I would have chosen you. I should have done it sooner.
I fold the letter before I can ruin it by reading it again. Then I take a fresh envelope from the drawer and write across the front in block letters.
For Polina and the baby.
Ruslan opens the door without knocking at a quarter past one. He stops when he sees me dressed, armed, and sitting at the desk like a man waiting for sentence to be passed.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he notes.
“So are you.”
He notices the envelope in my hand at once. “What’s that.”
I hold it out. Ruslan takes it, glances at the front, and goes quiet.
In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve seen him walk through gunfire, fires, broken ribs, and one truly terrible dinner with my father without losing his composure. The look on his face gets closer than any of those.
His mouth opens, then closes. At last he says, “Don’t make me deliver this.”
I stand. “Only if I don’t come back.”
“I know how letters work.”
“Then don’t ask stupid questions.”
Ruslan looks down at the envelope again. When he lifts his head, there’s something devastating in his face that I never expected to see there.
“Come back and burn it yourself,” he demands.
But he slips the envelope inside his jacket anyway, like it weighs far more than paper should.
