I stare at the text. Yes would be easy. No would be safer.
Part of me wants to see her—needs to, even. But she’s his sister. Being close to her means being close to his orbit. To the possibility of running into him again.
But she was my friend. At the cabin. Before everything went wrong.
I text back.
WREN
My bus leaves at 3
I’ll stop by at 1?
Her reply comes instantly, along with her address.
ERIN
Perfect. Dmitri’s taking Amneris to a birthday party around then
I’ll text you my address
See you soon
The apartment wakes slowly.
In the kitchen, I drink black, eye-wateringly strong coffee with Tanti Dana, the kind that tastes of discipline and restraint, bitter and necessary.
When Uncle Mircea emerges from the bedroom, already dressed, he kisses Dana’s forehead, then cups my cheek briefly in his paint-stained hand. He smells faintly of turpentine and soap.
“Buna diminea?a, Irina,” he says gently. “You look so much like your mother.”
I swallow hard. My mother played the flute in concert halls. Debussy and Ravel, light as air. I do differential equations and tutoring for some extra money. But when he says it, for just a second, I feel like maybe there’s still something beautiful left in me.
In his makeshift studio corner, a canvas leans against the wall—a cityscape, maybe Bucharest, buildings layered like memory with light breaking through in stubborn slashes of color. Even now, working as a doorman, he paints as a man who expects the world to take him seriously.
I came back to Queens for Larisa’s concert. Stayed for the echo of my parents in Mircea’s careful brushstrokes and Dana’s strong coffee. Places where I’m still Irina.
I finish breakfast, gather my things, and hug them both at the door.
“Drum bun, Irina,” Mircea says. Safe travels.
Outside, March air bites sharp and clean. The sun is bright, unapologetic. I pull my coat tighter and start toward the city.
The Upper East Sidealways feels like a different country. Clean sidewalks that shine. Old money. Dogs in tiny sweaters. Everything curated: warm neutrals, soft light, polite hum of cabs on Park Avenue.
Nothing like the chaos inside my chest.
The doorman greets me, polished and efficient, and announces into a discreet little receiver that a visitor has arrived for Ms. O’Connor. A second later, the elevator doors swallow me whole.
Upstairs, the hallway smells faintly of jasmine and new carpet. I knock softly.
Footsteps.
Then the door swings open.
“Wren!” Erin’s face lights up, all warmth and genuine joy. She pulls me into a hug before I can even form a full sentence. “So good to see you. Come in, come in.”
Her energy washes over me in warm burgundy edged with copper, unclenching the tension in my body by a fraction.
