Lydia sat in the carriage, her hands folded tightly in her lap, but her mind was far from calm. Leonid's words would not leave her alone. They circled around her like restless shadows, refusing to disappear.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. No, she could not believe it. She could not allow herself to believe it. Believing meant reopening wounds she had tried so hard to keep closed. Believing meant questioning all the pain she had been through.
Her chest tightened. She thought of her suffering, her loneliness, and the cruel ache of abandonment. She remembered the way her heart had shattered when Ivan walked away from her. She remembered the night their son died, the emptiness of her arms, the silence that followed her wherever she went. These were not small things. They were scars carved deep into her soul.
"No," she whispered under her breath. "I must not believe."
