Nobody really remembers how Aleftina ended up in the office.
She appeared to have always been there: a quiet, unassuming woman or girl; it was difficult to tell.
Some thought she was young, others felt she was old, but her appearance was concealed by a rustically tied headdress and a long turtleneck that covered her neck.
She washed the floors, polished the toilets, polished the metal door handles, and cleaned the glass dividers – everything that had been dirty by clients’ palms and foreheads – until they shined.
All of this had been going on for three months, and no one at the bank had heard from her.
No one noticed her makeup or the scent of perfume; simply the freshness of floor cleaner and clean air. After she sprayed it, the entire office shined and projected a comfortable, even homelike cleanliness.
The employees’ reactions toward her varied: some felt sorry for her, some simply ignored her, and some allowed themselves to mock her.
– Hello, silent! There’s dust here!
– the mocker, a young credit department manager, pointed his finger to a spotlessly clean corner. He was seeking for a cause to anger her, but Alya simply took a rag and did what she was hired for. No reaction, just work.
“Look how he sweats!” another laughed once, earning him an elbow from more seasoned colleagues who sympathized with the cleaning lady.
Aleftina groaned and said nothing, avoiding rudeness as if she was accustomed to it.
And in the evening, she returned to her tight apartment, fed her fish, prepared a little dinner, and sat down to paint. Her paintings were outstanding for their softness and airiness; watercolor flowed across paper, forming entire universes. She did not paint for fame, and she did not show them to anyone.
Just for herself. Sometimes she stepped out into the open air, and her creations were even brighter, more mysterious, and filled with natural light.
The flash occurred on a June night. Screams of terror could be heard somewhere near the foyer.
There was an odor of burning. Smoke was seeping through the crevices and into the keyhole. So it wasn’t their house that was burning.
Ali’s parents and younger brother hastily grabbed their paperwork and dashed out into the street in their pajamas and slippers.
The neighbors had already gathered on the landing, everyone at a loss in their own way, although not in the same sequence.
The apartment on the second story was on fire, directly across from their door. The window was slightly open, and smoke was already escaping.
“Did you call the Ministry of Emergency Situations?” the woman on the first floor said, yawning. However, as soon as she realized that her apartment could be flooded while putting out the fire, she sobered up and began to regret her comments.
“I think they called,” someone in the crowd said, imploring everyone to quiet down and not add to the hysteria.
She was about to go down to the street to the others when she suddenly heard a cough inside the apartment.
She listened – it was a child’s cough. It was clear that he was there, inside. There was no time to put it off.
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