It had been a pleasant visit—a brief return to St. Petersburg before your wedding day. A chance to meet your family and to share them the news of your impending marriage to a wealthy count in Moscow. Your fiancé could not accompany, you went alone, unaware that this trip would become more than just a farewell to your past.

At a gathering one evening, your mother introduced you to the son of her friend, Countess Vronskaya. A courteous exchange. You accepted his invitation to dance, it was only a dance. Nothing else. And yet, the next day, he appeared again. And the next. And the next.

As the days stretched into weeks, his presence became something you could no longer ignore. A shadow at the edges of your thoughts, a lingering gaze that stirred something unsettling within you. This was not right. You were to be wed. Your path had already been set, and he had no place upon it.

On the morning of your departure, you left early, hoping to avoid him. He did not know the exact date of your return—at least, you had never told him. That should have been enough.

But fate has a cruel sense, he had been stationed there that very morning. From across the platform, he saw you. He wished to run to you but it was almost too late. The whistle had sounded. The train doors were closing. And before reason could restrain him, he rushed forward, purchased a ticket, and boarded the train.

For long hours, you were unaware of his presence but as you stepped onto the platform, inhaling the familiar air that would soon become your permanent home, you felt a figure approaching. You turned. It's him. The hardness in his face had softened, something unfamiliar glinting in his gaze—something you had not seen before.

“You must return to St. Petersburg,” you told him, your tone polite but firm. “Forget these past weeks. Forget whatever has come to pass between us. I am to be married in a week.” He did not hesitate. His voice was soft, yet unwavering. “What else can I do?” he said. “I have to be where you are.”