I didn't move in with my mother and stepfather, though technically my room in their apartment was still mine. For now, distant relatives from Arkhangelsk had claimed it during the funeral. Instead, I accepted Kostya's offer and spent ten nights in a modest hotel on the edge of the city, in the room next to his. It was a strange relief—to be alone, even briefly—trying to make peace with a reality that refused to soften.
What struck me most was how, after my grandmother's death, the world didn't even pause. It kept spinning, indifferent, allowing new lives to begin as others quietly vanished. Each morning I sat by the wide window framed with lace curtains, watching strangers pass in both directions. Scarves wrapped snugly, coat collars turned up, their breath puffed in pale clouds—each person immersed in errands I'd never know.
"Asya," my father said, sitting across from me in the hotel café, eyes scanning the menu. "What'll you have?"
"The usual."
He sighed, closing the menu with deliberate dissatisfaction.
"You can't live on khachapuri adjaruli forever. At least get a salad."
I shrugged, turning back toward the street. Silence filled the space between us, each of us lost in our own thoughts. In those first days, Nikita had flooded my messenger with worried texts, but they all orbited around our relationship, and I didn't have the will—or the patience—to untangle that knot now. I barely touched my phone except to answer Dasha. She spoke to me the same way she always had, without tiptoeing around grief, without the constant, suffocating "Are you okay?" She told me school gossip, and sometimes we'd call to go over homework. It was she who mentioned, almost offhand, that rehearsals had started without me. A small sting, though I knew it was the right thing for them to move on.
"I think Tatiana is seeing Stas," she'd whispered last night. The thought had clung to me all morning.
"Asya, eat," Kostya urged. A moment later, the waitress set down a large wooden board before me: a golden-brown bread boat cradling a molten sea of cheese, with a sunny yolk gleaming at its center.
I tore off a piece from the edge, scooping up cheese and egg. The salty richness melted into the airy dough, dissolving on my tongue. I closed my eyes briefly, savoring the first bite.
Halfway through, Kostya slid a glass salad bowl toward me with a stern look. "Finish it," he ordered—the paternal tone that always meant there was no room for negotiation. Inside, among a tangle of greens smothered in white dressing, sat thick slices of tomato, arched cucumbers hollowed of seeds, translucent onion rings, and… something unidentifiable. I speared it with my fork—chewy, fibrous. Beef, though it had taken effort to recognize.
"What's this salad called?"
He frowned, digging for the name in his memory before surrendering to the menu.
"Prussian."
"Never heard of it."
"Me neither. It was just the only one without mayonnaise."
I smiled faintly, remembering how he used to eat mayonnaise from the jar with a spoon. He ignored the jab, folding his hands and leaning in, his gaze suddenly distant.
"I have to be back on duty tomorrow," he began softly. "They let me take ten days, but the department's already short-staffed. Funerals… they're not a vacation." He rubbed his neck wearily. "I've got tickets for tomorrow morning—Novosibirsk. If you want, you can come with me. If you'd rather stay, I'll understand. Your mother… she's struggling. Maybe you should be with her for a while."
For nine days, neither of us had spoken of the scene at the crematorium. But the truth was, I couldn't be near my mother and her husband anymore. Something in me recoiled from him—his distance, his detachment. I couldn't watch them play at love knowing that, when one of them broke, the other wouldn't catch the pieces. I could barely hold myself together; I had nothing left to give them. My mother had lost her mother, and I had lost my grandmother. If you want to help someone, you have to save yourself first.
"Don't worry about the hotel," Kostya continued. "It's linked to my card—"
"I'll come with you."
His eyebrows shot up. "Sorry—what?"
"I'll come," I repeated, eyes fixed on the empty plate. "I shouldn't stay here."
"But your mother—"
"She's an adult. And she's not alone. If she needs me, she can say so at the memorial. So—nine days, or should I pack now?"
He exhaled, relief and surprise mingling. "I'll come. I'll pack tonight."
"Good," I said, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. "If Mom doesn't mind, I'll go back to Kserton with you."
"We've decided, then."
And with that, he called for the bill, both of us content to let the rest remain unsaid.