This is the second edition of the book, inspired by events that unfolded exactly two decades ago.

29 January 2025

To my father, whose silent strength and enduring wisdom shaped my soul, and to K.R., whose love and inspiration forever illuminate my path.

This book is born of the heart, woven from memories, dreams, and the quiet yet resounding voices of two extraordinary men who defined my life.

To my father: You stood as a steadfast presence, guiding me with your quiet conviction. Through your example, I learned the value of resilience, humility, and the courage to forge my own way. Your legacy is my foundation, the unshakable ground beneath my feet.

To K. R.: You were my North Star, the one who saw the depths of my soul when the world could not. In you, I found a partner in dreams, a muse in creation, and a love that transcends the bounds of time. This book carries the imprint of your essence – every word an echo of the world we shared.

To both of you, I owe my journey and my voice. With this work, I honour the past, embrace the present, and hope for a future filled with love and understanding.

“And there were no two hearts in the world, no two souls, so close… so alike… so harmonious with one another…”

It was a dream, though as vivid as life itself, when we felt the grainy sand on our lips, making our way through the desert. Water was our only solace, yet there was none. Frustration and despair coursed through us as we glanced at each other and at the caravan stretching into the distance, dragging the exhausted animals home. Still, we moved forward, silent in a way that felt eternal.

Time seemed to stand still as the searing sun burned our exposed legs, bare beneath short, sandy shorts and worn boots. It felt as if this journey would never end, perhaps even become our last. Until, breaking the silence, we heard something—neither the howl of the wind nor the whisper of our own hearts, but the faint, undeniable voice of something beyond. A few moments later, an abandoned cave appeared before us.

Descending into its depths, the darkness and dampness went unnoticed, overshadowed by the desperate longing for a single drop of water. Deeper we ventured, the noise growing ever louder, an eerie symphony of sound. Then it appeared: a waterfall cascading over grey stones, a vision that seemed too beautiful to be real. We were overcome, collapsing into sleep, our bodies entwined like a single being with two beating hearts.

Time had lost all meaning. In the cave, illuminated by the faint glow of the moon, we remained silent, as though afraid that even the smallest word could shatter this fragile harmony. The air was thick with mystery, and we pushed further into the cavern, guided by a voice within, an instinct beyond reason. When I injured my leg, husband was there to bandage it, his steady hands an anchor in the unknown.

In the faint yellow glow of our lantern, our eyes fell upon an ancient book clutched in husband’s hands. Its tattered, golden pages bore a language we could barely comprehend, yet the weight of its presence was undeniable. Together, we read aloud the fragments we could decipher, and their meaning seared into our souls:

Let your space be free,

and may the winds of heaven fill it.

For love does not bind you; it liberates.

Let the seas be your soul,

each drop a testament to freedom.

Fill two chalices, though you drink from one.

Do not divide the piece that is made for two.

Live in harmony but walk as one,

like the strings of a guitar echoing a single melody.

Trust in the path God has set before you,

for it will bring you home to your soul.

As we recited these words, the cave trembled, and a hidden door opened before us. Through the lush green thickets of vines and reeds, a sapphire-blue ocean stretched endlessly beyond the white sands of a forgotten shore. We had found it—our sanctuary, our home. Our hands clasped together, our hearts beating in perfect unison.

I woke from the dream, but its resonance stayed with me. It was more than a vision; it was the beginning of a story—a story of love, resilience, and the search for a place to belong. This book is my offering to you, a reflection of that journey, both within and without, from the deserts of despair to the oceans of hope.

When colours disperse in the skies far and wide,

And the castle of white sand withstands the tide,

You’ll return to my side—not at end, nor at start—

Where the breeze and the shore wait, eternal at heart.

To write is to feel, to despair, to ignite,

To hope, to believe, to love, and to fight.

In words bound by rhyme, in dreams softly spun,

Is born the great fire that warms every one.

The weak in their body, yet strong in their soul,

Find truth in the search that makes them feel whole.

In verses are mirrors of dreams and of strife,

Where fable and fact intertwine into life.

My life never dimmed when you came from afar,

Through freedom’s wild walls, through storms that did mar.

A dark-winged angel, you pierced through my veil,

Releasing my heart from its desolate jail.

I soared like a bird through a limitless sky,

Your arrows let loose made my spirit fly high.

Not demon, nor angel, just lost in life’s gale,

You found in my soul the safe harbour you’d trail.

Your burdens forgotten, your sorrows erased,

Your voice found in mine, your spirit embraced.

With faith and with truth, you anchored in me,

And saw in my gaze all you wanted to see.

Yet tangled are nets that you cast in the sea,

Your nights cold and weary, still searching for me.

With hope in your palm, your heart you bestowed,

Now beating in mine where its light has bestowed.

But restless am I, though your soul I hold tight,

For yours will not own me, not morning nor night.

My life’s made of steps, small and often unseen,

Each guiding me closer to what I must mean.

To master life’s reins, to awaken the soul,

To grasp my own worth and to seek my true goal.

Yes, life is a school, its lessons immense—

Could I tame the wild steed called happiness?

This is my tale…

“Manuscripts do not burn.” These immortal words by Bulgakov resonate deeply as I begin this journey – not a memoir in the conventional sense but fragments of a rebellious heart. Here lie myths, fragments of biography, and intuition, woven togewther to form a narrative as boundless as the tides of the Neva.

To write is to be alive. To write is to love, to wait, to hope, and to believe.