On her feet were miniature leather ballet slippers in soft rose — the soles whispering gently against the rug whenever she shifted.
She looked like a painting.
Or a dream that had learned how to breathe.
In her tiny hands she carefully arranged a wooden dollhouse — no plastic, no bright synthetic colors. It was crafted from polished walnut and light birch, each surface smooth and warm. Silk curtains hung from the miniature windows.
Tiny velvet chairs rested in the living room inside.
She had placed felted wool figures around the house.
Mama.
Papa — complete with a tiny black eye patch stitched over one eye because, in her words, “Daddy needs one.”
And a small baby figure she called “Me.”
She rearranged them with serious concentration.
Scattered beside her were heirloom wooden blocks engraved with letters, a soft Italian lamb plush, and a small music box that played Brahms’ lullaby whenever she wound it.
She leaned closer to the dollhouse and whispered, “Papa proteck Mama.”
Then she moved the tiny figure with the eye patch closer to the Mama doll and made them stand guard.
My chest tightened.
Last night had felt like a memory I wanted to preserve forever.
Ruslan and Yannis — now tall, intelligent, and already carrying the quiet weight of leadership — had joined us for dinner on the terrace before flying back to Athens.
The table had been covered in candlelight.
Yannis had teased his father about the years Ruslan tried — and failed — to understand American slang.
“Dad, nobody says ‘lit’ like that anymore,” Yannis had laughed.
Ruslan had narrowed his eye.
“I will say it however I want.”
Daphne had burst into giggles and reached across the table to smear spaghetti sauce directly onto Ruslan’s eyepatch.
He hadn’t even reacted.
He had just blinked once — then scooped her up and spun her around until she shrieked in delight.
Yannis had watched them with an expression I couldn’t quite read — something between admiration and longing.
At the airport, Ruslan had turned to me.
His fingers had threaded through my hair, pulling me close.
“Eight days,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”
“I know.”
His lips had claimed mine — slow, deep, possessive — like he needed to remind himself I was real before leaving.
