Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I veer off the road and follow the gravel path to the ancient cemetery that clings to the edge of the forest. It’s old, weather-worn. Familiar. My heart aches.
Buried here are pieces of the past. The Kopolov family’s parents. My mother’s parents. A friend from school who died too young, my favorite teacher. The old woman who sat outside the bakery feeding bread crumbs to the birds.
Mariah.
But I’m not thinking about her yet as I catalog everyone else.
The sky is heavy with dark clouds. I look over my shoulder more than once, convinced someone’s following me. I’m not important enough for a guard this close, right? I mean, they’ll go to my work, but…
Vadka might have a few things to say about that, and I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
I kill the engine and stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair’s a mess, there are dark shadows under my eyes, and I need a good brow job. But somehow, I look… radiant. Flushed. Glowing like a woman in love.
I drop my head back against the seat, overwhelmed.
I am.
I am a woman in love, whether I want to be or not.
Maybe I’ve always loved him. I think I have. It was easier when it was quiet love—muted, safe. Platonic. But now it’s changed. It's grown teeth.
And I don’t know how to make sense of it.
I’d give anything to talk to Mariah. But even if Vadka were another man and Mariah were right here in front of me, I don’t know if I could confess this.
But he isn’t another man, and she isn’t here.
I’m in love with your husband.
“Oh, Mariah,” I whisper to the sky. With a sigh, I open the door and step into the wind.
I walk the worn path toward her grave. I know she’s not here—not really. Just her body and bones, a decaying shell that once held life. But maybe… maybe there’s something else. A presence. A spirit. A whisper of what she was.
I’m not religious. I can’t bring myself to believe in heaven. But the idea that we go from bright, vivid people to nothing… to worm food… it feels wrong. There has to be something more.
Maybe she’s reincarnated. Maybe she’s part of the earth. Maybe she’s finally at peace.
God, I hope she’s at peace.
I walk amongst graves that are cracked, crooked, and forgotten. There are wooden crosses, black iron railings, and Orthodox icons bolted into stone. Rosaries, candles in glass, names in Cyrillic etched into crumbling marble.
Russian graveyards are different from others—more like sanctuaries than places of mourning. You find portraits carved into the headstones, domes on family mausoleums, and candles left behind that still flicker against the chill. They're private places for grief and memory and reverence.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. It does nothing to stop the tears threatening. My chest aches. My heart’s a drumbeat of pain, and my head feels too full.
Mariah’s grave is perched on a small hill, surrounded by white lilies—her favorite. The grass is a vivid green despite the clouds overhead. Forget-me-nots bloom in clusters nearby.
I haven’t been here in two weeks, and guilt tears through me. Is this how it goes? Weeks bleed into months, and then years?
But it’s hard to come here. It’s always hard.
I cry when I’m here.
I don’t want to cry anymore.
But I need to talk to my sister.
I walk quickly, aware of my limited time and need to get to work.
It isn’t until I round the corner that I see it—the gleaming, familiar chrome wheels.
I freeze, and my heart turns over in my chest as my brain catches up.
Oh my god. No. No, it can’t be.
I’m not the only one who came to visit her grave. Was his visit prompted by guilt too?
I thought I could handle this, thought I was just barely holding myself together before I came, but seeing him here? God, no.
He’s kneeling in front of her headstone, leather jacket clinging to his broad shoulders like a second skin. His head is bowed, hands limp in his lap, and I swear he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world. He misses her; of course he does. Even though I’m not religious, the old and the two shall become one somehow rings true.
Vadka needs to talk to her, just like I do.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words sharp and raw in the air. His back’s to me, unaware of my presence. I feel like I’m snooping, but it’s too late now to turn back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I shouldn’t— I know I shouldn’t— I never even looked at her that way before. But I miss you. God, I miss you. And she loved you." His voice cracks—splinters, really, like a snapped bone. "She misses you so much. And I… I love her. I'm sorry." He shakes his head, and I can see the desperation in the way his shoulders tremble. "I’m so fucking sorry. But this—this is the right choice. It makes sense. She loves Luka, Mariah. No one loves him the way I do. Except Ruthie. And you know she’s safer with me than with anyone else on earth. You know that."