Olga exhaled quietly, seated at the modest writing desk tucked into the corner of their stifling chamber. Her weary gaze drifted toward the whitewashed window, though it was of little use—painted, nailed shut and clouded with age, offering no view of the world beyond. The heat was unbearable, suffocating almost, and still they were forbidden to open the windows unless permitted, as though fresh air itself had become a privilege.

Times were cruel within the walls of the Ipatiev House.

She understood far more than her younger siblings. The gravity of their situation pressed upon her chest like a stone. Gone was the naïveté of earlier days; she saw with painful clarity that the life they once knew—the splendour, the peace, the laughter—had slipped irretrievably through their fingers. There would be no return. And in the depths of her heart, she knew: they would not leave this place alive.

Her lips pulled into a faint frown, barely perceptible.

Behind her, from the beds lined neatly against the walls, soft whispers and giggles echoed between her sisters—delicate fragments of innocence still clinging to fragile spirits. Olga did not join in. Her smiles had become rare, almost extinct. She was exhausted, not just in soul, but in body—plagued by fever, heart palpitations, and the slow unraveling of her once-youthful strength.

She turned her attention to the pencil in her hand, its point dulled from use. With a slow breath, she began to write in her diary. ’I am so very tired. I only wish to sleep… forever.’ The moment the words left her pencil, she closed the book gently, her fingers brushing the worn leather cover with detached interest.

She saw the truth behind everything. Behind the empty reassurances, behind the cold, indifferent eyes of the guards. She saw how their behaviour had shifted—how resentment had hardened into hatred. She saw, and it haunted her.

The days of practicing English and mimicking foreign accents for amusement were long behind her. So too were the evenings filled with shared laughter, hushed conversations about love, about dreams, about futures that now would never come.

A sharp, braying laugh rang out from the hallway beyond the door. The sound cut through the silence like a blade. The guards again—loud, crass, ever-present. There was no reprieve.

“Do not speak so loudly,” Olga murmured, her tone soft but edged with weariness, her eyes drifting toward Anastasia—the most spirited of them all—while Tatiana and Maria huddled together, their smiles dropping. There was no malice in her voice, only concern laced with exhaustion. “We’ve no need to give them another excuse to barge in and shout.”

But what use was it? Not even their father could face the Reds without getting ridiculed and spat at.