Kostya and I arrived last. The house was already heavy with the scent of black wool coats and muted grief. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes, the muted bustle of hands helping Maria lay the table. I slipped off my shoes in the hallway, pulled my hair into a high ponytail, and went to see where I could be useful.
The kitchen was small, crowded with at least five of my grandmother's old friends—some she'd gone to school with, others who had lived nearby for decades. Their names still slipped through my memory like water through fingers, but their faces were easy to place from past gatherings. Not finding my mother there, and seeing no gap for my help, I slipped away into the rest of the house.
I found her in the bedroom, standing at the window. Through the thin curtains, Maria gazed at the low, oppressive sky, turning a small golden angel pendant between her fingers—the one my grandmother had once given her. I closed the door softly, circled the bed, and came closer.
"How are you?" I asked.
Her eyes shone as if fresh tears were gathering but refused to fall. She drew in a sharp breath, her chest lifting and sinking in one decisive motion. Her shoulders sagged, and the proud, straight posture I'd always known seemed to give way to something softer, more breakable.
"As well as possible," she said, the words tinged with both sadness and frustration.
I wanted to pull her into a hug, but I stayed still, afraid of shattering the fragile mask that kept the grief contained like water behind a dam.
"Mom, if you need—"
She cut me off with a raised hand. Her eyes closed for a heartbeat, her throat moving as she swallowed hard. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
"Don't worry. Sooner or later, this happens to everyone. We all bury those we love. It's a weight you can hardly share with anyone."
"She was my grandmother too," I said, the protest stinging my own ears. My loss was no smaller than hers—why couldn't we share it?
"I know, sweetheart." Her hand slid down my forearm, warm and gentle. "And you have your own way of grieving."
She drew another breath and reached into her back pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Sliding one between her lips, she pulled the curtain aside.
"Open the window, please."
I obeyed, still stunned—my mother, the woman who avoided cafés with smoking rooms, who coughed at the faintest whiff of smoke at a bus stop, now lighting up without hesitation.
The lighter flared; the tip glowed. Smoke swirled in the air, sharp and bitter. The smell curled into my stomach like a fist. I couldn't imagine how such a foul thing could bring anyone comfort, yet I stayed silent, breathing shallowly through my mouth.
When the cigarette was nearly gone, Maria spoke again.
"You should go back to Kserton with Kostya."
"Are you sure?" I hesitated. I didn't trust my stepfather to take care of her—not really.
"Yes, little bird. It will be better for everyone. I'll pick up the urn next week, when the photo for the headstone is ready. I bought a plot—it's cheaper, easier to tend. I don't want her grave becoming some forgotten patch with a rusted fence. She deserves the best."
A knock sounded at the door, and my father appeared in the doorway. His gaze flicked between us, lingering on the faint haze in the room. His nose twitched.
"Has someone been smoking?"
I glanced at Maria. It wasn't my question to answer. She pulled her scarf tighter, folding her arms.
"Must be coming in from outside."
"Ugh. Disgusting," Kostya muttered, crossing to shut the window. "I'll talk to the neighbors. They should smoke outside, not stink up other people's rooms."
"Dad…" I began, but Maria was quicker.
"You can talk to them all you want, but I'm the one who has to live with them," she said evenly. "You manage your business in Kserton. I've been fine without you all these years."
Her words landed like a slap—sharp enough to still him mid-motion. It sounded as if their whole separation had been his fault. I wasn't old enough to claim wisdom about love, but I'd already learned that relationships are built from choices made by both sides. She'd left, wanting something different than what Kostya could give. That was her choice. Can you blame someone for not matching the script you wrote for them in your head? Castles in the air crumble at the first touch of a wind that doesn't fit the blueprint.
"Could you at least not argue today?" I asked.
Two startled faces turned toward me.
"Asya, we weren't arguing. Where'd you get that idea?"
I remembered the way he had held her at the crematorium, how he would have walked through fire for her if she'd only asked. But their love hadn't survived anyway. Thinking of them made me think of Nikita—and of how love falters when it's absent in the moment of greatest need.
"It's time to go back to the guests," I said instead, stepping into the hall. "We've been gone too long."
We returned to the living room, where the others were already seated at the table.