For the first time in my life, the days bled into one another—thick, sluggish, and indistinguishable, like a river of silt. Time carried me forward without shape or pause, while inside, a hollow darkness swelled. It was a black hole, devouring not only my silence, but the fragments of the little girl with the wide, crystalline eyes I'd once seen in our family album.
I had never known death before. Seeing my grandmother in the coffin was like looking at a stranger in borrowed skin. Every familiar line of her face had been smoothed away. Her pallor was dense, unnatural, as if her features had been cast in plastic. The neat, plump lips I remembered were stretched unnervingly across her face, dividing it into two still, foreign halves. Was this what death did to a person? Or was it the cold handiwork of pathologists toiling under the stench of formalin in hidden basements?
I must have lingered too long beside her. A heavy hand came to rest on my shoulder. I turned and found my father's eyes—brimming with compassion, edged with something like fear. Was he afraid I wouldn't survive this loss, that I'd stay behind in Rostov? Or was his mind already on Maria? My grandmother had been her anchor, her ally, the one who helped her raise me. They'd argued sometimes, but she had been Maria's closest friend.
I thought of how raw this must be for her as my father gently steered me aside. A thin, silver-haired man with a bald crown stepped forward, clutching his hat in both hands. His lashes quivered with unshed tears as he bent over my grandmother, whispering words too soft to catch. He adjusted the collar of the blouse Maria had chosen, then retreated to sit opposite me.
When the farewells ended, two men gripped the steel handles of the coffin and lifted it onto a conveyor. The lid closed with a muted finality. Music swelled—too loud, too triumphant, so jarringly wrong that I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself. The shutters parted, revealing darkness, and the coffin began to move toward it. My breath caught, my body rooted. Beneath the music's din, I heard the low hum of the belt.
And then I understood. This was the end. No more afternoons with Tamara Vasilievna and her stories of youth; no more tea from the samovar, no more cabbage pastries whose scent embraced you at her door. No more envelopes with birthday cards painted by hand, each with its own imagined tale. All of it would vanish once the last inch of the coffin disappeared into shadow.
I wasn't the only one thinking this. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement—Maria breaking from Kostya's side. My father caught her halfway across the room, arms reaching desperately toward the coffin. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her face twisted in anguish. She tried to fight her way forward, but he held her tight. The others stood silent, eyes flicking between her and the disappearing casket.
Maria's scream rose above the music—a raw, unshielded sound that seemed to tear the air apart. I stood frozen, afraid that if I moved, the grief would sweep me under like a black wave. I locked my gaze on her until the final chord faded and the shutters sealed with a muffled clang.
It was over. My grandmother was gone.
Maria's legs gave way, and only my father's grip kept her from collapsing. Across the room, her new husband stood apart, watching without stepping forward. The sight hardened something inside me. How could I leave her here? How could I trust a man who, at her worst moment, wouldn't offer her his shoulder?
Finding strength I didn't know I had, I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around both my parents, holding them until my fingers ached. In that moment, I made a silent vow: I would never leave them—no matter what came between us.