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The end.

That night, Marek slept in the attic on a pile of Zofia’s velvet scraps. He did not dream of reaching hands. He dreamed of a copper kettle with a bent cross, floating on the Vistula, full of stars.

The steam rose. It did not form a hand or a key or a bird. It formed a crown. A simple, dented crown, like the one on the statue of the Christ of the Broken Glass in the church on Kanonicza Street.

That night, Lena did something she had never done before. She took the copper kettle to the roof.