It was the first time he’d talked so much, the first time I’d seen his eyes well up with tears. I said nothing. What could I say? That I understood? I understood nothing. All I knew was that this man had saved me and that now we were both fugitives, hunted by the Germans on one side and viewed with suspicion by the French on the other. We belonged to no one; we were ghosts.
The weeks passed, my belly grew. Matis found food wherever he could, stealing vegetables from abandoned gardens, trapping rabbits in the forest, trading his knife for bread in a village where no one asked questions. He cared for me with a strange, almost clumsy gentleness, as if he were afraid to touch me. He never touched me inappropriately, never. Even when we slept side by side to keep warm, he always maintained a respectful distance, always that invisible wall between us. At first, I thought it was disgust, then I understood it was fear. Fear of becoming a monster, fear of betraying the fragile trust we had built.
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