The road wound deeper into the winter forest, a white labyrinth of snow and silence. Naked branches gave way to tall evergreens, their crowns buried beneath heavy drifts that seemed to sag under the weight of the sky itself. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass, straining to glimpse the tips of the firs, but they rose too high, vanishing into the gray heavens.
The car rolled to a stop before a striped barrier. Kostya sighed and began patting his pockets in search of his phone. Gone was his polished leather jacket; in its place, he wore a dark blue down coat, the hood rimmed with fur, a concession to the sharp bite of Kserton's winter. At last he tugged the zipper on his chest pocket and fished out his smartphone. He swiped clumsily at the screen, his fingertips numbed despite the heater rattling in the dashboard vents. The cold had found its way inside anyway, enough that I didn't even want to remove my coat. He blew on his hands, muttering, tried again, and only on the third attempt did the lock screen relent.
Methodically, Kostya tapped, then lifted the phone to his ear. Long, hollow rings echoed before fading into silence.
"I've arrived. Send someone to raise the barrier," he said into the void. No reply followed, just dead air.
Kostya slipped the phone back into his pocket and tugged on his gloves, pulling the edges firmly beneath his sleeves.
"Whatever happens, stay close," he said, the tone sharp, deliberate. "And don't go into the house. Under any circumstances. Do you understand?"
His warning chilled me more than the winter air. Questions boiled in my throat—why not enter the Karimov house? Weren't we here to speak with Nik's parents? As far as I knew, they were ordinary humans. What could possibly be waiting outside, if not within? But before I could voice even one of my thousand doubts, he raised a gloved hand, silencing me.
"Nik's parents aren't exactly… welcoming right now. They know well enough their son got tangled up with Galina, and what came of it. But however much trouble he caused, Nikita is still their favorite son. And you—" his eyes flickered to me, hard, unreadable—"are the girl because of whom he vanished without a trace. It's better not to stir that wound."
"Then why come at all?" The words slipped out sharper than I intended. "My being here is reminder enough."
"They'll stay inside the house. That's the agreement."
"Dad, you're being selfish. What am I supposed to see if I can't even wait for Nik to come back?"
His head whipped toward me, the movement sudden, cutting, like a blade unsheathed. I shrank into the seat instinctively.
"Where did you get the idea he'll come back?" His stare bored into me, sharp as a hunting dog scenting blood.
"He has to." My voice faltered, but I pressed on, clinging to the words like a spell that might make them true. "His parents are all he has left. He will come back. He will."
"Has Nikita come to see you?" Kostya's voice was flint, harsh, already judging.
"No. Of course not!" I snapped, louder this time, desperate to erase every doubt from his mind. "And why would he?"
Beyond the barrier, a tall figure appeared, hood pulled low over his brow, scarf striped in green and blue masking the lower half of his face. He lifted one hand in a signal for Kostya to drive forward. From his pocket, the stranger drew a heavy ring of keys and fumbled through them until he found the right one.
"Well, how is it?" Kostya asked, pulling closer. The man turned his back deliberately, hiding his face from me. "You were together once—sweethearts, youth."
I rolled my eyes.
"Dad, nobody talks like that anymore."
"I do." He chuckled under his breath.
The barrier rose, and Kostya eased the car forward. A few meters past, he slowed again, waiting until the stranger lowered the beam behind us and locked it in place.
"There was never love," I said, the words tasting bitter as they left me. "Nik only toyed with my feelings, just to help his mother settle her scores."
"Do you really believe that?" Kostya asked quietly.
And I thought of it.
I had told myself so in the hospital, replaying memory after memory like a broken film reel. Vladimir had explained the strange duality of my recollections, how they were warped—part truth, part illusion, woven tight as a snare. Awakening the family legacy, he'd called it. I found the explanation dubious, too clinical to make sense of the raw ache in me.
It was far easier to imagine I had finally stripped away the rose-colored haze and learned to see clearly. Loving Nik had poisoned me, the venom slow and sweet. Even now, recalling his face in moonlight made the scar on my skin throb with phantom fire. The wound had healed, but never truly closed.
I clung to the belief that with distance the bond frayed, loosening thread by thread, granting me glimpses of the truth. That he had deceived me. That I had been nothing but a puppet, strings pulled tight, my own will drowned out by his whispered tenderness. He had spoken of love, but it was no love—only manipulation, a shadow cast by his mother's design.
And yet… I remembered how quickly my heart betrayed me at his touch, how easily I let his words settle inside me like seeds. I had obeyed even when every part of me screamed to run.