"Are you there?" Ivan asks me, his voice sharp and inhuman, like a blade cutting through the last threads of hope. He plays with me like a doll, mercilessly and cruelly.
"What do you want?" I gather myself, trying to hide the trembling fear in my voice, trying to seem strong, though a storm rages inside me.
"To meet you. You'll take a taxi in an hour near your house, and only the driver will know where to go, understand me?" He dictates the conditions as if it's not human fates being decided but a cold deal, where I am just a pawn.
"And what about the money? I thought you needed it," I try to understand the logic of his demands, but everything seems so insane, terrifying, and illogical.
"Shut your mouth and listen to me. If you don't get in the car, I'll take a knife and play with your little girl's body," his words sound like a sentence, a merciless threat that knocks the ground from under me, breaking everything inside.
Then he disconnects, leaving me in oppressive silence, full of fear and despair. My heart tightens in my chest, my mind shrouded in darkness, and there isn't a single clear thought—only one terrifying feeling: now at stake is not just my life, but my daughter's life too.
I need to quickly come up with a plan and start acting. Thoughts about my actions already spin in my head—every detail matters, every decision is worth its weight in gold. Thoughts tangle and tear like bees in a hive, but I try to hold them in one direction, like a captain steering a ship through a storm. Inside, everything churns with anxiety—a cold lump in my throat, trembling hands—but I try to maintain clarity and focus, because so much depends on it. This isn't just action—it's a battle with myself, with the panic that constantly tries to break free.
First, I change into warmer clothes—I understand that long hours in uncertainty lie ahead, perhaps cold and uncomfortable. The fabric hugs my body tightly, as if shielding me from invisible enemies. My mind is ready for the worst: if the plan fails, I'll have to survive in harsh conditions, possibly at the edge of my own strength. But I've prepared for that too—for if my daughter gets cold, I can take off my sweater and give it to her, to at least warm her fragile body. It's a feeling of maternal protection, warm and sharp at once, like a quiet fire burning in my chest, refusing to let me give up.
I put various snacks for Mary in my pockets—because no one can guarantee she is being fed, and this little supply could be her salvation. Each piece is infused with my love and care, like a small talisman in a world where everything can go wrong. In addition, I fully charge my phone—the only possible bridge to the outside world and a means of communication, even if risky and dangerous. This device is both my hope and a reminder of the risks—it could be both salvation and a source of trouble.
A bitter thought slips through my mind: "If something happens, I'll have to write a farewell letter to my beloved…" This feeling pierces me with cold and pain, like an icy knife plunging into the very heart. Fear, bitterness, and despair merge into one feeling, yet my strength keeps me on my feet—as if an inner backbone refuses to let me fall.
Shoes on, I carefully step into the hallway. Every step is like a cautious whisper, quiet and careful, as if each movement could reveal my presence and ruin the entire plan. I fear giving myself away; even my breath seems too loud in this silence. I need to leave the house unnoticed—to disappear like a shadow, invisible and without a trace.
Voices come from the kitchen—three of them, Vera and Elena Dmitrievna on one side, and opposite them—Grandpa Vi. They quietly discuss something, and I know it's, of course, about Mary. Anxiety and tension slip through these voices, sticking in my heart.
Another, terrifying image runs through my mind—how they sit together with Maxim and talk about me. Remembering who I was, how they will miss me. This thought tears my heart even more—pain and longing squeeze my chest like invisible chains, stealing my breath. I want to scream, cry, and at the same time hug them all, to tell them how much I love them, and that I will never forget a single one. It's the bitterness of farewell hanging in the air, heavy and unbearable.
I step out of the apartment, wiping away tears that flow on their own—bitter and hot, filled with both fear and hope, like the mixed waters of a turbulent river. Outside, a taxi waits—a car that becomes my temporary refuge, a ticket to a new life or to the unknown. Sitting in the car, I take out my phone, holding it like a small beacon of hope that can save us or be the last connection to what's left behind.
"Please, tell me five minutes before we reach the destination," I ask quietly, trying to give firmness to my voice. Inside, my voice trembles, but outwardly I must look confident, not letting fear take over.
"Alright," the driver responds calmly. His voice is steady, like an anchor in my stormy sea of emotions.
I stare out the window, not seeing reality—images flash before my eyes, like living frames of an old film. The moment Maxim and I first meet—a flash of light in a gray world, his eyes full of sincerity, and a warm, slightly awkward smile that pierced me to the core. Our first kiss—timid, trembling, yet so real that the world around seems to freeze, giving way only to us. Then—our first intimate encounter… tender, delicate, like the touch of butterfly wings. His hands, his breath, our entwined bodies—this became for me not just closeness, but revelation, the pulse of life itself.
These memories are like a saving island of light in a boundless, anxious ocean of darkness. They warm the soul, like a soft blanket on a cold night, and remind me: I am alive, I feel, I love. And that means there is still something real, unshakable, and important—something worth fighting for. Even if everything around crumbles.
"We'll arrive soon," the driver says, bringing me back to the present.
Taking out my phone, I call Maxim and give him the necessary instructions—every second counts. My heart pounds in my chest, like a drum reminding me that time is not on my side. After the call, I put the phone in my sports bra—exactly there, so that in case of a search, it won't be found before the scheduled time. The sensation is uncomfortable, even painful—the phone digs into my body, like a reminder of the risk I'm taking. This little device becomes both a heavy burden and the only hope.
But if my plan works, if I can save Mary, it's all worth it. Anxiety and fear intertwine with determination, and in my chest burns an unwavering hope for salvation—a light that doesn't go out, no matter what.