If you are reading this, it means I died while running for my life and for the life of my unborn child. My name is Katya Ivanova. I escaped from St. Agnes Home for Girls.
And I am hunted by its current benefactor, a powerful man whose name I do not know, only that he visits often, watches too closely, and does not let go of what belongs to him.
June 8, 2003
It’s been nearly a year since the river. I don’t know how we survived—luck, maybe, or a grace I no longer recognize. An old hunter with a limp took me to his cabin, finding me half-conscious by the river. He never asked questions, and I offered no answers—just the silent language of shared meals and stoked fires. When I had recovered enough, we left before dawn and kept moving. I’ve learned never to love a place enough to be found there.
Sofia’s asleep now. Her little hand is curled around mine even in her dreams, as if she already knew the world required holding on. I watch her chest rise and fall and tell myself this must be what freedom feels like—quiet, fragile, borrowed. But it’s ours.
We’ve moved again. Second time this year. I still see shadows in every passing car, hear voices in every knock. Fear is my oldest companion now—it keeps us alive.
The men who broke me—who broke so many—still walk free in the sunlight. Those who looked away, who chose a comfortable silence, sleep soundly in their beds. I trace the cracks on these new walls and pray they are a map that leads to nowhere.
If you’re reading this someday, Sofia, don’t let my fear become yours. Don’t live in the shadows I left behind. The world can be cruel, but it can also be kind. Seek the kindness. Treasure it. Protect it.
You are the only thing I ever did right. You are my hope, my light, my reason.
Mama loves you. Always.
CHAPTER ONE
Present…
The cemetery was still—the quiet that bore down on her shoulders. A fine drizzle turned the fresh grave’s dirt to mud. Sofia stood at the edge of the small crowd, hood low, fingers clenched in the folds of her coat. Her heart felt laid bare, cracked open, as if it would never be put back together again. She hadn’t visited a cemetery since childhood, when she’d clung to her mother’s hand, too young to understand death but old enough to feel its gravity—the chill wind, the scent of wet soil, the low hum of prayer, and the raw sobs from those left behind to grieve.
Now she was back, but this time it was her mother, Katya, being lowered into the earth. Gone too soon—taken in her early forties by a sudden heart attack that left Sofia stunned and empty. The shock still felt raw, like a wound that refused to heal.
Sofia blinked away tears, imagining the warmth of her mother’s hand, the gentle nudge that would have told her it was okay to be scared, to grieve.
“It’s okay to cry, Sofia…”she thought she heard Katya whisper, soft and steady through the drizzle.
Only a handful of people had come. Neighbors, a few acquaintances, and the priest stood under umbrellas, heads bowed, whispering prayers. Sofia didn’t join. Grief sat heavily on her chest. Each breath was a painful effort. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the tears down.
Not here. Not now.
Her fingers curled tight inside her coat. Any second, she expected to hear her mother’s voice—or see her standing off to the side, arms crossed, offering that knowing look. But there was only rain, and a silence so dense it filled every corner of the cemetery.
“She was a good woman,” someone said softly.
Sofia turned. Mrs. Novak, her mother’s neighbor, stood wrapped in a thick coat, her face lined with grief.
“She helped a lot of people,” the woman added, her voice cracking. “Even when she barely had anything left to give.”
The words caught like a splinter. Her mother had given everything—time, money, her last ounce of strength—to anyone who needed it. And where had that left her? In a box. In the rain.
“Yeah,” Sofia murmured. “She did.”
Mrs. Novak squeezed her arm. “If you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”
“I’m fine,” Sofia said too quickly.Trust no one.She forced a small smile. “Thank you.”
The older woman studied her. For a wild, reckless second, Sofia wanted to lean on her, collapse into that warmth, and sob until the hollow ache inside eased. But the moment passed. Mrs. Novak nodded and stepped away.
The priest’s final words carried across the near-empty cemetery. The few neighbors or odd coworkers who knew Sofia’s mother enough to mourn her left, umbrellas snapping shut. The drizzle eased, but the cold clung, sinking deep into her bones.
Sofia turned to the coffin—dark wood slick with rain. The dirt around it waited, soft and open.
“I’ll miss you, Mom,” she whispered, laying a single white lily across the casket. The petals gleamed, too pristine against the wood. She waited—for a sign, maybe, something to tell her she wasn’t completely alone, that maybe the belief people held about lingering spirits was real after all. But nothing came. Just the drizzle and the hollow ache in her chest. She turned away; she couldn’t watch them fill the grave.
