The door creaks open, and Alya appears, already dressed in her flower girl outfit—a cream dress with a satin sash that matches her eyes. Her sandy blonde hair has been swept into an intricate braid, tiny crystals woven through it like stars. Natasha must have helped with her hair; the wedding planner is unexpectedly skilled with children. She looks both impossibly small and disturbingly grown-up.
She doesn’t smile. Instead, she stares at me with that penetrating gaze that makes grown men nervous.
“You haven’t tied your tie,” she announces, crossing the room with quick steps.
“I was getting to it.”
She climbs onto my bed without asking, standing on the mattress so we’re eye-level.
“I’ll do it.”
I raise an eyebrow but turn to face her. Her small fingers reach for the black silk, movements careful but confident.Where did she learn this?I don’t ask.
“Are you nervous?” she asks, concentrating on the knot.
“No.”
She looks up, skeptical. “Liar.”
“Alya.”
“What? Grandfather said lying is weakness, and weakness gets you killed.” She delivers this with perfect 8-year-old seriousness while perfecting my Windsor knot.
His last lesson to her before the coma claimed him six months ago.
The only person who ever saw his gentle side was Alya, his unexpected favorite.
I suppress a sigh. “That’s not something you should be repeating at the wedding.”
“I know. I’m not stupid.” She finishes the tie with a sharp tug. “There.”
I check it in the mirror. Perfect. Of course it is.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
"YouTube,” she answers, hopping down from the bed. “I practiced on Mishka.”
As if summoned, I notice the worn teddy bear propped against my pillows. His neck sports a miniature black tie that matches mine.
“I see.”
Alya retrieves her bear, hugging him to her chest.
“I made a list,” she announces.
“A list?”
“About her. Your wife. Isabella.” She pronounces the name carefully, testing it. “You should always make a list when you make big decisions. Ms. Peterson taught us that in decision-making class.”
I check my watch. “I don’t have time for—”
“It’s important.” Her voice holds that steel edge that reminds me too much of myself.
I sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Let’s see it.”
She pulls a folded paper from Mishka’s small backpack—the one she insists he needs for his “important bear things.” The paper is pink, covered in her neat handwriting, and decorated with glitter pen stars.
“Isabella Marquez Evaluation,” she reads solemnly.
