Megrelburg: The Heart of Van Helten [English Version]

“Good afternoon, Mr. Finch,” Howard greeted quietly, feeling that in this unusual silence his voice sounded a little louder than he would have liked.

Mr. Finch looked up from a stack of sketches, raised his eyebrows slightly, as if surprised that someone had actually come, and nodded:

“Hello, Howard. Glad to see at least one boy who hasn’t traded his paints for the stage.”

Howard frowned a little, not understanding:

“Where is everyone?”

“Mr. Harris excused everyone who wanted to help prepare for the Christmas concert. And, imagine, there were so many volunteers that the hall is packed now. So the art room is practically a private temple today. For the chosen ones. Or for those who simply didn’t want to carry boxes.”

He said it without judgment, more with light irony, and Howard suddenly felt something like gratitude stir inside: Mr. Finch neither made a hero of his presence nor considered him strange.

The room was arranged unusually: it was divided into separate “corners,” separated from one another by shelves filled with the best student works from all eighty-nine years of the school’s history. There were plaster heads, vases, old still lifes, darkened with age but still proud of their place in history. That layout had been designed on purpose: so that students wouldn’t distract each other, so that each could remain alone with their canvas and their thoughts.

Howard went to his spot—section number two. Everything here was familiar: an easel with an unfinished landscape still on it from the last lesson, a box of brushes, jars of paint lightly covered with dust, as if even they knew that inspiration didn’t come every day. He carefully arranged everything, set up the canvas, ran his fingers over its rough surface—and paused for a moment, listening to himself.

Mr. Finch watched him from his place by the window. Then he said quietly:

“You know, I don’t like it when students come here just because they have nowhere else to go. It’s much more unpleasant for me to watch them waste paint, drawing something without any desire to create, than to see them absent. In eleventh grade, there really are more important things. But you... you seem to come not out of desperation. You come to talk to the canvas.”

Howard shrugged slightly, not knowing how to respond to such precise words.

“It’s just... it’s calmer for me here.”

Mr. Finch tilted his head a little, as if trying on that phrase the way one tries on a hat—to see whether it suits.

“Calmer. Yes. But look at your work.”

He came closer, not invading Howard’s personal space, but rather standing beside him, as an equal. He looked for a long time at the canvas, where gray tones flowed into one another, forming a city that didn’t exist on any map: foggy streets, empty benches, streetlamps whose light seemed unable to dispel the darkness.

“It’s gray. Not simply restrained—truly gray. And this isn’t your first painting in that vein. Tell me, do you see the world that way? Or are you just afraid to add color, because then you’d have to believe it exists?”

Howard involuntarily squeezed the brush. He wanted to argue, to say it was just style, that he was searching for a mood, but the words stuck halfway between his throat and the truth.

“The world isn’t so bad,” Mr. Finch said softly, as if not arguing but offering Howard a chance to taste that thought.

“Not so bad...” Howard hesitated for a second, then added firmly: “But not as good as one wants to think either. Sometimes it seems the good is just rare breaks in the clouds. They exist, but they’re few and they disappear quickly.”

Mr. Finch didn’t argue; he only tilted his head slightly:

“That means you notice them. Those breaks. That’s already something. Some people don’t even see the sky while walking in the rain.”

“I see them,” Howard admitted. “But it doesn’t make things easier. Because you know they won’t last. And then it’ll be gray again.”

“Maybe that’s the point? Not to wait for the clouds to leave, but to learn to notice the light while it’s there. Even if it’s weak. Even if it’s barely visible.”

“But is that honest?” There was a weariness in Howard’s voice he couldn’t hide. “To pretend everything is fine when it isn’t?”

“No one is asking you to pretend. I’m only asking you not to let the darkness block the whole horizon. Color doesn’t have to be bright to be real. Sometimes a single thin line, a single barely noticeable shade is enough to make the whole canvas suddenly lighter. You don’t have to paint over the darkness. You just have to let it know that there is light nearby. Even if it’s quiet.”

Howard was silent for a moment, looking at his gray painting as if seeing it whole for the first time.

