resonanzraeume:resonanzraum_25-011_en
Unterschiede
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resonanzraeume:resonanzraum_25-011_en [2025/06/05 17:18] – admin | resonanzraeume:resonanzraum_25-011_en [2025/06/05 17:25] (aktuell) – admin | ||
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- | ==== Room 10 – Keravlónomos | + | ==== Room 11 – The Silence Between the Windows |
<color # | <color # | ||
- | + | They live in the same city, but not in the same world. | |
- | The story doesn’t begin with lightning, but with breath. | + | Martin lives on the hillside above the Danube. His parents run a guesthouse with a view of the hills of Devín. Jana lives below, in a housing block at the edge of Petržalka. They haven’t seen each other in a long time. And yet sometimes, they still hear the same things: the same voice on the radio, the same bang of a football hitting a garage door, the same wind whistling through the streets when winter comes. |
- | + | Martin believes | |
- | In a small Greek village near Kalamata | + | Jana believes her country should be more open. That no one moves forward alone. That “those up there” don’t hear what’s said below. |
- | + | They used to know each other. A long time ago. In school, they didn’t like each other. At first. Jana found Martin arrogant. Martin thought Jana was loud. Their hands smelled of chalk, one spoke fast, the other wrote quiet sentences into the margins of his notebooks. Then their paths parted: university, friends, what people call a “worldview.” What remained were sparse messages, more and more cautious – until they fell silent altogether. | |
- | This morning, mist lies over the valley. Giorgos steps out barefoot; the grass is cool underfoot. On the hill stands a single, rusty lightning rod – inactive for decades. Giorgos installed it himself, back in 1982, when his son was born. | + | One spoke of homeland, the other of dignity. Each believed the other wasn’t talking to them. |
- | + | And yet, they sometimes dream the same dreams: of a friend who disappeared; | |
- | He stands still. | + | Now, almost grown, they still live in the same city, not far from each other. Both know it. Both pretend not to. |
- | Then lifts his hand and touches the old metal. | + | Today, |
- | He says: “I am ready.” | + | The other thinks of a weight they carry – not out of pride, but out of habit. And that it would be lighter if the other would say, “I remember.” |
- | + | They both feel this. But neither takes the first step. | |
- | The sky twitches. No rain, just light. | + | And outside, somewhere between the houses, |
- | Not even loud. | + | |
- | Just a current that flows through him – | + | |
- | not destructive, but remembering. | + | |
- | + | ||
- | Later, Giorgos sits in the kitchen and writes for the first time in years. | + | |
- | Just one word: Keravlónomos. | + | |
- | He says it means: | + | |
- | “The one who allows | + | |
- | + | ||
- | In the evening, his breath will be quieter. | + | |
- | Not from fatigue. | + | |
- | But because | + | |
\\ | \\ |