Being up since 4am sucks.
So tired. All I'd like to do is crash.
We're being shown our guest room. Three beds. Three men. Little time before the next appointment. No time for rest now.
There's a knock at the door.
We open and its our host the founder of the Educational Centre for the Hospice dropping in, between his numerous appointments with seemingly all the time in the world to say "welcome" and "hello".
A quiet man. But boy does he have presence. You meet such people from time to time and spend time afterwards with gratitude for such moments.
Amongst the chat a boy walks by. He's our neighbour. A 26 year old. Our host kindly introduces him and then the lad goes on. We are told he has cystic fibrosis and to excuse his coughing. I was going to preempt him by asking forgiveness in advance for any snoring that emanated from a room with 3 men each with proven track. We are then told a little more about the boy.
His father died when he was young. Mother remarried. The father-in-law murdered her. He was imprisoned. The grandparents tried to care and he was taken into the wing of this place. Our host talks like a loving father of this boy.
In a land of the "fatherless", Romania still remembered for those scenes of the orphanages, we find small pockets of un-doing that perception.
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