I remember that day. The last time in the hive. I told him: I can’t take it. This is costing me too much. I say it calmly — there is no drama in it. It is exhaustion. And that is when he starts questioning me like a psychologist. About my father. About my mother. About whether my father might also have been a rejected son. And then he starts describing a scene from the future. The two of us will be talking. Dusk will be falling. The light will be low. And at exactly that moment I am to light the candle he gave me. I am to ask my father whether
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