Lydia walked out of Vladimir's study slowly. Her hands trembled slightly, though she tried to keep them still. The corridors felt unusually long and cold, the echo of her own footsteps making her heart pound faster. She could still feel Ivan's presence lingering in the air, as if he had left a mark on the walls, on the floor, on her very skin. Every step away from the corridor felt heavier, as though each stride pulled at the strings of her heart.
She wrapped her arms around herself, though it didn't help. Her pulse was loud in her ears, a chaotic drum of fear, longing, and a hurt she refused to fully admit even to herself. The memory of his eyes, of his voice, of the quiet pain in his expression—it all twisted inside her chest. She wanted to run, yet part of her wanted to go back, to face him, to ask, to scream, to beg for some truth. But she didn't. She kept walking.
Then she collided with Olga.
