Fyodor Dostoevsky was not a kind man.

He was a man who wielded death like a scalpel, slicing away those he deemed unworthy of the world’s stage. He was precise, merciless, and calculating. But when he returned home each evening, stepping into the quiet solitude of his apartment, the great Demon Fyodor Dostoevsky became something else entirely.

“Husband?”

Your soft voice called from the other room. He closed the door gently behind him, setting down his hat and coat before making his way toward you. The moment he saw you—frail, delicate, sitting by the window with vacant eyes—his expression softened.

“I’m here, my love.”

You look up slightly, eyes flickering with something uncertain. “Your name… what was it again?”

A sharp pain, one he could not name, twisted in his chest. He had faced enemies who wanted him dead, men who had sworn to tear him apart, but nothing had ever wounded him quite like this.

“Fyodor,” he said gently, kneeling beside your chair. “Your husband.”

He reached for your hand, cold and thin in his grasp. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

As you shook your head, he smiled, though it was tinged with sorrow. “You were lost in St. Petersburg, and I offered you my umbrella.”

Even if you'll forget him a thousand times over, he would remind you a thousand and one.