From the stage, Nermin announced that the picture of the blue bridge had sold for a record amount. Applause filled the hall, a waiter raised his thumb, and Nermin's wife, Iva, wrote the buyer's number on an envelope. She was responsible for handing over the works after the charity auction. Only she was troubled that the seat with that number had been empty all evening, beside the broken speaker.
They were raising money to renovate a small reading room. Every institution and participant belonged to their modest neighborhood, so Iva wasn't expecting strict procedures. She had still kept the numbered cards and blank receipts. In recent weeks, Nermin had felt useful for the first time since losing his job. He promised everyone a successful evening. Iva knew how much it meant to him that people were trusting him with something again.
When the final guest left, the four most expensive paintings remained against the wall. "The buyer will get in touch," Nermin said as he removed the decorations. Iva showed him the card that had never been raised. He admitted inventing the first bids to encourage the others. Then the audience had stopped bidding, and he hadn't known how to admit that his imaginary generosity had no wallet.
By morning, the local group was already sharing his photograph with glowing praise. Nermin asked for a week to find a sponsor who could cover the difference. Iva didn't deny him that chance, but she refused to sign the final report. At the committee meeting, she stated the actual amount, keeping both hands on the table to hide their trembling. At first Nermin looked out of the window, then he confirmed every word she said.
One committee member asked Iva why she hadn't stopped him that evening. "I didn't know then," she replied, without apologizing for what she couldn't have known. They published a correction and offered refunds to anyone who had donated because of the false result. Nobody asked for their money back, but the next auction acquired different rules. That winter, the reading room renovated only one room. Children could still read in it.
At home, Nermin slept in the living room while they discussed trust that couldn't be raised through applause. Iva didn't promise quick forgiveness. A month later, they returned the unsold paintings together. Before each artist, Nermin explained his decision. At the end of the corridor, he asked Iva to wait. She stayed, for the first time not because his report needed fixing, but to hear what he would say without a stage.