I see Sergei’s eyes sharpen. The Courier doesn’t stop me. Maybe he thinks a lullaby is only a lullaby. I don’t waste time guessing.
I draw a breath and start to sing. My voice is rough, but the melody is steady. The first verse is the same as always. I talk about a little house. I mention water and trees. Nadia’s shoulders ease. I see her mouth moving along with mine.
On the second verse, I change the words.
“Little house on the narrow white lake,” I sing. “Tall dark pines and one crooked birch. Old stone dam where the water runs thin. Road from the city with the broken third bridge.”
Sergei’s eyes lock on mine. He doesn’t blink.
Nadia mouths the new line, slowing on the details. She frowns in concentration.
“Say it with me,” I coax. “Little house on the narrow white lake. Tall dark pines and one crooked birch. Old stone dam. Broken third bridge.”
She repeats it in a small voice.
“Good,” I say. “Third verse now.”
The third verse holds more. I keep the melody simple so the words sit clear.
“Snow on the road past Klin’s cold sign,” I sing. “Blue roof line and carved red birds. Old well ring with three iron hooks. Two hours north when the roads stay clean.”
That is as clear as I dare. Klin is a real town. The rest points to a cluster of cottages we used once for a winter drop, long ago, before Nadia. Sergei remembers that trip. He remembers the hooks on the well, because he cut his hand on one when he pulled a crate.
“Again,” I say softly. “Together.”
Nadia stumbles over “Klin,” then gets it. She repeats “blue roof line” in a small chant. Sergei’s spine is rigid now. His face is still, but his eyes burn.
“I like that part,” Nadia says. “Blue roof.”
“I know,” I say. “You tell Papa all the new words later. Every part. You keep them in order.”
“I will,” she says.
I see Anastasia behind them. Her eyes are on Nadia’s face, not mine. Her hand is still on that small shoulder. I can’t tell what she hears in the song. She grew up farther east. The names may not mean anything to her.
I add one last verse. I keep it short. I do not dare more.
“Little star, count three tall pines,” I sing. “One small path past the tallest tree. Door with a fox and a bright red sun. Knock two times and then again three.”
That points to the right house if Sergei can get close. “Again,” I murmur.
Nadia repeats it, stumbling on the count, then smoothing it. Her lips move in time. Sergei’s hand flexes once against her arm.
“That’s our song now,” I say. “You keep it safe. You sing it to your bear later. You sing every word.”
“I will,” she says. “Mama, are you cold? Do you have your coat?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Are you listening to Papa and Anastasia?”
She nods hard. “Papa sleeps on my floor,” she says. “He says he won’t go far. He says he’s going to find you.”
I feel my chest cave and hold.
“I know he will try,” I say. “You help him. You tell him every word from the song after this call. Promise.”
“I promise,” she says.
Sergei leans closer to the camera.
