Page 207 of Mafia and Scars

The next morning, it’s orange.

Viktor is in the kitchen helping prepare breakfast, cutting strawberries into exact halves the way Sofia loves—because he’s learned her language of comfort, her need for sameness.

He wears a black shirt with sleeves rolled up and black trousers, but there in his pocket sits a small square of russet orange. He moves through the room the way he always does, measured and steady, settling into his morning rhythm. But now there’s this tiny rebellion of color against the controlled black of his world, and something in my chest flutters like a bird testing its wings.

On Wednesday, a small square of dark yellow catches the morning light and throws it back onto his throat when his head turns.

He stands in the garden, surveying the neatly gridded beds. The handkerchief sits in his pocket like a captured piece of sunlight, and I watch him from the kitchen window longer than I should.

When he comes back indoors, he doesn’t comment.

Neither do I.

But the silence feels full now, pregnant with something neither of us is ready to name.

By Thursday, I’m looking for it before I see him, my heart doing this ridiculous little skip of anticipation.

Green. Not bright like neon—that would still be too much and too loud for him. It’s more like moss after rain, soft and deep.

He’s folding laundry with military efficiency, and the handkerchief sits in his pocket like a leaf that chose to stay and chose to be seen.

Sofia pads past with her headphones around her neck, pauses, her eyes going from the green handkerchief to the plants in the yard, then back to Viktor. “Matching,” she says, pleased, before skipping away.

But I catch the way Viktor’s shoulders relax at her approval—andthe way he glances down at his breast pocket like he’s still surprised to find color there.

On Friday, he chooses a pocket square in blue. It’s the color of deep water.

When he leans over Sofia’s visual schedule board, pointing to the skating lesson and the new art session she requested, that little square at his chest catches my eye.

He sees me watching—really watching. And God help me, there’s that almost-smile from him. The one that makes my heart hammer much too fast.

But more than that, there’s something new in his eyes.

Something that looks like pride. In himself. In this small act of courage he’s been building, color by color, day by day.

By Saturday, I know his handkerchief will be indigo before I even see him. I’m learning his new language—this rainbow he’s been writing across the week.

We walk to the car, Leon in my arms and Sofia between me and Viktor, heading out for ice cream. Sofia reaches for both our hands like the world is safest when she’s anchored between us. And maybe my little girl is right. Maybe this is what safety looks like—a man brave enough to wear color, a little girl learning she can trust again, a baby who sleeps peacefully in my arms.

I can’t keep my eyes off the flash of indigo in Viktor’s breast pocket. It’s become a beacon, a daily proof that people can change, can grow, and can choose healing over fear.

Babulya meets us at the car. We love having her with us on family outings, plus she’s a devoted fan of ice cream. And she comments on how handsome Viktor looks, her approval warming the space between us all.

But I catch her eyes lingering on that handkerchief too, and the soft smile that crosses her weathered face tells me she understands exactly what she’s witnessing.

By Sunday, I’m ready.

Heart full of anticipation, chin in my palm, I wait to see the violet handkerchief I know will complete his outfit.

I haven’t seen him so far today because he left for work very early this morning. I’m in the vegetable garden, tending to the plant beds, when he arrives home and comes out to see what I’m doing.

As he stands in front of me, I look at the subtle shade—the precise color of the tiny wildflowers that grow without permission in the cracks of our pavers out here, brave and beautiful in places they were never meant to bloom.

Just like him. Just like us.

He’s carrying two cups of coffee and hands me one as I kneel in front of a planter, his fingers brushing mine in a touch so gentle.

“Okay,” I say finally, because a week of curiosity has carved a hollow space in my chest that only truth can fill. “You don’t have to explain. But…the colors?”