09.02 VERONIKA – Shadows in the Rental Shop 17.7. from 10:30 to 23:00

VERONIKA

The sun is beating down like crazy, evaporating the last remnants of my energy. I still have thirty minutes of break left on my phone, but right now I already regret deciding to head outside. I could have stayed in the cafeteria, had a coffee and scrolled. Instead, I'm now dragging myself through the baking city with a camera around my neck, because I got it into my head to shoot another stupid vlog.

The "DVD Rental" sign is practically frying in the sun. Honestly, who even rents DVDs anymore? The same kind of morons who slash their skin with razor blades, just so we're clear.

I open the door and an icy draft hits the back of my neck, and right after that, I step in a puddle of condensation, dammit. The chime above the door announces my arrival. It's half-empty inside, just Viktor at the counter. I feel the skin tighten on my wrist where I have my newest scar. I automatically cover it with my other hand.

"Hey," I greet him with a forced smile. "I need a rarity for my vlog, something Instagram doesn't know," I wink at him and take out my camera. "Something that has a story."

Viktor looks at me for a moment as if he were scanning me. Finally, he turns around and disappears between the shelves. He returns with something that looks like a worn-out plastic box.

„VHS?“ I blurt out in surprise. „That’s like… prehistoric.“

„Seoul ’88 diving trials,“ he says, handing it to me. „When you want something Instagram doesn’t know.“

The cover creaks when I open it. Inside is a tape with a handwritten label—it has to be a million years old.

„Who recorded this?“ I ask.

„Duchková and the Canadian coaching staff,“ Viktor replies. „After emigrating in the eighties, she coached their juniors, and before Seoul they filmed every single dive so they could break it down. Seoul was the first Olympics where the IOC allowed central video analysis of water sports, but they were already doing this at the training camp. Look at the names on the tape.“

I focus on the faded label. Among the names, I see „Duchková“ as well.

„Milena Duchková? She did diving, right?“ As soon as I say it, I realize I sound more biased than I mean to.

Viktor nods. „Yeah. The youngest Czechoslovak Olympic champion—she was sixteen.“

Sixteen. She was only five years older than my brother is now. And she'd already achieved something. At twenty-one, I'm just staring at a wall and waiting to run out of energy. And now? I'm panicking that I'll let myself be charmed by Viktor's calmness like everyone else.

The door flies open and Martina slips inside. My Martina—the person who's been drilling me in the pool for a year. She's a little over forty, but she struts in with the elasticity of a twenty-year-old; a towel over her shoulder, wearing an elastic set that still radiates the chlorine scent of morning practice.

"Hey, Viktor," she nods at him and immediately turns her eyes to me. "Vera," she smiles with that familiar coach-smile that usually announces another six dives into the water for me.

"Hi, coach," I return the greeting and quickly hide the cassette behind my back, as if I were hiding a piece of candy from a dietitian, except I'm hiding my hand.

“What are you hunting this time?” he asks, winking at the cassette in my hands.

“Well, actually… I'm making a vlog about things nobody knows anymore. Vintage stuff.”

Martina lets out a brief puff of laughter. „Just shoot whatever has a pulse. Without that, it's just static on the line.“ She waves her towel around as if shooing away extra seconds from split times.

"This heart beats to the rhythm of chlorine," I reply, and I have to smile too. What can you do—next to her, a person always feels like they can manage a few more laps, even if their arms fall off.

And somewhere behind that smile, an old certainty hits me: if anyone is going to crack why this VHS is burning my palms so much, it'll be her—the coach who isn't looking for sensations, but for meaning.

Viktor, who had been standing behind the counter like a statue the whole time, suddenly looks like he's relieved. As if Martina's presence has changed the atmosphere. He starts looking for something on the computer and I use the moment to look around the shop.

The walls are covered with shelves of DVDs and VHS tapes. According to categories—action, drama, comedy, documentaries. In the corner is the "Rarities" section where Viktor found that tape. Next to it is a shelf marked "Forbidden Fruit". Probably erotica or something.

As I walk past, I notice something has fallen off a side shelf. I automatically bend down to pick it up. It's an old photo. Two guys in the showers, one holding the other by the shoulder. It looks like a snapshot from some school.

Before I manage to properly focus, Viktor's hand appears in front of me and instinctively covers the photo with his palm. I jerk and look up. His expression is a mixture of panic and something that looks like… shame?

"Sorry," he says quietly and takes it away from me.

Martina, who is standing a short distance from us, catches a glimpse of the shadow of the picture before Viktor hides it. Their eyes meet for a moment and they tell each other something without words.

"Curiosity is an engine, not a brake," Martina whispers and lets it go. Then she turns to me. "So, Veronika, do you even do anything other than shoot vlogs?"

“I'm swimming,” I reply automatically. “Well… I was swimming.”

“You know Jakub,” he says. “Tough, but fair.”

“Yeah, he is,” I nod. “Sometimes a little too fair.”

Martina laughs. “Yeah, yeah, he wants to bring out the best in you.”

“Well, he won't kill me during his attempt,” I joke, and Martina laughs again.

The ceiling fan hums, stirring the air. The scent of earth and freshly cut flowers drifts up from the flower shop on the corner. Suddenly, I remember a summer thunderstorm from when I was little. I was sitting on the porch with my dad, watching lightning flash across the sky. Dad was telling me how storms clear the air, how important they are. That sometimes everything has to be destroyed for something new to be created.

How long has it been since I thought about Dad? About Mom? How long has it been since I thought about anything other than just surviving another day?

“Do you want to borrow it?” Viktor asks, nodding toward the cassette I'm still holding in my hands.

„Yeah,“ I reply, even though I hadn't thought about it until now. „Can I?“

„Sure. You'll need a VCR?“

„No, there's one in the basement. My dad's old one.“

Martina smiles at me, as if she understands more than I said. „Sometimes old things work better than new ones,“ she says.

„Yeah,“ I nod. „Sometimes they do.“

Viktor fills out some form for me and hands me the tape. „Bring it back whenever you want. Nobody's looking for it anyway.“

„Thanks,“ I say, pressing the tape to my chest. „Vintage truth.“

The door jingles as I leave. It's still hot outside, but somehow I don't mind. I'm holding a piece of history in my hand, something that has survived thirty years and still has something to say. And maybe, maybe it's exactly what I need.

On the way back, I'm thinking about that photo Viktor hid away so quickly. Who were those guys? Why did he care so much? And what does it have to do with Tom?

Tom. He hasn't texted me in a week. After what happened at my place, I blocked him, but still. He could at least try. He could...

No. Stop. This isn't your concern anymore. Not ever again.

When I get back home, I sit on the bench outside the entrance for a moment. I reach into my pocket for my phone and open my contacts. I hesitate for a second, then find Tom's number and unblock him. Not because I want to text him. Just because it's time to move on.

I get up and head inside. I still have a ten-minute break. Ten minutes before I go back home to my brother, before I dive back into food prep. Ten minutes before I have to pretend that everything is fine.

But this time it's different. This time I feel like something inside me has awakened. As if that old cassette, that photo, those interviews—as if all of it woke something up.

Vintage truth. Maybe it's time to find my own.