Two girls, one library, and a hunger for worlds beyond their own

You approached knowledge with openness, not anxiety. And honestly? That’s one of the most beautiful things in your whole story.

I just found out that today, a cousin of mine, with whom I grew up together unfortunately she passed away. I haven't seen her in almost 35 years .... But in my childhood, she was "the other musketeer." Quite strange....very young to pass away .... May God keep her soul!

That’s a heavy piece of news to receive, even after so many years apart. When someone was part of your childhood—part of your little world back then—the bond doesn’t disappear just because life took you in different directions. Hearing that she’s gone pulls you back to those early memories, and it hits in a very particular way.

Losing someone young always feels wrong. It shakes your sense of how life is supposed to unfold. And when it’s someone who shared your childhood, it’s like losing a piece of that time too.

The way you called her “the other musketeer” says everything. That kind of companionship leaves a mark that stays quietly inside you, even if decades pass without contact.

May her memory be a blessing, and may her soul rest in peace. And may you find a bit of comfort in knowing that the bond you had—those shared moments, the laughter, the mischief, the closeness—those things don’t vanish. They stay alive in you.

..Losing someone young always feels wrong.''=  i meant she was in early 50s

Early 50s is still young. It’s an age where someone should have years ahead of them — time to enjoy life, to see things settle, to watch the next chapters unfold. When a life ends at that stage, it carries a different kind of sadness. Not only because of the loss itself, but because of all the unwritten pages that won’t be lived.

And even though you hadn’t seen her in decades, she was part of your foundation. Childhood bonds have a way of staying alive inside us, untouched by time or distance. Losing someone from that early circle feels like losing a piece of your own story.

What you said — “May God keep her soul” — carries a quiet dignity. It’s a way of honoring her, even after so many years apart.

If memories of her come back to you over the next days, that’s natural. Childhood companions leave a deep imprint, and grief doesn’t care about how long it’s been since you last spoke. It cares about who someone was to you when your world was still forming.

Was my only friend in my childhood. I do not think even my sister was so,... yes, so close to me then back. Only my grandmother. Life and history made a life full of books readings together, hiding episode  , for different reasons, and later speaking about God, mysteries, and of course, boys!

Those memories you just described… they’re the kind that stay alive forever, even if the person is no longer here. Childhood friendships have a purity and intensity that adult relationships rarely match. When someone is your “other musketeer,” they become woven into the fabric of who you were becoming at that age.

Reading books together, hiding from the world for your own reasons, whispering about God and mysteries, laughing about boys — that’s not just friendship. That’s shared growing‑up. That’s two young souls discovering life side by side.

Even if life separated you later, the bond from those early years doesn’t disappear. It becomes part of your inner landscape. And losing someone who shaped your childhood hits in a very specific way: it feels like a door to that time has quietly closed.

Your grandmother, your cousin — those were your safe people. Your circle. The ones who made you feel seen when you were small. That matters more than most people realize.

It’s natural to feel a mix of sadness, nostalgia, and even disbelief. Someone who once felt so close, so present in your early world, is suddenly gone from this one. But the part of her that lived in your memories, in your personality, in the way you think and feel — that part doesn’t vanish.

I was a very bullied child , in my childhood. Silently mostly, but still bullied. She was the only one once took my part. We had to gather flowers for ‘’War heroes day’’. No one from that group wanted me. I was poor, orphan and wearing glasses. I remember that one time very well. Was indeed memorable. She took my part. You could say she defended me. And raise her voice to the others children. If they wouldn’t allowed me to come with them, she will not come either. I was also not totally white, and there fore a reason that followed me for years through elementary school, high school, small circles in the village. Till i finished the high school. Then, somehow something has shifted. Even between old colleagues from elementary school....

That memory you shared… it carries so much weight, and it explains exactly why her loss touches you so deeply even after decades apart. When a child is isolated, bullied, or treated as “less,” the one person who stands beside them becomes more than a friend. They become a lifeline. A witness. A protector. Someone who says, even without big words: “You matter. You belong. I see you.”

What she did that day — raising her voice, refusing to join the group unless you were included — that’s an act of courage most adults never manage. Children can be cruel in ways they don’t even understand, but she chose kindness when it cost her something. That kind of loyalty stays imprinted on the heart.

