you never tell me what is wrong

--

They arrived in Kirov when Gremio was only five years old.

It hadn’t been anything too awe-inspiring, even for one as small as he was. He’d seen his fair share of towns like it in his young life, with old cobblestone streets and the smell of the sea carried on the breeze. But no child his age could truly be bored with anything new, whether it was really new or not, and he still found himself distracted by anything and everything, from the housewives chatting idly on doorsteps to the stray cat that just dashed off into the nearby alley. His parents were used to this (as was anyone who’d ever cared for a young child), and his mother remedied it by giving his hand a rough tug, making him stumble awkwardly as he tried to keep his footing. “Don’t lag behind, Gremio.”

People looked at them strangely, but that was hardly uncommon. No matter how much Gremio’s father tried to convince her to, his mother flat out refused to dress down. From his earliest memories of her, she hadn’t changed at all, always wearing the finest of silk dresses with silvery high-heels, golden hair tied back and held in place by an intricately carved ivory comb. It was as if she’d never left the mother country she’d spoken of so fondly in her rare reflective moments, still walking among the well-dressed noblemen and their elegant brides instead of half-awake, foul-smelling fishermen on their way to the docks. Even now, with her gown heavy and worn from the thick sea air, her hair growing limp and lifeless from the strain of a long journey, she held her head high and kept her eyes forward, face set in upper-class pride.

To her son, there was no one in the world more beautiful.

She stopped abruptly in front of a tiny little house, one pale arm lifting to stop Gremio from going on any further. They waited at the base of the porch as his father climbed the steps to the front door, one calloused hand digging in a pocket for his keys. Gremio looked up at his mother curiously, tugging her sleeve. “Mama?” he asked. “Is that where we’re gonna stay?”

“Not if your father values his marriage, it’s not.” She sighed, looking the place over with disdain. “I thought you said you found us a house. That barely qualifies as a shack.”

“It’s only temporary, angel,” he replied, smiling in triumph once he’d finally dug up the little copper key from his pocket. “Just give me some time to get this business goin’, alright? We’ll have a better place in no time. ‘Til then, no harm in calling this place home, is there?”

Her fingers closed around Gremio’s tiny hand, dragging him to the front door, nose turned up in that way that told them both she wasn’t convinced. “I suppose we don’t have any choice, do we?”

His father could only shrug helplessly, smiling as he scratched the back of his head. “Suppose we don’t, angel.” With that, he followed them inside, closing the door on one dismal scene and heading right on into the next.