The lounge was quiet that morning. Curtains were drawn halfway, and the air was heavy, still carrying the faint smell of smoke from the fire that had burned out in the night. Ivan had not gone to bed early. He had stayed up, his mind restless, his body heavy, until finally exhaustion had dragged him into sleep.
But sleep was no comfort. His body lay still on the couch, yet his face was restless. His brows were pulled together, his lips trembling as though he was whispering words he couldn't say aloud. His fists clenched at his sides.
Because in his mind, he wasn't here. He wasn't in the lounge.
He was back in Svetlana.
He was back on that day.
The day he learned of his son.
---
