CHAPTER 1: The Echo of the Explosion

The plane touched down and Peter reached for his phone immediately. He did it even before the people around them began to stand up, and he realized a second later that Žaneta must have noticed.

Nothing.

That word hung in him longer than it should have.

Beside him, Žaneta was folding her scarf. She did it calmly, meticulously, as if arriving in Malta were just another minor thing that needed to be put in its place. Markéta yawned behind them. Peter heard her, but didn't turn around.

The boss hadn't reached out since Thursday.

There was no reason to think anything had happened. That was precisely why he was thinking about it.

„Here we are,“ he said.

Nobody answered him right away. It was a short, ordinary silence. Still, he noticed it.

In the queue at passport control, he pulled out his phone again. He couldn't stand it in his pocket. He couldn't stand it in his hand either.

„Papá, stop it,“ Markéta said.

„Stop what?“

„That phone.“

Žaneta didn't smile, but Petr had the feeling she might. And that was almost worse.

In the taxi, a message came from Radúz.

Have you landed yet?

Petr looked at her for just a moment. Then the screen went dark.

He didn't reply.

Outside the window, the island passed by, one he remembered differently. Or perhaps he remembered it through someone else. Low houses, dry grass, the sea on the horizon. Everything was the same, yet from the very first moment he had the feeling they had arrived too late.

„It's hotter here than last year,“ Žaneta said.

Petr nodded.

He couldn't remember if he'd told her how lovely it had been here last year.

He couldn't remember everything he had actually said to her.

---

The hotel lobby was full of people. Suitcases stood in rows along the walls, the air conditioning was blowing harder than was comfortable, and a queue was forming at the reception desk. Several more couples were waiting ahead of them.

Petr shifted his bag to his other shoulder and remained standing a short distance behind Žaneta.

Two men beside him were speaking French. One of them was holding a phone so both could see the screen. Petr paid no attention to them.

Then he heard a sound.

A short bang.

Silence.

And then a noise that resembled the falling of something heavy.

The man stopped the video and played it again.

Petr's gaze inadvertently drifted to the screen.

The footage was blurry. Some kind of industrial building. Ordinary at first glance. Then a flash. The image shook. A cloud of smoke and dust burst above the roof.

The man rewound the video to the beginning.

Petr turned his eyes away.

A few meters away, an elderly woman was sitting with a tablet. At the top of the article was the same picture. Smoke. A destroyed building. An explosion.

"Did you hear about that factory?" Markéta asked behind him.

“Yeah.”

"They said they found pieces of sheet metal almost three hundred meters from there."

„Markéta.“

„What?“

Žaneta turned away from the counter.

"We're on vacation."

Markéta shrugged. She said nothing more. She just took out her phone.

The line moved forward.

Petr recalled a short report he had caught a few days ago on the news. Then a video in the company chat. And then another link. And yet another.

As if that explosion was constantly waiting somewhere.

On TV.

On the phone.

Now here too.

“Next, please.”

The receptionist waved at Žaneta.

Petr looked toward the glass doors leading to the terrace.

Beyond them was the sea.

Blue.

Calm.

So calm that it felt to him as if he had nothing to do with any of it.

---

The hotel balcony had become his refuge on the very first evening. He sat on a chair, narrowed his eyes, and let the hot air flow around him. In the distance, the sea glistened. Yachts bobbed on the waves, too white and too peaceful for what was racing through his head.

Petr ran his finger across the phone screen. Work emails, several reports from home, no message from his boss. Everything seemed urgent, even though he knew most of it could wait.

The phone vibrated briefly.

Radúz.

Petr looked at the name and let the display go dark. He didn't open the message. Not right away.

Last year he had been here alone. He hadn't had to explain where he was going, how long he would be there, or why he was returning late. Now he was sitting on the same island, in the same heat, and everything he remembered as freedom suddenly had edges.

He remembered the promenade, the palms, the music from the hotel bar. Radúz leaning against the railing. He didn't remember exactly what they had talked about. He remembered rather that he hadn't needed to talk to him all the time.

The phone vibrated again.

Petr left him lying on the table.

Maybe it would be enough to reply. Something short. Something ordinary. Just a few words that would keep last year at a safe distance while not completely losing him.

He didn't remember most of his conversations with Radúz.

He remembered rather that he had never given the impression of a person who had to be somewhere on time on a Monday morning.

Down below the balcony, someone was moving sun loungers. Laughter drifted up from the restaurant. The sea was still just as calm.

Petr picked up the phone.

He opened the message.

So you're here again.

He read it once.

Then a second time.

There was no question in it. There was no reproach. Just a sentence that could be read in several ways, and none of them were safe enough.

Petr put the phone down on the table, screen-side down.

The light went on inside the room.

Žaneta was looking for something in her bag. Markéta was lying on the bed by the window, texting someone. It looked like a normal first evening on holiday. A different room, a different town, the same layout.

Petr remained sitting on the balcony for a while longer.

He didn't reply to Radúz.

He didn't open his work email.

He just looked at the sea, which looked beautiful and calm from here, and told himself that some places don't return to a person the way they left them.

Perhaps because they had changed.

Perhaps because he had changed.