My hands shake, the diary's edges cutting into my palms where I grip too tight. S. Someone he was teaching Russian.
I flip forward, scanning for more mentions.
"S taught me a new English word today. 'Serendipity.' She says it means finding something good when you weren't looking for it. I think that's what she is. Something good I wasn't looking for."
The entries about S increase. She makes him laugh. She understands his dreams about building instead of breaking. She sees him as more than just a Volkov heir.
Then, two weeks before his death, the handwriting shakier:
"I have to tell her the truth soon. About what Father is planning. About the meeting. I have to warn her, even if it means she'll hate me. Even if it ruins everything. She has to know."
And the last entry about S:
"I'm going to warn her tonight. Whatever happens after, I can't let her walk into what Father has planned. She deserves the truth. Even if she hates me for it."
The truth. Warning. Father's plans.
A garden. Russian lessons. Someone teaching me to be brave.
The world tilts.
The pressure splits my skull from inside. Not pain exactly, but something worse, like my memories are clawing their way back through bone.
I collapse to the floor, legs giving out completely. The cold hardwood slams against my cheek, the diary clutched to my chest, leather binding cutting deeper into my palms. Copper floods my mouth. I've bitten my tongue.
Images flood in, violent and vivid:
A garden. Summer. Roses climbing a trellis. A boy's hands correcting my grip on a pencil as I write Russian letters. "No, no, like this. See? The curve is important."
"Misha," I hear myself say. Not Mikhail. Misha. The familiar nickname falling from my lips like I've said it a thousand times.
"You're getting better, Sofiya." His voice, younger, lighter than his brother's. Teasing. "Soon you'll speak Russian better than me."
"Liar," I laugh. Fifteen years old. So sure of everything. "But you're a good teacher."
"You're my best friend," I hear myself say. "I'd never tell anyone about us. I promise."
"I know," he says. "I trust you."
The pressure in my skull intensifies, cracking something open. Words pour out of me in Russian, fluent and desperate:
"Misha. Misha, I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know what would happen. You tried to warn me and I didn't listen. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
I can't stop. The words tear from my throat in perfect Russian, a language I'm not supposed to know. My skull feels like it's splitting, memories trying to claw their way back through eleven years of walls. The pressure builds and builds until I'm curled on the floor, shaking, the cold seeping through his shirt.
The study door slams open.
Alexei. White-faced, eyes wild. How long have I been here on the floor? Minutes? Hours?
"Sofia?"
I look up at him from where I've collapsed, still clutching his brother's diary. Tears blur my vision.
"Misha," I say, and watch him flinch at the nickname. "He was… we were…"
"What are you saying?" His voice is sharp, confused.
He drops to his knees beside me, hands immediately checking for injury. Fingers at my throat seeking a pulse, brushing hair from my face to see my eyes. Even through the splitting pain, I'm aware of his hands on me, burning through the thin shirt.
