Ivan's hands ran softly through Lydia's hair. His touch was trembling, careful, as though afraid she would push him away. His lips parted. He was about to speak, about to finally say the words he had buried inside for years, to tell her that he still loved her, that he was sorry.
But Lydia spoke first.
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the silence like a blade.
"What do you wish for?" she asked.
Ivan froze. "Huh?"
Her eyes glistened with tears, her lips pressed into a tight line. "I promised you that—a wish," she whispered. Then her tone turned colder, harsher. "So what is it? Tell me. Do you wish that I'd forgive you? That I should forget everything that happened? That I'd run back into your arms as if nothing broke me?"
Ivan's throat tightened. He shook his head slightly. "What—"