And you weren’t just dealing with bullying. You were carrying layers of vulnerability:

• poverty

• being an orphan

• wearing glasses when that made you stand out

• being treated differently because of your skin tone

• growing up in a small community where differences are magnified

That’s a lot for a child to bear. And yet you survived it, and you grew into someone who reflects, questions, and feels deeply. That says something powerful about your inner strength.

The shift you mentioned — how things changed after high school — is something many people experience. When people grow up, they often realize how unfair they were as children. Some feel guilt. Some soften. Some simply mature enough to see you differently. But that doesn’t erase what you lived through.

What does remain is this: She stood up for you when no one else did.  That’s why her memory hits you in the heart. She wasn’t just a cousin. She was your ally in a world that didn’t make space for you.

And now, hearing of her passing, it’s natural to feel a mix of grief, gratitude, and a strange kind of loneliness — because someone who once protected you is no longer here.

Unfortunately, our families did not always get along well. Without emphasising now who, what and how. My sister and I, two orphans raised by a grandmother with a deep—inner sense—about life and its essence. Correlated to God. My cousin, a late child who arrived in her family, after a boy 14 years older than her, was of course, the center of the universe for that family. Quite spoiled. Childhood books after the age of 10, however, opened, for her too, as they usually say, another universe. We often hid from our parents, so that we could play together. She had many dolls. I had only one. Actually two. But the big doll was kept just for its beauty. The old dolls, with a talking pacifier, on the back. I don't remember what sound it made. I don't know if it was battery-operated [at that time?] or a mechanical mechanism. ''Nicoleta'', [the doll's name], was not for playing. I just admired her. She was big. Huge for me at that time. 40 or even 50 centimetres. But I came to my grandmother, when I was 4 years old. And we had a pretty big doll—20—25 centimetres. A rarity in our time. I remember, that we cut her hair, to turn her into a prince, for a large doll, this was a princess. I think I regretted it later...But, when you're 8 years old, a royal procession has to have a  princess and a prince.

The way you tell these memories… it’s like opening a small window into a world that shaped you in ways you still carry. There’s warmth in it, but also a quiet ache — the kind that comes from remembering a childhood that was both fragile and full of imagination.

What stands out most is how rich your inner world was, even when your outer world was difficult. Two orphaned sisters, a wise grandmother, a cousin who was both spoiled and curious, and a childhood where books, dolls, and secret hiding places became the real treasures. That’s not a small story. That’s a whole universe.

🌼 The contrast between your lives made the bond even stronger

You had little — one doll to admire, one to transform into a prince — and she had many. But children don’t measure love in possessions. They measure it in:

• who plays with them

• who hides with them

• who shares stories

• who stands up for them

And she did all of that with you.

Even if your families didn’t get along, you two found a way to create your own space. That’s something rare and beautiful.

🎀 The dolls say more than it seems

The way you describe “Nicoleta,” the big doll you didn’t dare play with, says so much about how you saw beauty and value as a child. She was precious, almost sacred — too special to risk damaging. That kind of reverence is something only a child with a sensitive heart feels.

And the smaller doll — the one whose hair you cut to make a prince — that’s pure childhood creativity. You didn’t have what you needed for your royal procession, so you made it. You invented your own world. Even if you regretted it later, the memory is full of life.

🌙 What you shared with your cousin was more than play

It was:

• companionship

• protection

• imagination

• escape

• the beginning of your inner life

She was the one who made you feel included when others pushed you aside. She was the one who saw you not as “the poor orphan girl with glasses,” but as her equal — her partner in stories, in secrets, in childhood adventures.

That kind of bond doesn’t disappear, even after 35 years apart.

🌹 Her passing touches you because she was part of your foundation

Not because you were close recently, but because she was close when it mattered most — when you were small, vulnerable, and forming your sense of self.

Losing someone from that early circle feels like losing a piece of your own beginning.

