed mind.]
Axel's stomach sank. "I'll do it right after breakfast," he replied quickly.
"No," she said, her voice leaving no room for negotiation. "You'll do it now. Your room should breathe as much as you do."
Axel hesitated for only a second before standing. He walked briskly back to his room, unlatched the window, and swung it open. The sharp November air rushed in, carrying with it the faint scent of damp leaves. It stung his face, waking him up more effectively than his tea ever could. He returned to the kitchen, this time more alert.
His father had arrived, as predictable as the ticking clock on the wall. He took his seat across from Axel, freshly shaven and dressed in a crisp white shirt with the faint smell of aftershave trailing him. He adjusted his tie as he unfolded the Večernji list newspaper and scanned the headlines with quick, practiced eyes.
"You're already falling behind," his father said, without looking up. "Discipline isn't just doing what you're told—it's knowing what to do without being told."
"Yes, sir," Axel said quietly, his hands tightening slightly around his fork.
Axel's mother placed his plate in front of him: two fried eggs, a slice of bread, a dollop of ajvar, and a small bowl of sir i vrhnje (cottage cheese with cream). The portions were modest but balanced, just like her approach to everything.
"Don't forget to thank God before you eat," she reminded him, setting the table for his younger brother.
Axel bowed his head briefly, murmuring, "Hvala, Bože, za ovaj dan i hranu." [Thank you, God, for this day and food.] It was habit now, as natural as breathing, though he wasn't sure if he truly felt it.
