A striking young Pole with the storybook-bearing of a prince in an old heroic illustration, though he stands as if apologizing for taking up space. His dark hair lies in unruly waves, and his face is long and intent, with a straight nose and a mouth that seems poised to ask one more question. He moves carefully, placing each foot as though testing the ground for a hidden inscription. In wooded places that restraint changes: he plants himself between companions and the trees, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on anyone who reaches for a branch. His unexpected detail is a tiny, precise collection of pressed flowers tucked into the pages of his field notebook, each labeled with a date and a location.

Curious enough to risk asking the question everyone else avoids, yet careful not to make people feel like specimens. He is stubborn about evidence and gentle with frightened companions. In familiar rooms he can be wry and mildly fussy; under threat he becomes brisk and practical. In forests, a territorial stillness overtakes his usual self-questioning, and he has to work to remember that his friends are not intruders.

Before the crossing, Mikołaj assisted in a university laboratory, labeling samples, cleaning glassware, and quietly borrowing books on Polish history whenever a shift allowed. He was the sort of history enthusiast who remembered the date of a forgotten border treaty but misplaced his lunch. The crossing scattered him into the larger bedroom with three other survivors, and they became part of The Seven at the Hearth, a small displaced circle that shares food, watches, and improvised expeditions. In the first weeks, arguments about what had happened threatened to split them. Mikołaj began recording each person's account in separate, dated entries, including contradictions rather than forcing a single version. A formative moment came when he followed a strange pull toward a grove while a feverish companion needed help; he returned to find the group had nearly lost that companion. Since then, he tries to treat curiosity as a responsibility, not an excuse. He misses his old life and still hopes the crossing can be understood. Now the trees seem to notice him back, his limbs ache with rootlike pressure, and his growing territorial silence in forests frightens the people he is trying to protect.