Roses Bloom in the Ivory Tower

A Riddle

"You don’t live around here, do you?" I ventured.

It made sense—his neat hair, his well-fitted coat, those long, clean fingers. An upper-class man straying into the slums.

Truthfully, I’d always admired people like him. Not out of greed for money or status, just a woman’s curiosity about a world beyond her own.

I’d met plenty of wealthy men at work, all gilded on the outside and rotten within.

But God, I still clung to the childish right to dream. Who didn’t love dreaming? At its core, a girl’s fantasies were beautiful precisely because they were out of reach.

Sharing a cigarette with someone like him proved our worlds could still collide. Trying to grasp at the tail end of a dream—wasn’t that a rare joy in this endless, dreary life?

Besides—how to put it? I’d met enough people to develop a passive intuition. And something told me he wasn’t like the others.

He glanced at me. "No. Just felt restless, so I wandered here."

"The weather’s been gloomy—no sun this morning. That’d put anyone in a mood," I replied, grasping for conversation.

"Sun or no sun, it’s all the same in this place," he said, cryptic.

Something about his tone felt off, but I didn’t press. Instead, I floundered on—damn it, I prided myself on being quick with words, but now I couldn’t string a decent sentence together. "Emm…Still, sunshine’s better than rain. At least you don’t have to slog through puddles."

"Maybe. But when the drains clog and the water soaks your trousers, even walking forward becomes a struggle." His voice stayed soft, but something in it had shifted.

"You shouldn’t worry so much about the rain. Tomorrow might be clear. I hear the flowers in the park are blooming nicely."

"Flowers always wither."

"You’re really in a bad mood. What’s troubling you?" I asked, stating the obvious.

He studied me for a moment before admitting, "Too many things."

More than the unemployed clerk whose bank collapsed, leaving his family starving? More than the girl next door, pregnant and jobless, now trapped by laws against abortion? More than the boy in the crumbling tenement, who—?

I thought of all this but said nothing. I didn’t believe much in God, and I sure didn’t feel qualified to judge or comfort anyone else’s pain.

This era was full of desperate people. Some drowned their sorrows in drink, their suffering tangible—a loaf of bread, a few Paper notes, their hopes pinned on "striking it rich" or "finding work," as if those alone could fix everything. That was normal. Common.

But others believed no amount of bread or money could save them. They saw the larger future, the inevitable tide of the world—and knew they were powerless to change it. So they clung to despair, convinced nothing could be saved.

That kind of pain couldn’t be measured or blamed.

Maybe he was one of them.

"I work at a bar nearby," I said. "Plenty of men pour their hearts out to me. I’m good at keeping secrets. If you’re upset, talking might help. Keeping it bottled up only makes it worse."

He smiled. "Thank you. But no."

Well. Rejected.

"Can I tell you something? I’ve got so much to say, but usually I’m the one listening to others. Will you get tired of me?" Honestly, this conversation was taking a weird turn, but I felt I had to say something today—take a RISK.

"It’s fine, go ahead."

So, in that silent alley, I started telling a stranger about my miserable LIFE. About my messed-up childhood, my absent father, my little sister who died young, and my old mother who’s always sick. Never found a good man to marry, but by some strange twist of fate, I ended up with this job.

"Maman was beautiful when she was young. I even have some photos, but not anymore after we came here. Little Rosalie’s death hit her hard… She’s been ill now, lying in bed for ages, sometimes lucid, sometimes not. At first I really had no idea what to do…

She gave me a pair of pearl earrings—my dad bought them when they got married. She never used to want to take them out, but that day, seeing how hungry I was, she told me to sell the jewelry. But I couldn’t bear to, so…

Now even men can’t find work. I have to make money this way."

As I spoke, I was a little worried he’d look down on me because of it. That happened a lot, especially since I wasn’t from here. So many people here thought they were better than others, and they looked down on foreigners the most.

"…Can you understand? I didn’t want to say it… It was never easy for Mom to come here to make a living. She’s my last family. I HAVE to earn money, or neither of us will survive."

He listened quietly, showing neither the disgusting contempt that repulsed me nor the awkward, patronizing sympathy that embarrassed me.

I didn’t know why, but I’d seen so many such expressions before—should’ve gotten used to them. Yet this stranger’s neutrality felt a hundred times more embarrassing.

But he didn’t make me feel embarrassed at all. How to put it? It was a gentle calm. You could see understanding in his eyes, but no judgment. Like he already carried enough pain, and adding one or two more things wouldn’t make a difference.

