We walk slowly, stretching each step, as if it might keep the end from finding us.
She lights another cigarette before finishing the last one. “Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”
Her hands won’t stop shaking. “Not even if they seem nice.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t trust…”
“I know,” I gently cut her off. “Don’t trust anyone.”
She exhales.
“Just… not right away.”
We pass the old bakery on the corner that closed years ago. The windows are still covered with yellow paper. I used to think something was waiting behind it. Now I know some things don’t change.
A bus rumbles somewhere in the distance. The sound rolls through the street.
My chest tightens.
“You will be okay,malyshka,“ she says quickly, like she can hear it. “You have more strength in your little finger than most people have in their whole body.”
We reach the station. There’s a bench sitting at the very beginning, slightly crooked, with chipped paint at the edges. As my gaze lands on it, we start to walk toward it.
I sit. Dasha steps away, her heels tapping lightly as she checks the bus schedule pinned to the board. She scans the paper, then turns back and walks toward me, slower this time.
“The bus to Santa Rosa leaves at three.”
“We have an hour.” She lets out a small breath. “This reminds me, of the day I first came to San Francisco.”
“I had no one. I came alone.” Her gaze drifts somewhere past the station, past the street, like she’s looking at something only she can see. “I left my love in Moscow.”
A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away.
“I came here to survive. And I did.” Her voice grows quieter. “But I lost my home, my family… my love.”
She finally wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.
“And people here, they don’t look at you with welcoming eyes. Not at first.” She shrugs slightly. “Time has changed, but people still judge.”
She sniffs, straightens a little.
“You will always find good and bad in this world,malyshka.There is no place without both.“ She looks at me now. “Battle always takes something. No one really wins.”
Her fingers tap the cigarette against the bench, ash falling between her shoes.
“What life taught me is this. Wherever you go, you carry both with you.”
“Did you love him?” I ask.
“Him?” She chuckles, then corrects me. “I loved her very much.”
I take her hand and squeeze it, holding on a little tighter than I mean to.
“Time did change,” I say quietly.
She waves it off, but her smile fades. “She forgot about me. Time changes differently in Russia.”