“What if I don’t know how to find it?” he asked quietly.

“You already do. Otherwise you wouldn’t notice that everything around is gray. To see a shadow means to know that somewhere there is light. You’re just not looking in the right place yet.”

Howard looked at his canvas—and suddenly seemed to step inside that gray painting, walking through its streets, where anxiety and fear hung in the air like thick fog. The shutters on the houses were tightly closed, as if the inhabitants were afraid to let into their homes not only the cold but also a stranger’s gaze, a stranger’s word, a stranger’s hope. It seemed the houses hid behind those shutters their own small but heavy truth.

Mr. Finch, standing a little way off, glanced at the thoughtful young man—and his gaze softened; that particular sympathy surfaced in it, the kind that doesn’t shout but whispers: “I see how hard it is for you.” He wanted to pat Howard comfortingly on the shoulder, to say something simple and strong: “You’ll manage. You’ll find your colors yet.” He even half-raised his hand, but then lowered it and hid it behind his back, as if deciding that words or gestures would be too loud for that silence. Turning, he quietly returned to his desk, leaving Howard alone with his canvas and his thoughts.

Howard wanted to add brightness to the painting, but he didn’t know how to do it so that everything would turn out perfectly. It seemed to him that if he made a mistake with a shade, if the line came out too sharp or, on the contrary, too timid, the fragile balance of his world would break. And looking at that city, which had become a mirror of his soul, he suddenly thought: a person’s life is the same kind of easel. Every day a new stroke lands on it: someone’s glance, a chance word, a memory, hope, fear. Some people paint with bright, bold colors, unafraid of smudges and stains. Some carefully lay down barely visible lines, as if afraid of taking up too much space. And some, like him right now, see everything in shades of gray and don’t dare step beyond those boundaries.

At that moment, a woman’s voice came from the half-open door—quiet but insistent:

“Mr. Finch, they’re asking for you in the teachers’ lounge. It’s urgent.”

Finch froze for a second, as if wanting to say something else, but only gave a short nod, cast a warm, understanding look at Howard, and hurried out, pulling the door shut behind him. His absence did not make the room empty—on the contrary, it seemed to give Howard space to breathe a little more freely, to focus not only on drawing but also on his thoughts.

And he began to think—this time about the very philosophy of life. Looking at his gray city, he asked himself: if his world was so muted now, then for someone else it was probably too bright. How did that person feel? With what thought did they wake up in the mornings? Did they notice all the little things Howard was used to noticing in every person and every new day? Or, on the contrary, were they so surrounded by light that they couldn’t see shadows and therefore didn’t understand what it was like to stand in the half-dark and try to make out at least one warm glimmer?

Time passed unnoticed. The hour and a half of class was drawing to a close, and Howard was still standing in front of his easel, as if afraid to move lest he frighten those thoughts away. His easel stood by the window, and from time to time he glanced at the sky, where gray, almost black autumn clouds raced one after another, as if hurrying somewhere, carrying cold and dampness with them. He seemed to draw the mood for his city from them—from their heaviness, from their silent weariness.

But then that unbroken stream began to break apart. Narrow gaps appeared between the clouds, and the sun cautiously peeked out from behind them. Its light was not bright or blinding—rather timid, as if it wasn’t sure whether it should show itself on such a gloomy day. But it was there. And it warmed a little.

Feeling that touch of sun, Howard glanced at the clock—and only then truly realized that the time for his gray city had indeed come to an end. He began putting away the paints, carefully washing the brushes, trying not to damage the bristles, rinsing the palette until the water no longer carried the mixture of colors, and placing all his supplies into the signed shelf in the cabinet—”H. Van Helten.” The letters had been written in his own hand at the beginning of the year, and now that neat label seemed to confirm: this is my place, my corner, my right to be here, even if I’m not like everyone else.

While he was fussing, awkwardly adjusting his shirt after removing his slightly stained apron, a soft, sweet female voice came from behind him:

“Your painting is darker than it seemed.”

