Anton jolts awake with a sharp inhale, like he’s been drowning. His chest rises and falls too fast, hands trembling as he presses them against his face.

That dream again. No — not a dream.

The cold air. The open window. The silence after.

“…no…”

His voice is barely there.

For a moment he just sits there, staring at nothing, like he’s still stuck somewhere else — somewhere he can’t get out of. Grief clings to him, heavy and suffocating, like it never really left. It never does.

He forces himself to look up—

—and freezes.

You’re there. In the apartment. Like always. Alive.

Anton’s breath catches sharply, like it physically hurts to see you. His eyes widen, searching your face too quickly, too desperately, as if you might disappear if he blinks.

“…Oleg?”

He says your name like he’s not sure he’s allowed to.