I looked up at him, and the movement took more effort than it should have. My body felt smaller. My thoughts felt younger.Everything was simpler, clearer, like someone had wiped fog off a window and now I could finally see what was important.
"Daddy?" My voice came out small. So small. Maybe three years old. Maybe younger.
His eyes got shiny when I said it—that look grown-ups get when something makes them happy and sad at the same time. "Yes, baby girl. Daddy's here."
I was fully little now. Could feel it in how the world had rearranged itself. Everything was brighter, bigger, more. The anxiety that usually lived in my chest was gone, replaced by wonder and curiosity and the simple joy of being small and safe.
"Can I play?" The question emerged with pure, uncomplicated want. The toys were right there. The play kitchen. The stuffed animals. All of it was for me, and I wanted to explore everything, touch everything, experience everything with this new lens that made the world magical instead of dangerous.
Nikolai's smile was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "Of course you can play. That's what we're here for, sweetheart."
He helped me down from his lap—my legs were wobbly like they forgot how tall they were supposed to be—and I stood in the middle of the Garden Room with my whole body humming with excitement. Where to start? What to explore first?
The stuffed animals called to me. I gravitated toward the shelf, fingers reaching for a soft bunny with floppy ears and black button eyes. He was perfect. Absolutely perfect. And next to him was a pink elephant with a trunk that curled and felt so soft I wanted to press my face into it.
"This one," I said, clutching the bunny to my chest. "And this one." The elephant joined the bunny, and I turned to show Daddy my choices, needing his approval, needing to know I'd picked right.
"Those are wonderful," he said, and he meant it. I could hear it in his voice. "What are their names?"
Names. They needed names. I studied them seriously, thinking hard. "This is Mr. Hoppy," I decided, holding up the bunny. "And this is—" I looked at the elephant's wise little face. "This is Rosie. 'Cause she's pink like a rose."
"Mr. Hoppy and Rosie," Nikolai repeated, nodding like I'd just said something very important. "Those are perfect names for perfect friends."
I hugged Mr. Hoppy and Rosie closer, something in my chest feeling full and warm and right. I was little. Really little. And nothing bad was happening. Daddy was watching me with soft eyes, smiling like I was doing everything exactly right, and the world was safe enough to play in.
"What should we do first?" I asked, looking around the room with fresh eyes. Everything was an adventure waiting to happen. The play kitchen with its pretend food. The art supplies in the corner. The reading nook where Daddy could read me stories. So many possibilities.
"Whatever you want, baby girl," he said. "This is your time. Your space. Your adventure."
Mine. The word felt powerful. This was mine—the room, the toys, the time, the safety. All of it was mine, and I could do whatever I wanted without worrying about what came next.
I'd forgotten what that felt like. Forgotten that being little could be joyful instead of dangerous. But here, in this room with Daddy watching over me, I was remembering. Reclaiming something I thought Sergei's death had taken forever.
I was Little Sophie again. Fully, completely, safely Little.
And it was perfect.
Theplaykitchenwascalling to me with its bright colors and tiny plastic food that looked almost real. I set Mr.Hoppy and Rosie on one of the beanbags where they could watch, then made my way to the little stove with its pretend knobs that clicked when I turned them. The sound was satisfying. Click click click. I did it again just to hear it.
"Whatcha making, baby girl?" Daddy asked from his chair. He'd moved it closer so he could see better, could watch me play.
"Tea," I decided, picking up the plastic kettle. "And cookies. 'Cause that's what you have at tea parties."
I found tiny plastic cookies in a basket—they were brown and had pretend chocolate chips—and arranged them very carefully on a pink plate. Three cookies. That was the right number for tea time. Then I poured pretend tea into two cups, making the pouring sound with my mouth. "Pssssshhhhh."
"That sounds delicious," Daddy said seriously.
I carried the plate and cups over to him, walking very carefully so I wouldn't spill the pretend tea. That would be bad. You couldn't waste tea.
"Here," I said, offering him a cup. "It's chamomile. That's good for you."
"Thank you, sweetheart." He took the cup and pretended to sip it, his eyes closing like it was the best tea he'd ever tasted. "Perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold."
"I'm a good cook," I informed him.
"You're an excellent cook." He took a pretend cookie from the plate I was holding. "May I?"
I nodded seriously. Daddy took a bite of air and cookie, chewing thoughtfully like he was tasting real chocolate chips and real cookie and everything.
