Totally reasonable. Logical.
Nothing to do with the way my chest tightens at the thought of facing him or the way his voice lingers in my head like an unwelcome guest.
Yeah. Totally logical.
I step toward the door, my pulse quickening despite my best efforts to keep it steady. Whatever happens next, I’ll get my answers.
One way or another.
The house is so quiet it feels like I’m walking into the pages of a ghost story. My pulse thrums in my ears, a metronome counting down to… What? Answers? Or more questions?
The hallway stretches in front of me, lit by soft, recessed lights along the ceiling. Plush carpet muffles my steps, but my robe swishes faintly around my thighs. I glance toward the elevator at the end of the hall, its doors gleaming like it belongs in some five-star hotel instead of Leonid’s fortress of secrets.
I stop at the door across from mine.
Locked doors were a theme earlier this week, but this one opens when I twist the handle. The hinge gives a faint creak, and I freeze, holding my breath as though expecting someone to materialize from thin air.
Nothing. Just silence.
I step inside and pause, blinking at the sight in front of me.
A grand piano sits in the center of the room, black and polished to a mirror-like sheen. The top is propped open, revealing strings and hammers that catch the dim light likecobwebs spun from gold. A low chandelier hangs above it, simple but elegant, its crystals reflecting tiny rainbows onto the walls.
I approach slowly, the air suddenly feeling thicker, like stepping into another time. My gaze drifts to the far wall, where pictures hang in neat rows, their black frames stark against the creamy white paint. The faces in them make me stop short.
Little Leonid.
My chest tightens as I take it in—photo after photo of him as a boy, standing stiffly next to a man with a sharp jawline and a stare like stone.Andrei Kuznetsov. The two of them stand beside a massive fish, its tail almost grazing the ground, the boy’s hands gripping a fishing rod too big for him. Another photo shows them in the woods, Leonid clutching a rifle that looks absurd against his small frame, the man behind him correcting his stance. In another, Leonid is shirtless in a boxing ring, his little fists raised and his mouth pressed into a grim line, like smiling wasn’t part of the lesson.
And then it hits me.
Elijah looks eerily like Leonid did as a boy.
My breath catches as I glance between the pictures; the resemblance is undeniable. The same solemn eyes, the same high cheekbones and stubborn set to the jaw, even the wild hair that refuses to behave. It’s as if I’m staring at my son in another life, one that’s harder, colder, filled with expectations that weigh heavy enough to steal a childhood.
The thought twists something deep in my chest. Elijah’s laugh, his warmth, his joy—all the things that make him who he is—would they survive in a life like Leonid’s? The idea of Elijah standing stiffly in these photos, expressionless, a stranger to happiness, makes my stomach churn.
My fingers brush the edge of one frame, lingering on the boxing ring photo. Leonid can’t be more than 8 or 9; he doesn’tlook like a boy learning to fight for fun. He looks like someone fighting because he has to.
There’s something missing in every single one of them.
Joy.
My heart sinks. He looks so small, so serious, as if happiness wasn’t something he was allowed to have.
I move toward a table tucked into the corner, its surface cluttered with scattered sheet music and a single photo in a gold frame. The sight of it stops me cold.
The woman in the picture is stunning, her smile radiant and soft all at once. Her hands rest protectively on her very pregnant belly, and her eyes—Leonid’s eyes—seem to sparkle even through the photograph.
I reach out and pick up the frame, my fingers trembling slightly as I take it in. Leonid’s mom, opposite to Andrei Kuznetsov, the warmth in her expression feels like it doesn’t belong in this house. I place the photo back carefully, almost afraid of disturbing the moment frozen within it.
Turning back to the piano, I lift the fallboard and run my fingers lightly over the keys. They’re worn, slightly yellowed, and faint scuffs mar the polished finish. It isn’t the expensive showpiece I expected—it’s old, well-loved, the kind of instrument that carries stories in its cracks and scratches.
I press a single key. A soft, tentativedingfills the room. The sound is delicate, almost hesitant, as if waiting to be judged.
Another key.
Ding.
