Her boots entered the room first

Her boots entered the room first. Heavy-soled and rain-soaked, they struck the floor, cutting through a haze of cigarette smoke and the drone of his mother’s voice. 

He was crouched beneath the dining table, knees to his chest, tracing the grooves in the linoleum with a bitten fingernail.

“Where’s the boy?”

The voice was steady, not loud, but it carried a weight that made his mother flinch. She sat on the couch, one leg tucked under her, a cigarette in one hand, her free fingers drumming nervously against the armrest.

“He’s around,” she muttered, waving vaguely toward the back of the room.

Walter stiffened as the boots moved closer, slow and unhurried, pausing just beyond the table. He saw the hem of a long coat sway as the figure crouched. Then she was there—gray hair dripping wet, her sharp eyes finding his.

Her hand extended, palm open.

“Come on,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

Walter hesitated, glancing past her at his mother, who now avoided both their gazes. He waited for some protest, some gesture to stop this strange woman, but none came. Lena’s cold clammy hand didn’t waver.

Walter took it.

-

Lena’s house wasn’t what he expected. Small and squat, it sat behind a tangle of overgrown hedges that leaned over the cracked walkway. Inside, the air smelled faintly of varnish and coffee, and the walls were crowded with shelves stuffed to bursting. Books, jars, ashtrays, and unidentifiable trinkets occupied every available surface. The kitchen table was barely visible beneath the clutter of papers and loose bills, all layered with a fine coat of ash.

She didn’t offer him a tour. She didn’t even ask his name. She took off her coat, tossed it onto a chair, and disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she carried a plate with a hastily made sandwich and set it in front of him.

“Eat,” she said.

Walter obeyed.

That night, she gave him a blanket and pointed to a sagging couch in the front room. “You’ll sleep there,” she said, not waiting for a response before climbing the stairs.

The blanket smelled faintly of tobacco.

-

Days passed without explanation. Lena didn’t ask where he had come from or how long he planned to stay, and Walter didn’t ask what kind of life this was. She moved through her routines with an economy of words, her actions brisk and precise. If he trailed after her, she didn’t seem to mind.

The first time she took him out, it was to a diner on the edge of town, its neon sign flickering against the early evening sky. She parked in a space far from the entrance and turned to him.

“Stay here,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Through the fogged car window, Walter watched her step inside. Her silhouette moved with quiet purpose between the booths, stopping at a table in the far corner. She leaned down, her movements measured, and the man across from her shifted uncomfortably. After a few minutes, she returned, a small envelope tucked into her coat.

“What’s in it?” Walter asked as she slid into the driver’s seat.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Lena replied, lighting a cigarette.

The smoke curled upward, disappearing into the cracked ceiling of the car.

-

Walter learned not to ask questions. Lena’s world was full of silences and unspoken rules. People came to the house at odd hours, their voices hushed, their faces drawn. She dealt with them quickly, often without saying much at all.

One evening, Walter sat at the kitchen table as a man leaned against the counter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He was talking fast, his words tumbling over each other in a rush to explain, apologize, or both. Lena didn’t interrupt. She simply stood there, her expression flat, her eyes fixed on him like a hawk watching a field mouse.

Finally, the man faltered, his voice breaking into an uneasy laugh. He reached for her shoulder in some misplaced gesture of camaraderie.

Lena moved faster than Walter thought possible. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with a grip that seemed to stop time.

“Out,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man left without another word.

Walter stared at her, wide-eyed. She didn’t look at him as she adjusted her cuffs and lit another cigarette.

“Some people don’t know when to quit,” she said, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate stream.

-

As Walter grew taller, Lena began giving him small tasks. First, it was errands—delivering envelopes, picking up packages, waiting in the car. Then, it was more. She had him accompany her into backrooms and alleyways, watching as she negotiated in her calm, cutting way.

“Do I have to say something if they ask me questions?” he asked her once, his voice small.

“Only if you want them to think you’re stupid,” she replied.

He learned to read people the way she did—to see the tension in a man’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted when he lied. He learned to hold his ground in the face of uncertainty, to keep his voice steady even when his stomach twisted.

By the time he was sixteen, he was running errands on his own. Lena would hand him a folded slip of paper or a tightly bound bundle of cash without explanation, trusting him to know where to go and what to do.

And he did.

-

The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible, but Walter noticed it: Lena moving slower, her hands trembling faintly as she lit her cigarettes. She didn’t say anything about it, and Walter didn’t ask. She simply passed more of the work onto him, her silences growing heavier.

One winter morning, he found her sitting in her chair by the window, a blanket draped over her lap. She stared out at the snow-covered hedges, her cigarette forgotten, burned down to the filter.

“Anything I should know?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. “Just keep your head down,” she said.

She was gone by spring. Walter found her in the same chair, her hands resting lightly on the armrests, her eyes closed like they did when she was thinking.

He didn’t call anyone right away. He cleaned the ashtray, folded her coat, and turned off the light in the front room. For hours, he sat on the couch, staring at the cluttered table, the uneven stacks of books, the faint outline of her shadow burned into the worn fabric of her chair.

The house didn’t feel empty, at first.

-

People still came to the door. They knocked softly, their faces pale and tired, their voices low. They handed him envelopes or packages, and he nodded, his expression steady.

One evening, he found himself sitting in Lena’s chair. The leather creaked under his weight, the familiar scent of tobacco rising faintly from its surface. Outside, the wind moved through the hedges, brushing against the windows, whispering warnings of storms ahead.

He lit a cigarette, though he hadn’t smoked before, and watched the smoke rise toward the ceiling. A breeze brushed his skin, though no windows were open.

Another silence, heavy and uncertain, pressed into the corners of the house. Walter sat there unmoving, letting it settle.