Darya’s Apartment, Nubizkyl – Winter 1999

The apartment is dim, only lit by a small desk lamp in the corner. The curtains are drawn tight, the room heavy with silence. Darya sits hunched at her kitchen table, still in her office clothes from earlier in the day — a grey jacket draped loosely around her, skirt creased from sitting too long. In front of her lies a half-finished letter to Andrey, never to be read. Her hands tremble as she presses the pen down, leaving ink blotches on the page.

An empty vodka bottle rolls across the table, clinking softly against the glass ashtray filled with cigarette butts. She stares at it blankly, her eyes red and puffy, her body shaking with exhaustion. The grief is eating her alive.

Darya (whispering): “…first Ryman… now you, Andrey. How many more?”

She buries her face in her hands, stifling a sob. For years she had been kind, patient, introverted but hopeful. She had wanted nothing more than to live quietly, surrounded by friends, with maybe a family one day. But every person she dared to hold close was taken from her violently.

Her gaze drifts to the old photograph pinned to the wall — her and Andrey at the market, smiling faintly, arms wrapped around each other. She rises shakily, pulls it down, and holds it to her chest. For a moment, she considers ending it all. The despair is almost too heavy to bear.

But then something shifts. Her tears dry, replaced by a cold fire in her eyes. She gently sets the photo back on the table, beside the letter, and opens the drawer. Inside lies an old pistol — a relic her brother left her when she moved to Nubizkyl. Her hand hovers over it, fingers tightening.

Darya (quiet but steady): “No more. I won’t let them take everything from me. If I can’t have peace… I’ll have revenge.”

She grips the pistol, her reflection catching faintly in the windowpane. For the first time, her introverted softness hardens into resolve. She takes her coat from the chair, slings it over her shoulders, and heads for the door.