“Sofia, wait,” the priest called gently.
She stopped.
His concern softened his face. “Are you all right?”
“I just…can’t watch,” she said, her voice barely steady. “I don’t want to see the dirt covering her.”
He nodded. “She carried a quiet strength. Hold onto that, not the silence she left behind.”
What the hell did that mean?Sofia remained silent, not knowing how to respond.
He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve known your mother for years. I’ve seen her courage in ways few ever did, and that’s what I want you to remember.”
Sofia swallowed. She would try. But a stubborn part of her wanted more—it wanted to hold every memory, every detail, before it disappeared into the earth. Her gaze lingered on the coffin, on the last evidence of her mother’s existence. Every quiet laugh, every warning whispered in the dark, every soft touch she could still feel—it all pressed against her chest.
Now, sitting in her car outside the church, Sofia gripped the steering wheel as rain traced thin lines down the windshield. She felt unmoored, uncertain as to the next steps she should take in life.Why did death and grief have so much power?Her mind drifted through years of constant movement and unanswered questions. Katya had always been watchful. Always warning.
“No friends,” she’d snap. “We don’t get close. It’s not safe.”
But she never saidwhy. Every few years, they’d pack up and vanish—a new town, a new story, a new lie.
At first, Sofia tried to have a normal life—friends, laughter, the fragile hope of belonging. But her mother always found out.
“You’re too trusting,” Katya would hiss, rifling through her school backpack as if it held proof of betrayal. “People aren’t safe, Sofia. Don’t let them in.”
By thirteen, Sofia had stopped trying. No friends meant no goodbyes. Easier. Safer. The constant moving had carved a single, hard lesson into her: trust was a liability and must never be given without due diligence.
Somewhere between fourteen and fifteen, the running stopped. Katya bought a small house on a quiet street—the kind where mailboxes lined each home, and neighbors nodded from their porches. Tall grass and dandelions overtook the yard, and paint peeled from the trim. For once, they stayed long enough to plant a garden and yank the weeds that crept in around the front steps.
Sofia didn’t ask why. Maybe her mother was tired of running, or perhaps a fragile, stubborn hope had finally taken root. Whatever the reason, Sofia embraced the change and claimed the space—taping her drawings to the walls, watching dust gather on the windowsill. These were the small, ordinary things that made a house feel like home. It felt good, though staying still made her uneasy.
High school became a study in a life she’d never known. She learned the cafeteria’s social codes and the unspoken traffic of the hallways. But old habits died hard; she still kept her distance, afraid to make friends in case she had to leave again. So when a girl named Liza invited her to study, Sofia’s first instinct was to measure the risk. But she said yes—a small, terrifying experiment in being normal.
College came before she was ready. Katya wanted her close, so Sofia stayed local. Even so, dorm life felt like another country—doors left open, strangers trusting without thought. It made her uneasy, but she adapted. The girl across the hall became a study partner. Library afternoons turned into whispered jokes and midnight snacks. Freedom was messy and loud, but it felt good—like air after years underground. She worked part-time at the bookstore and café, routine and rhythm anchoring her days. No running. No hiding. Just showing up.
After graduation, life came even faster. A small apartment. A job in publishing as a graphic designer. Dinners over the sink, rent paid on time. She called her mother every Sunday. Katya supported her, though always with caution. Sofia knew her mother loved her and wanted her to be happy, but the warnings never stopped—don’t trust people, be careful, stay alert. At first, Sofia listened. Then it began to wear on her. She wanted to live without fear shadowing every choice. Her mother meant well, but it still grated. So she tried to balance both—to be free, yet careful—not realizing how much of her mother’s fear still lived in her.
Romance was trickier. She wanted to let someone in, but the walls her mother helped her build were sturdy and high. So she took what felt safe—coffee and lunches with classmates, study partners, a smile from a stranger that she nervously returned. The day her first design ran in print, she stood by the window, sunlight spilling across her name—and quietly celebrated.
Now, with rain streaking down her windshield, she thought about all of it—the running, the stopping, the quiet life she’d built piece by piece. It wasn’t perfect. But it was hers. Yet something inside her kept whispering to move, to remember that only a few weeks before she got sick, Katya had wanted them to move again. Sofia never got to explore why, but she had sensed her mother’s urgency. Now, every warning her motherhad ever given pricked at her like needles. Restlessness churned through Sofia, a tide she could not control or explain. The suddenness of it unnerved her. It felt as if ants crawled beneath her skin, burrowing deeper with every passing hour. She turned the key but didn’t drive. Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. For a moment, she half-expected to see something there: a ghost, a shadow, the past itself refusing to let go. Would it ever really end—the running, the waiting, the feeling that safety was something borrowed, never owned?
Weeks later,Sofia stood at her mother’s door. She’d lived here through high school but had rarely returned since, a distance she now regretted. The key turned with a familiar groan, and she stepped into silence.
The air was stale, thick with dust and stillness. Sofia moved through the rooms, cracking windows until a cold spring breeze stirred the curtains. Light cut through the gloom, catching dust motes, revealing weeks of neglect. The furniture seemed smaller, emptied of life.
She’d braced for sorrow but felt only distance, as if she were walking through someone else’s memories.
In the living room, she stopped by the faded armchair where Katya usually read for hours. Sofia’s fingers brushed the worn fabric, faintly scented with lavender. For a moment, her mother’s voice seemed to whisper through the quiet—then it was gone. The ache came sharp and sudden, and tears burned her eyes.
The dining table was still set for two—always had been, even when Sofia was away. Two plates, two napkins folded neatly. Amonument to the normal, uncomplicated life her mother craved, one unshadowed by fear and doubt. Sofia swallowed hard and moved on.
Driven by something she couldn’t name, she climbed the creaking stairs to the attic. The air grew colder, thick with dust. She turned on the single bulb that lit a landscape of boxes marked in Katya’s looping handwriting.
Sofia opened them one by one: old toys, photographs of a younger, unsmiling Katya, and scraps of a life built on secrecy. Then, under a pile of winter clothes, her hand brushed something solid.
A book.
She pulled it free—a leather-bound diary, soft with age, its spine cracked from use. Sofia frowned. Katya rarely kept records—no letters, no cards, no receipts. Only a few important documents.No paper trails,she’d always said.Paper gets you caught.
