“Both of them?”
“Both of them. Just like you, one minute I had a family, and the next, I was an orphan being passed around among relatives who didn’t want me. The official report said my father lost control of the car, but my sister Polina never believed it. She used to say our father could drive through anything, that he’d grown up on roads worse than that. She was convinced there was more to the story.”
“Was there?”
“I don’t know. I was twelve. I just wanted my parents back. I didn’t have the energy to question how I lost them. Polina did, though. She dug through police reports, talked to witnesses, and drove our relatives crazy with questions. Eventually, they told her to stop, that she was only hurting herself. She dropped it after that. At least, I think she did.”
“You think?”
“Polina keeps things close. Always has.” I stare at the steam rising from my cup. “She was sixteen when it happened. Old enough to take care of herself, apparently, but not old enough to take care of me.”
“Where is she now?”
“Moscow. She’s a trauma surgeon. Threw herself into school after our parents died and never came back up for air. We used to be close. She was my best friend when we were kids. But after the accident, she just… shut down. Built walls so high I couldn’t climb them.”
“Do you talk to her?”
“I’ve been calling her for months, but she barely answers. The last time I tried, her voicemail had changed. It used to be her voice. You know, one of those personalized outgoing messages. Now, it’s just the automated one. Like she erased herself.”
Saying it out loud makes my stomach ache. Polina is the only family I have left besides Kira, and sometimes, it feels like I’ve already lost her.
“Maybe she’s going through something,” Pyotr offers.
“Maybe. But she won’t let me in to find out.” I shake my head. “That’s the thing about the Kozlov family. We’re very good at protecting ourselves. We’re terrible at letting anyone help.”
“You let me help.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
“True.” He sets his tea on the small table between us. “You could have kept fighting me. Kept lying. You didn’t.”
“I was tired of carrying it alone.”
“I know the feeling.”
We sit in silence for a while, watching the city lights and listening to the distant sounds of traffic. It’s strange how comfortable quiet can feel with the right person. Silence was always a threat with Bogdan. A void waiting to be filled with criticism or cruelty.
With Pyotr, it feels like rest.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” I say after a moment. “Talking about our dead parents and broken families. It doesn’t change what we’re up against.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it helps.” He turns to look at me, and something in his face makes my breath catch. “Because now I know you. Not just the woman Bogdan tried to destroy. The one who survived him. The one who’s still here, fighting for her daughter, even when everything inside her is screaming to run.”
“You see all that in me?”
“I see what’s there.”
“My grandmother used to say that the people who survive the worst things are the ones who learn to carry them instead of being carried by them. I never understood what she meant until Kira was born. Suddenly, I had a reason to carry it all instead of drowning in it. I’m starting to think I don’t have to carry it alone. That’s terrifying, by the way. Trusting someone after everything. … It scares me more than Bogdan does.”
Pyotr rises from his chair and comes closer, stopping a breath away. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before he catches himself.
“Good,” he says, his voice low. “That means it matters.”
I watch his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting an urge. The muscle in his neck jumps. He doesn’t kiss me or reach for me. He just stands there, letting me decide what happens next.
I hold his gaze for a long moment. Then I reach up and press my palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. I feel it beating under my hand, faster than I expected.
His throat works once.
