Lukas's gaze drifted to his leg, worry etched on his face. It didn't seem to be healing as quickly as he had hoped. He thought to himself, perhaps jokingly, "Maybe it's because I drank from that puddle." The memory of the stagnant water made his stomach churn, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him.
His attention shifted to Anastasia, who sat at the opposite end of the room, her gaze focused on her writing or the sick woman lying in front of her. She hadn't given him a single glance, and Lukas felt a pang of hopelessness. He spoke softly in German, hoping to catch her attention, "Es ist so still hier." (It's so quiet here.)
For a moment, Anastasia's hand paused, and then she continued writing without acknowledging him. Lukas's eyes lingered on her, feeling the weight of her hatred. He thought to himself that he deserved it.
As he gazed at Anastasia, his mind wandered to his mother, wondering if she thought he was dead. The memories of his family brought a pang of sadness.
The woman on the bed suddenly convulsed, her body shaking violently as she choked on her own vomit. Anastasia rushed to her side, trying to turn her onto her side, but the woman's body continued to convulse. Panic set in, and Anastasia rushed out of the room to get Babushka.
Lukas, despite his injured leg, felt a surge of urgency. He crawled towards the woman, his leg screaming in protest. He remembered a technique he had learned from a medic during the war – to clear the airway. With shaking hands, he carefully tilted the woman's head to one side and used his fingers to clear her airway. The woman's convulsions slowly stopped, just as Anastasia, Natasha, and Babushka rushed back into the room.
Babushka quickly assessed the woman's condition, checking her breathing and pulse. "She's fine, just a bit shaken," she said, relief evident in her voice. Then, her gaze fell on Lukas, and her expression changed to concern. "Lukas, your leg... it's bleeding again."
Lukas's gaze fell upon his leg, and the full weight of the pain finally registered. Babushka quickly tended to him, dressing the wound with a mixture of care and urgency. Anastasia watched the scene unfold, her emotions in turmoil. She couldn't understand why Lukas, a man she had every reason to despise, would risk his own well-being to help someone he didn't know.
Instead of softening her stance, Lukas's actions seemed to fuel her anger. She felt a deep-seated resentment burning within her, and she didn't know how to process it. Without a word, she turned and walked out of the room, Natasha following closely behind.
The sick woman, now more lucid, whispered her gratitude to Lukas, her voice weak but sincere. Babushka smiled warmly and continued to tend to Lukas's wound, her hands moving with a gentle efficiency.
Lukas's eyes met the woman's, and he managed a faint smile. "You're welcome," he said softly. Babushka's gaze flicked between the two, her expression thoughtful.
Babushka's eyes sparkled with amusement as she tended to Lukas's wound. "Looks like you've just extended your stay," she said with a gentle tease. Her voice was laced with a warmth that suggested she was pleased, maybe even a little hopeful, about Lukas's actions.
Meanwhile, Anastasia stood outside, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. She couldn't shake off the feeling that Lukas's actions had stirred something deep within her. As she reflected on her reaction, she realized that it wasn't his actions that angered her, but the thought of him at all. The realization only seemed to intensify her frustration.
Taking a deep breath, Anastasia composed herself and walked back into the room. Babushka greeted her with a knowing glance. "Take care of both of them, dear. And don't tell anyone, but my back's killing me," she said with a playful wink.
As Babushka walked out, Anastasia's face returned to its usual dull, expressionless mask. She sat down beside the sick woman and began to read out a poem, her voice soft and soothing. Lukas listened intently, his love for literature stirring an uneasy feeling within him. The words she read seemed to be her own, and he found himself becoming increasingly curious about her.
The poem's gentle rhythm and Anastasia's calm voice seemed to calm the woman, and Lukas felt a sense of wonder at the contrast between Anastasia's harsh demeanor and her gentle words. As he listened, he couldn't help but feel drawn to her, despite the animosity that seemed to simmer between them.
Lukas's curiosity got the better of him, and he asked about the poem, his voice cautious. Anastasia's response was unexpectedly calm, her voice softening as she spoke about the words she had written. For a moment, her gaze met Lukas's without the usual hostility, and he felt a glimmer of connection.
As he looked up at her, wincing in pain, Lukas's mind wandered to the past. He thought about the little girl... and he wondered if she had been good at literature, too. The memory was fleeting, but it left a pang in his chest.
When he looked back at Anastasia, their glances met, and for an instant, the air seemed to hold still. But then Anastasia's eyes landed on the scar above Lukas's forehead, and her expression darkened. The reminder of his role in the war seemed to ignite a fire within her, and she stormed out of the room, leaving Lukas to wonder what had just transpired.
The silence that followed was oppressive, punctuated only by the sound of the sick woman's labored breathing. Lukas's gaze drifted back to his leg, the pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He felt a sense of unease wash over him, unsure of what the future held, or how Anastasia's anger would manifest next.
He looked and saw the woman's eyes flutter open, and she smiled weakly at Lukas, her gaze filled with a deep kindness.