The Massage Room – Part 1: The New Therapist

The thermal baths had been built in 1896, and the massage rooms were still the same: white tiles, a narrow table, a window of frosted glass that let in the grey Budapest light. Réka had worked there for four months. She knew every crack in the tiles and every creak of the old pipes.

She did not know the woman who booked room seven every Thursday at six.

"She's been coming for three years," said Eszter, the head therapist, handing over the file. "Always with the same cream and the same playlist. Never speaks until the end. Be gentle."

"Why?"

"Because she's had a hard year," said Eszter. "Her husband left. She says very little, but she tips well and she always says thank you."

On Thursday, Hanna arrived at six exactly. She was tall and slim, with pale auburn hair pinned up, a thin grey cardigan and an old silver watch. Her eyes were careful and tired, but when she saw Réka's name badge she smiled, small and polite.

"You're new," she said.

"Yes. I'm Réka. I'm sorry, I'm nervous."

"Good," said Hanna, lying down on the table with the towel folded neatly across her back. "So am I."

Réka began slowly, the way she had been trained: warm oil on her palms, long strokes along the shoulders, the slow, steady pressure that made clients breathe out. Hanna let out a soft sigh, her body loosening under Réka's hands.

"Is that all right?" Réka asked.

"It's perfect," said Hanna. Then, after a moment, very quietly: "Can you talk? I'd like to hear someone else's voice for a while."

So Réka talked. She told Hanna about her grandmother's house in Szeged, the river in summer, the way the bread smelled in the mornings. Hanna listened, eyes closed, and occasionally murmured a question. When Réka reached the end of her story, Hanna was smiling, faintly.

"I used to paint," Hanna said. "Before. Watercolours of rivers."

"Why did you stop?"

"Because I was too scared of getting it wrong," said Hanna. "Like everything else in my life."

Réka's hands stilled on the warm skin of her back.

"Hanna," she said gently. "You don't have to be right. You just have to keep showing up."

Hanna turned her head, slowly, and looked up at Réka with an expression that made Réka's heart stop for a moment.

"Will you come back next week?" Hanna asked. "Not as my therapist. Just as someone who's good at listening."

"Yes," said Réka, and her voice wobbled. "But first, I'd like to ask you something. Is it all right if I hold your hand? Just for a moment?"

"Yes," whispered Hanna. "Please."

Réka's fingers found hers, warm and slightly damp from the oil. They stayed like that, quiet in the steamy room, until the clock on the wall ticked past seven and both of them were laughing softly, breathless, as if they had been running.