The voice seemed to be trying not to startle, but it still rang out sharply, like a sudden chord in the silence. Startled, Howard dropped the cup of solvent and an empty paint jar. They thudded dully on the floor but didn’t break—as if even the world had decided to spare him today.

Emily stood in a patch of sunlight that streamed through the window and lay on the floor in warm rectangles. She was squinting adorably—the sun was shining right into her eyes, and she had tilted her head slightly, as if trying to see him through that golden curtain. The sunbeams seemed to play in her hair, weaving thin golden threads from the dark brown waves. A light strand had come loose and fallen softly onto her cheek—and Howard suddenly wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, but he only gripped his fingers tighter, holding himself in place. There was no harsh, cold beauty in her features—everything was alive: a small, slightly upturned nose, a line of lips that first curved into a guilty smile, then became serious when she looked at the painting. In both hands, lowered in front of her, she held her schoolbag—not like a burden, but like a shield, a familiar support that helped her stay confident even in the most awkward situations. She noticed his fright—and couldn’t hold back a slight smile. Not mocking, but warm, almost guilty: she found it amusing that she had startled him so much, and awkward at the same time.

He froze, blushing, feeling everything inside him clench with embarrassment.

Emily took a couple of steps forward, about to bend down and help gather the supplies, but Howard stopped her, saying:

“No, no, don’t bother, I’ll do it myself!”—almost pushing the air between them, as if he wanted to keep her at a safe distance so he wouldn’t make even more of a fool of himself.

She stopped and apologized again:

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to... Sorry I startled you.”

And he, already hastily picking up the fallen things, suddenly blurted out, not knowing where the words came from:

“Oh, come on, how could such a joy scare anyone? I just wasn’t expecting...”

And immediately groaned inside: “Idiot, be more confident! Why did you say that? What will she think? Say something normal!” He was smiling at her, looking at her as if she were not an ordinary girl but some miracle that had descended right into that dusty classroom, and her smile was literally melting all his tension, driving away his usual doubts.

“You know, I’ve been drawing in section three this whole time,” Emily admitted quietly, lowering her gaze a little, as if she too felt a bit awkward. “And... I accidentally overheard your conversation with Mr. Finch. Not on purpose, it’s just... the acoustics in there, voices carry.”

In that moment, something clicked in Howard’s head: “Damn, she was practically right next to me the whole time!” He suddenly felt hot not from embarrassment, but from the realization that all his thoughts, all his words, even the silence between phrases—she had heard it all. And she hadn’t left. She had stayed. And now she stood here, looking at him without judgment, but rather with interest—as if he were a puzzle she wanted to solve.

“I got curious about which painting you were talking about,” she continued, tilting her head slightly, and in her voice there was no idle curiosity, but a real, quiet desire to understand. “I spent the whole class picturing that colorless landscape in my head and asking myself: is it really so gray that even Mr. Finch paid it that much attention?”

She paused for a second, then, as if making up her mind, lifted her eyes to him:

“Do you mind if I come closer? I want to see.”

Howard nodded so vigorously that he surprised himself with his own eagerness:

“Yes. Yes... Yes! Of course!”—and immediately stepped aside, clearing her path to the canvas, as if giving way to something important.

Emily walked over and stood in front of the painting. She looked not fleetingly, not out of politeness, but as if she were really walking along those gray streets, peering into dark windows, squinting as she tried to make out something in the alley’s gloom. Howard couldn’t take his eyes off her, trying to guess what exactly caught her attention, which stroke seemed important to her, which corner meaningful. He wanted to explain, to tell her why he had laid down that particular shadow, why he had left that corner empty, but the words stuck somewhere in his throat, refusing to form into clear phrases.

At last Emily tilted her head slightly and said quietly:

“There’s so much silence here... Not dead silence, but... tired. As if the city had lived through something for a long time and had just sat down on the edge of a bench, saying nothing. But at the same time... you see these thin lines?” She carefully, without touching the canvas, traced her finger in the air along the silvery strokes. “They seem to say: ‘I’m still here. I haven’t disappeared.’”