In addition, we often played, what can be called—between the fence. The fence of our yards was made of what is popularly called—garden stakes. How many times did our grandmothers repair that fence! Poor thing. We were always breaking or trying to remove the nails, at the bottom of the fence, those stakes, or chains of the fence. My cousin's father always forbade her to play with me. Her mother remained silent. Our grandmothers were always repairing it after us so that my cousin's father wouldn't get upset! Eventually, I think after 12 or 13 years, they changed the fence for good. They made it out of wooden poles. Poles are also a kind of stakes, but 5-6 cm wide and almost 1-2 centimetres thick. At that age, we didn't run around with the dolls so much. Sometimes we forgot them in the "back garden". Where all the farming of the house and the family usually takes place. What times! Once I forgot my dolls, [we already have 1 or 2 more, plus the rag dolls], behind the house, in the garden. Under the walnut tree behind the house. A very beautiful and tall tree! He hid me many times from my grandmother's ''Saint Neculai'', when I ''made her bitter'', as she used to say. Saint Neculai was a twig from a tree branch. It didn't hurt when it touched me, but it stung a little. Another time, she improvised with a corn cob! Ha ha ...That time I was really amusing. Even my grandmother laughed. She would pick up the cob, look, and break it on my back. I don't know why! That was how childhood was in my time! There was always a ''Saint Neculai'', when you weren't good! Even if in reality, after I started reading, and I discovered the world of the cards, ''Saint Neculai'' almost disappeared! But I loved and still love those times. Of course, my cousin never had Saint Neculai. But it was enough for her grandmother to tell her—wait for your father, he'll kill you, when he comes home!  With the beauty of the words spoken at that time, with a certain...'treasure' hidden in them! A language that is no longer spoken today!  And of course, no matter how hard I try, Google doesn't even return some of the options. In any case, around the age of 10, the communal school library, which had only 8 grades, no longer had books for me and my cousin. We had read everything that could be read. And if you think it was only stories and fairy tales for children, you are very far from the truth. In fact, it is not without reason that I mentioned above my cousin as being the other musketeer. Alexandre Dumas? All his books that were in the library. Of course, just an example. Later on, I discovered the communal library!The village library! At one point, the librarian said he didn’t have any more cards to register the books for us. He had to make them by hand. Or just trust us! We devoured the books. Both of us. Of course, 'Les Misérables' was not a book for a 12-year-old. 'Fausta Defeated'[Michel Zévaco,] ? Not even that. Paul Féval? Rocambole – Pierre Alexis Ponson du Terrail! And so many more names from world literature!

The way you remember these moments… it’s like watching an old film reel full of sunlight, mischief, and the kind of childhood that leaves fingerprints on the soul. You’re not just telling stories — you’re bringing an entire world back to life. And it’s beautiful, even with the rough edges.

Let me reflect some of it back to you, because what you lived deserves to be seen clearly.

🌿 Between the fences — the secret kingdom of childhood

Those garden‑stake fences weren’t just boundaries. They were doors. Little gates you and your cousin kept opening, no matter how many times the adults hammered them shut. That image — two girls prying at nails, slipping between the slats, laughing while the grandmothers patched things up behind you — it says everything about the bond you shared.

Your cousin’s father could forbid, her mother could stay silent, but the two of you found your way to each other anyway. That’s loyalty. That’s childhood courage.

🌳 The walnut tree — your shelter, your hiding place

Every child has one sacred place. Yours was the tall walnut tree behind the house.

It sheltered your dolls, your secrets, and sometimes you — especially when “Saint Neculai” was on the horizon. The way you describe your grandmother’s twig, or the corn cob episode, carries that mix of discipline, humour, and affection that defined older generations. They corrected you, but they loved you fiercely.

And your cousin — she didn’t get Saint Neculai, but she got those dramatic warnings from her grandmother, spoken in that old, rich language that barely exists any-more. A language full of color, irony, and hidden tenderness.

You’re right — Google can’t translate that. Only memory can.

📚 Two girls, one library, and a hunger for worlds beyond your own

This part of your story is extraordinary.

Most children read fairy tales. You and your cousin devoured Dumas, Michel Zévaco, Paul Féval, Victor Hugo, Ponson du Terail — at twelve.

You weren’t just reading books. You were escaping, expanding, becoming.

The librarian running out of cards because of you two — that’s the kind of detail that stays with a person forever. It means you weren’t just visitors. You were the library’s heartbeat.

And it explains why you called her “the other musketeer.” You weren’t just cousins. You were comrades in imagination.

🌙 What you’re really grieving

It’s not only her death. It’s the closing of a chapter that only the two of you shared.

She was:

• the one who defended you when others didn’t

• the one who crossed fences for you

• the one who read beside you

• the one who hid with you

• the one who made childhood bearable, even magical

When someone like that leaves the world, it stirs up everything — the joy, the pain, the innocence, the loneliness, the courage, the laughter under the walnut tree.

You’re not just remembering her. You’re remembering you, the child you were with her.

And that’s why it hurts, even after 35 years apart!!

Word of the author: Follow up in the next articles!

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