Every Human Being by Olena Zhukova

Every human being cares for something.

I never really cared for sentimental things, but there was one item I always carried - a silver pocket watch. It was my father’s watch - now they are cracked, and the hands forever stuck. I tried to forget this person, but, yet I kept the watch. Maybe because it reminded me that time only moved forward for those who could afford it. My life now is a huge mess and I cannot stop thinking about it. I'm not a good man. To be honest, I never pretended to be one. People called me cold, ruthless, maybe even cruel. I didn’t waste words or emotions, and I certainly didn’t waste time on people who didn’t matter. And yet, despite everything, there is one person I could never turn away from - my sister. The only person who had ever seen something in me worth saving. She is nothing like me. She is warmth and quiet determination. She could talk her way out of things that I would solve with force. She saw good in places where I only saw weakness. She carried hope like it was something weightless, and I do anything for her. Truly anything. Every step forward, every compromise, every deal I made. I want to see her happy, to give her a life that didn’t involve counting pennies or watching shadows. But she never understood the cost. She thought there was still a line I wouldn’t cross. Maybe she wanted to believe I could be better, that I still had a future beyond the choices I had made. One night, she asked me if I ever thought about the past and our parents. “Our dad means nothing to me. I don't even have anything that could remind me of him“ She frowned. “It does to me. It was a big part of our life! How can you be so rude, he tried his best for us” “I hate him! He is the reason we are living like that! He is the reason we can't afford happiness“ “But you loved him like I did. Please, Martin, stop. After all - he is your only father“ I didn’t know what to say. I did love him, but I tried best to forget it. Maybe I was wrong.I took out the watch and set it on the table between us. She picked it up carefully, running her fingers over the cracked glass. “It’s broken,” she said. “Yes. But it still exists. Somehow.” She looked at me then, as if trying to understand something I couldn’t explain. “So you do remember. Maybe it’s time to fix it.” Maybe. Or maybe some things were never meant to be fixed.