Howard nodded, as if those words had lifted a weight he had been carrying without noticing.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “I was trying... not to paint over the darkness, but just to show that light exists too. Even if there isn’t much of it.”

Emily stood before the painting a while longer, then turned to him, and in her gaze there was neither admiration nor pity, but something far more valuable—understanding. In that moment, Howard looked into her blue eyes—and seemed to see a whole map of feelings, carefully traced with invisible lines. There was no falseness in them, no desire to seem like someone else: only sincerity, a light anxiety, curiosity, and warmth that didn’t shout but quietly warmed. And in that gaze he suddenly found answers to many questions that had been tormenting him inside: not about the painting, not about the world, but about whether one could be vulnerable and still not seem weak; whether one could show a shadow and still remain light; whether simply standing beside someone could already be a kind of help.

“You know,” she said, smiling slightly, “I think that’s the most honest kind of art. Not pretending the darkness isn’t there. But showing that even in it, you can find a little light.”

Howard exhaled, and the tension that had gripped his shoulders all day finally began to release.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, looking not at the painting but straight at her. “Sometimes it feels like if you see a shadow, it means you’re just fixated on the bad.”

“Or maybe you’re just not afraid to name it,” Emily answered calmly. “And that makes it less frightening.”

For a second the room went quiet again, but now the silence was different—not empty, but filled with something important.

Then Emily lifted her schoolbag slightly, as if to remind him that the world beyond that corner still existed and was expecting something from them.

“The break will be short,” she said, frowning a little, as if she herself regretted having to return to schedules and lessons. “We need to get to the last class as quickly as possible—biology. Otherwise Mrs. Crowley will unleash all her fury on us.”

Howard held his gaze on her face for a second, trying to preserve every detail in his memory: how the light fell on her hair, how a slight worry flickered in her blue eyes before class, how she gripped the handle of her bag a little tighter, as if it were her small anchor in the stormy school day.

“All right,” he said quietly, and in that “all right” there was no indifference, but a readiness to walk beside her, even if ahead lay not a canvas and a quiet classroom, but a noisy classroom and a strict teacher. “Let’s go. Only... thank you. Thank you for looking. For seeing more than just gray.”

Emily smiled—this time a little wider, as if something in her chest had also quietly unfurled, like a folded piece of paper finally being opened.

“Then let’s go,” she said, nodding slightly toward the door.

They left the classroom together. Howard lingered for a fraction of a second on the threshold, casting a last glance at the easel, his canvas, the shelves of works, Mr. Finch’s desk where everything was in its place. And he understood that order wasn’t only about arranged jars and clean brushes. It was also about knowing when to set down the brush and walk beside someone who lit the road not with bright spotlights, but simply with a warm, calm light.

The school corridor crashed over them with its usual bustle: someone ran by, stomping loudly, someone argued at the schedule board, someone laughed so ringingly that the sound seemed to bounce off the walls. Howard, adjusting to that noise after the quiet of the art room, walked beside Emily, trying not to look at her too openly but still catching every gesture. They quickened their pace, skirting a group of kids arguing about whose turn it was at the water cooler, and almost turned the corner where the corridor narrowed and led straight to the science wing. And then, from around the corner, Mr. Finch suddenly appeared. He was walking quickly but not fussily, a folder under his arm and that expression on his face that said, “I have a task and I will do it”—yet he still managed to notice everything around him.

They almost collided. Emily stopped abruptly, clutching her bag to herself, and Howard instinctively stepped forward, as if wanting to shield her from an accidental collision, though there was no need.

“Oh! Sorry, Mr. Finch!” Emily blurted out, and in her voice there was that sincere awkwardness that always sounds more honest than any excuse.

Mr. Finch paused, tilted his head slightly, and a light smile flickered across his face—not wide, but the kind worn by people who know how to appreciate small coincidences.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said calmly, raising his folder a little, as if to show that he wasn’t in such a hurry as to not find a second for them. “Heading to biology? Mrs. Crowley doesn’t like her lessons to start with apologies.”

Emily nodded, blushing a little:

“Yes, we’re... in a hurry.”

