After turning sixty, I resigned myself to the quiet ache of loneliness, repeating it like a mantra to keep the world at bay. But one rainy afternoon at the bus stop, a familiar voice shattered my solitude with a single question about Tokarczuk, and suddenly, my past and present collided. That day, I was forced to confront old wounds, family resentments, and the possibility that it’s never too late for a second chance.