She doesn’t speak at first. She steps closer, reads my face, then the folder, then looks back at me.
“That fast?” she says.
“Fast enough,” I answer.
Mila climbs onto a chair and starts arranging chocolates by color. Ana exhales slowly, the sound controlled.
“What do I need to do?” she asks.
“Nothing tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow, we’ll go for the dress. Something simple and practical.”
She studies me, then nods once. I take an envelope from my pocket and set it on the table between us.
Ana reaches for the envelope but doesn’t open it right away. She turns it over in her hands, checks the weight, runs her fingers along the edge. Her eyes come back to mine, steady and watchful.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Open it.”
She slides a finger under the flap and looks inside. Her brow tightens. She shifts the envelope slightly and counts by feel.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred thousand,” I say. “Rubles.”
Her gaze lifts. “What for?”
“For you to breathe. And for Mila to have what she needs without waiting for permission.”
She nods once, folds the flap, and tucks the envelope into her bag. She keeps that bag in the locker built into the wardrobe. It stays there unless she needs something important.
“We’ll use a little tomorrow,” I tell her. “For a dress and shoes. Whatever Mila picks. The rest stays locked away. Keep it safe.”
The next morning, we go early. We keep it simple. No boutiques with mirrors everywhere and saleswomen who remember faces. We walk into a clean, practical dress center where people come to buy things they plan to wear more than once.
Ana picks a dress that fits without drawing attention. The fabric is soft, the cut simple. Nothing showy. Mila turns circles in the aisle and laughs until people look over and start smiling too.
We stop at a small toy shop near the tram line. Mila runs ahead and presses both hands to the glass before we even step inside. She comes back with three boxes instead of one, holding them tightly to her chest, waiting. I pay for all three.
Before we leave the street, we find her a dress and a pair of shoes for the ceremony. Ana chooses a pale blue dress with a lace collar and small embroidered flowers along the hem, the fabric light enough to move when she spins. The shoes are soft leather, the same shade, with a thin strap across the top so they stay on when she runs.
After, we find a cart selling ice cream. Mila takes vanilla. Ana picks coffee. We sit on the bench Mila chooses and let her eat slowly. She points at the carousel and I nod. She rides in circles, waving every time she passes. The gears groan with each turn, paint chipped along the edges, but it holds.
Ana watches her. Her face eases as she does. It’s the first time in a long while that the weight lifts from her eyes.
For that hour, nothing reaches us.
Early next morning, I text Denis, one line, no context.
Registration. 10.00 hours.
He replies with a single dot a minute later. He understands.
Ana steps out of the bedroom while I’m tightening my cuff, and my hands stop for a second. She’s wearing the white frock that falls just below her knees, with clean lines and no excess. The fabric moves when she does, light, sure. A short veil is clipped into her hair, small flowers stitched along the edge as if someone cared without trying too hard.
She’s wearing lipstick, just enough color to draw the eye, and mascara that defines her gaze without softening it. She doesn’t look nervous. She looks like she’s decided.
Mila circles her like she’s orbiting something bright. Her frock flares when she spins, and she keeps asking questions, one on top of the other, about where we’re going, how long it will take, whether there will be food, and whether boats have beds. Ana tells her we’re going on a voyage after, and Mila reacts like the word itself is a gift. She climbs onto the chair, leans across the table, and looks at me hard.