Mr. Finch shifted his gaze to Howard. There was a quiet understanding in that look, as if he already knew the whole story that had happened with his gray city. In that moment, he understood everything, and for all the questions he had asked earlier, he found the answer in Howard’s eyes.

“Good,” he said quietly, and in that “good” there was more meaning than in long speeches. “Sometimes the most important thing is not to get everything done, but to take the right step at the right time.”

He gave a slight nod, as if confirming his own words, and continued down the corridor, leaving them standing at that crossroads.

Howard watched him go, feeling something quietly settle into place inside. It suddenly became clear to him: Mr. Finch had seen everything and understood everything. Not only about the painting, but about him as well—about how hard it could be to carry that gray world inside, and how much courage it took to allow even one bright line to appear in it. And the fact that the teacher didn’t say it aloud, but simply nodded at them as he passed, seemed to Howard the greatest approval he could have received.

“Let’s go,” Emily said quietly, touching his elbow—only for a second, barely perceptibly, but it was enough to bring him back to the corridor, to the bustle, to reality. “We’ve got a little over a minute left.”

Biology class truly flew by faster than all the others. Mrs. Crowley, with her usual strictness, talked about cell structure, clicked her pointer against the board, and from time to time scanned the class with her gaze, as if checking whether any chaos lurked that might disturb her perfect order. But to Howard, her voice sounded as if through cotton—he heard the intonations, individual words, but the meaning slipped away.

He kept glancing in Emily’s direction, but each time he seemed to be too late: she sat a little ahead and to the left, her head bent over her notebook, and he couldn’t quite catch the right angle to see her face fully. He was endlessly curious to understand how he appeared in her eyes. Two years of school together—ever since she had transferred to their class in eighth grade—and they had never really talked. All that time he had considered her unreachable, untouchable, as if she lived in some other dimension where everything was brighter, cleaner, and more right than in his.

One question tormented him even more, a question that now seemed almost offensive in its missed opportunity: what did her painting look like? He couldn’t forgive himself, or the schedule, or that cursed lack of time for not asking about her work. Fragments floated up in his mind on their own: section number three, dimmed light, silence in which other voices carried... What had she been drawing all that time while he tried to tame his gray city?

Mentally, he was already jumping ahead to Thursday, to the second art lesson. A whole scenario was rapidly unfolding in his head: he would enter calmly, without fuss, greet her in a way that sounded confident but not pompous. Then, as if in passing, he would ask about her painting—not pushily, but with sincere interest, as if it really mattered to him. He was already choosing intonations, trying out phrases, discarding those that sounded too ornate or, on the contrary, too timid.

“No, better like this: ‘You know, I keep thinking about your work... I wonder what you’re creating there.’ Or no. Too much ‘I.’ Keep it simpler. ‘What’s on your easel right now?’—that’s it. Simple. Human. Although... no.”

Howard began living a whole separate life in his head—with dozens of possible ways things could go. He wanted to foresee everything: not to drop his supplies, not to stumble over his words, not to look frightened, as if the world were once again pressing down on him with all its weight. He wanted to calculate everything two, three, four steps ahead, so that in the moment when she looked at him again with her blue eyes, he could simply be himself—without fuss, without panic, without that endless attempt to control everything.

But class time was almost up. As soon as the bell rang, the classroom instantly exploded with movement: desks creaked, chairs clattered, voices merged into one hum, and everyone rushed for the door, as if afraid it would close at any second. Someone buttoned their jacket on the run, someone hurriedly stuffed notebooks into a worn backpack, someone argued about who would leave first. Howard froze for a moment, trying to catch sight of Emily, but the whirlwind had already carried her away—she flashed somewhere ahead, appeared for an instant between other people’s backs, clutching her bag, then disappeared into the stream of students hurrying about their business. He remained standing by his desk, feeling reality catch up with him again, and understanding that all his perfectly planned dialogues, all those “two, three, four steps ahead” were now worth nothing. Life gave no rehearsals. It simply moved along, not asking whether he was ready.