That doesn’t mean it still doesn’t live in my bones.
The phantom weight of that life lingers at the edges. It doesn’t scare me, not anymore. It just stands there, respectfully distant, waiting to be acknowledged. Some memories cling like smoke, some like cold metal.
They don’t vanish simply because you’ve been living in a city that smells like apricot pastries and music for a year.
But that’s okay. I don’t need them gone, I just need them quiet.
I stretch, closing my laptop halfway, letting the wind skim my cheeks.
“He’s almost asleep,” I murmur, nodding toward Alexander.
Damian’s arms tighten instinctively.
“Traitor,” he whispers to the baby. “You said you’d stay awake.”
Alexander gurgles in a tone that is distinctly unapologetic.
Watching them together, the two halves that make my whole, does something to me that language struggles to shape. I think of stained-glass windows, the way light transforms when pressed through something fragile.
That’s what they are. A mosaic of fractures that somehow formed a picture instead of a ruin.
Damian glances at me, a question in his lovely eyes before the words arrive.
“You finished the encryption layer?”
“Almost,” I say. “But I keep thinking about integrating an adaptive algorithm into the triage sequence—like… an immune system, not just a shield. Something that learns. Something alive.”
“You mean, like you.” His mouth tilts. “Always learning. Always adapting.”
I snort. “Always stubborn, you mean.”
“That too.”
His hand rests over Alexander’s back, large enough to nearly cover it entirely. Protectiveness radiates from him like heat, subtle but constant.
A part of me wonders if he fears how easy it is for happiness to be undone. Even if he does, he hides it beneath that new calm he wears like armor of a different kind.
I close my laptop fully and slip it into my bag. My shoulder aches from sleeping wrong; motherhood has rearranged my posture in ways I wouldn’t have believed a year ago. The ache is oddly comforting. It’s a reminder that my life is full of small, benign pains now, that survival isn’t always violent.
“Let’s walk,” I say.
We weave through the café crowd, Alexander bouncing gently in Damian’s arms, the stroller abandoned for now because Damian insists on “keeping him close.” His voice gets soft when he says it.
If anyone had told me, two years ago, that Damian Ignatov would one day coo at a six-month-old, I would’ve recommended a CT scan.
The street is alive with movement of cyclists, violinists, and a couple arguing passionately about the correct pronunciation of “Sacher torte.” I can feel Vienna’s heartbeat through the pavement, syncing with mine.
As we walk, Alexander grabs my hair with grabby hands that have absolutely no respect for style or comfort. I wince, gently untangling him. Damian chuckles.
“He’s strong,” he says proudly.
“He’s destructive,” I correct. “Which, considering who his parents are, is truly unfortunate.”
Damian hums. “He’ll be gentle. If we teach him to be.”
A breeze carries the scent of roasted chestnuts and blooming trees. The world feels… wide. For the first time, wide in a way that invites instead of threatens.
We take the long route through a nearby square, where a street musician plays something bright enough to tug people into tiny dances. An old woman twirls a little dog in her arms; a teenager tries to impress a group of friends with footwork that is mostly flailing.