So I opened up completely, talking a mile a minute—complaining about rising prices, about men who harassed me, about the lousy job. He still listened quietly, chiming in now and then or nodding, showing he was paying attention.

After pouring almost everything out, I sighed in relief, like I’d finally broken free from a stiff shell, feeling unshackled ease and freedom.

Maybe it was because we were just passersby, not knowing each other’s names, maybe never to meet again, that I dared to be so reckless, showing a trust I couldn’t put into words.

Or maybe it was his steady, kind manner that made me think he must be a good man.

And he was. Even after so many things happened later—so much mud slung at him, so much dirt burying his name—damn it, at least to me, I still thought that: he was a good man.

Strange. Even though I’d had other thoughts about him not long before, now there was nothing. I thought he felt the same.

So we talked more. From his words, I gathered he did work like a policeman. He had a strict father, his mother had died somehow, and there’d been an older brother who loved him deeply—who was gone now.

He talked most about his brother, a brother named "Jona"—goodness, so much, almost never mentioning anyone else.

That was a bit strange too. I’d thought he was the type to keep his worries locked away forever.

But he DID tell.

"There was a big age gap between us. Sometimes he’d scold me, but he’d soften up quickly and start messing around with me. I knew he wasn’t the rowdy type, but he’d put up with me. When I was in middle school, he’d often pick me up. Those walks home were our only moments of ease…

…Near my house there was a huge oak tree. In summer, when the wind blew, it rustled like a violin. The air outside would be sweltering, but under the tree it was cool. Looking up, the clouds through the branches looked like strings of silver chains.

Sometimes he’d sneak me out, and we’d sit under the tree, me leaning on him. He’d read me poems, tell me little stories, his voice soft and gentle. Sometimes I’d get drowsy and just slump into his arms, dozing off. When I’d wake up groggy, he’d be staring at me, smiling. When Father was angry, he’d stand in front of me. But later…

No, but… God, I miss him."

He seemed to want to hide his feelings, yet also to deny them, as if afraid I couldn’t take it.

But from the little details he described, from the slight tremble in his fingers when he spoke of his brother, I could tell he’d kept these memories locked away for ages—like a treasure, rusted on the surface but forever shining inside. Something to clutch to his chest, to turn over and over in his mind, too scared to take out, not knowing who to tell.

That feeling was so deep, so heavy—maybe not being able to freely express love and grief was part of his pain.

But in that moment, none of that mattered.

Maybe I was infected by him, but our hearts felt connected then. I felt calm, gentle, relaxed. Yet there was an invisible thread, still pulling at our nerves.

But we didn’t need to think about it. Two strangers, never to meet again, so we dared to lay our hearts bare, hoping the other would forget it all once they left the alley. Then everything would stay the same, and no one would get hurt.

When we’d finished talking about memories and family, we naturally moved on to art and hobbies. Funny enough, most of what I knew came from customers—mostly boasting to show off their courage or personality.

He listened and laughed, mocking them with me.

I also noticed how different he was from them. He really had read a lot, loved opera, novels from the Northern Empire, and Impressionist paintings, and had his own little take on philosophy.

Did he believe in God? He looked like he might, but my gut said no.

Maybe this was what real "upper class" was, I guessed. But I didn’t feel envy. Those things were too far from me.

Back then, I only briefly wondered—why was he in that alley? It was definitely not just a walk, but I couldn’t figure it out.

I didn’t need to. It was enough that one was willing to listen, and the other to speak.

Time passed quickly. Before I knew it, I had no idea how late it was. Coming to my senses, a tragic guilt welled up in me—I’d forgotten my original purpose, even forgotten my maman.

"Sorry, maybe I should head back…" I said hesitantly, a little reluctant.

"Alright," he agreed simply. "I wish you health and happiness."

"Wait…" For some reason, a question slipped out. "I want to ask you—what do you think of reality?"

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. What a stupid question. But the fact that I’d said it proved it had been buried in me for a long time. Besides, I had a feeling he wouldn’t "betray" me.

He fell silent for a moment, no smile, no long speech like when he talked about those books. He just stared at the cigarette butt in his hand.

When it burned down to the end, he was utterly calm, yet from his lips burst a shocking prophecy:

"Our Schwarzen Republic’s economy is already rotting to the core, politics is a total mess, and there’s no solution.

Either it fizzles out like a cigarette, turning to ash; or it bursts into flames, pumping poison gas into people’s lungs like this."

That night, as I wrapped myself in the blankets, all I saw was his face, and all I heard was his low voice. Terrible.

Who on earth was he?