“Where is he?” a little girl wails, her voice wobbling on the edge of a tantrum.
“I want Uncle Miron!” another pipes up, stomping her foot hard enough to rattle the tiles.
In the living room, I pause in the doorway, watching. Two little girls—both under seven, I guess—are tangled in a standoff with the house’s staff. One, dark-haired and fierce, clings to a battered doll in one hand and a crumpled sketch in the other. Her sister is younger, softer, with curls spilling everywhere and a bottom lip trembling dangerously.
The maids look harried, not quite sure how to handle the situation. One kneels, murmuring in Russian. The girls ignore her, arms folded, determined.
A familiar pang tugs at me. Children have always been my soft spot. I step forward, letting my voice carry a warmth I haven’t felt in days.
“Hey, what’s going on in here?” I ask, keeping my tone bright and conspiratorial.
Both girls whirl toward me. The older one narrows her eyes, appraising. “We want Uncle Miron,” she declares, as if challenging me to disagree.
I nod, kneeling so I’m on their level. “He’s very busy this morning. Can I help instead?”
The younger girl studies me, sniffling. “Who are you?”
I smile. “My name’s Sera. I’m new here too.”
The older one juts her chin out, fierce as a lion cub. “I’m Liana. This is Sofia.” She wraps her arm around her sister. “Do you know how to draw a horse?”
“Not very well,” I admit, “but I can try. Will you show me?”
They hesitate, glancing at each other. I extend my hand, palm up, and after a moment, Liana deposits her battered colored pencil into it. Sofia crawls into my lap, all trust and warmth, her chubby fingers curling around my wrist.
The maids relax, grateful to slip out and tend to their work. I gather the girls close, settling onto the rug in a patch of sunlight. Scraps of paper and half-broken crayons appear from nowhere.
I help Liana flatten out a fresh sheet, holding it steady as she draws a lopsided stick figure—long legs, wild hair, enormous eyes.
“It’s a unicorn,” she announces. Sofia giggles, pressing a scribbled blue circle onto the corner of the page.
Soon I’m surrounded by laughter and color. They chatter at me with the ease only children possess: stories about their school, their mother, the way Uncle Miron always lets them eat too many sweets when no one is watching. I nod, laugh, ask questions, lose myself in the rhythm of their play.
I show Liana how to braid her doll’s hair, let Sofia press stickers all over my hands. The house feels different with them in it: lighter, fuller, less haunted. I catch myself smiling for the first time in days, my muscles relaxing as their energy seeps into me.
Even when I hear Miron’s voice echo somewhere distant, even when I remember the weight of his touch, I let myself savor this moment of ordinary chaos. It feels almost safe, almost real.
By the time the maids return, the living room is a riot of paper scraps and giggling children. Liana holds up her drawing, proud.
“Look, Sera! It’s you and us and the unicorn.”
I grin, letting myself believe, if only for a heartbeat, that the world is simpler than the one Miron has built around me. Here, for a little while, I can be just Sera again—not a captive, not a prize, just a woman playing with two little girls in the sun.
We trail into the hallway, scraps of paper clutched in tiny hands, the twins giggling and skipping at my side. Liana grabs my palm, swinging our arms between us, while Sofia toddles along, occasionally stopping to tug her sock back up. For a moment I’m lighter, buoyed by their easy affection, almost forgetting where I am.
At the corridor’s end, a heavy door creaks open. Miron steps through, tall and composed, as ever. The girls’ laughter stops for half a second before both of them shriek in delight: “Uncle Miron!” Sofia darts forward, arms outstretched.
He crouches easily, catching her in his arms and scooping her up. Liana barrels into his side, tucking her head under his arm. Miron laughs—genuine and unguarded—and the sound is nothing like the man I know from tense dinners and locked doors. He ruffles Liana’s hair, presses a kiss to Sofia’s cheek,murmurs something in Russian that makes both girls burst out giggling again.
I stand frozen, caught off guard by the sight. There’s a tenderness in his movements, an easy warmth in the way he smooths Liana’s wild hair and adjusts Sofia’s dress, that I never imagined him capable of.
His whole posture softens; the usual razor-edge is gone, replaced by something gentle and achingly natural.
He listens as Liana shows him her unicorn drawing, praises her with quiet pride, asks Sofia if she’s been behaving. She buries her face in his shoulder, shy but delighted.
It unsettles me far more than any of his threats or cold commands ever could. I stare, unblinking, unable to reconcile this version of him—the man who watched me in the dark, who tied my wrists, who let me believe I was nothing but leverage—with the man who glows in the presence of these children. He looks up and, for a fleeting instant, the softness lingers as his eyes meet mine.
Embarrassed, I quickly glance away, color rising to my cheeks. The girls notice nothing. Liana chatters, waving her picture in my direction.
