One year. 365 days. That is how long it had been since Radu had last spent a night in his adopted home of Sighisoara. He had spent a year searching, from Moldova to the coasts of South Africa, for something he had yet to find: peace.
He doubted he was going to find sitting in a church. He was there to kill time, to hide, until his meeting with an estate agent. He had only returned to the small city to tie up loose ends. He had a half-finished house to sell and job to quit. The Dumitrescus to let him take an extended leave of absence but he could not continue to keep stringing them along and have them thinking he was coming back. There was nothing left for Radu here. The life he had built for himself was gone. He was wise enough to realize that some of it was his fault. When things got hard, when he found Doina was still alive, he shut down. Still, knowing what went wrong was only half the battle. He had no idea how to fix it, and worse yet, he was sure there was no fixing it. So he had come solely in order to let go.
Then maybe he would be able to find a bit of the peace he had been searching for.