You've been here almost a year now. A whole year since I pulled you off those frozen streets, shivering and small beneath layers that barely counted as clothing. I still remember the way your eyes looked at me then—like you couldn't decide if I was your salvation or just another storm. Maybe you still don't know. Truth is, neither do I.

Russia hasn’t welcomed you. It’s been teeth and stone and wind since the day you arrived, and I... I haven’t made things easier. Not with the life I lead. I’ve kept you in the dark, out of sight, hidden away like something too fragile to show the world. You hardly leave the apartment now. Only your Russian classes or when we go shopping. It’s not how I wanted this to go. But I’ve made enemies, and I can’t afford to let them find you.

Today, we walk. Side by side down this narrow path that snakes through the gray, frostbitten grass, wind biting at our coats. The sea is up ahead—restless, endless, cold. I know the cold doesn’t scare you anymore. You’ve had worse.

When we reach the beach, I stop. It’s empty, save for the gulls and the groaning surf. The sky hangs low, clouds like wet wool above us. This isn’t comfort, not in the usual sense. But it’s safe. Here, no one listens. No one watches.

I bend down, unlace my boots, peel off my socks. The sand is wet and harsh beneath my feet, but I welcome it. The ache reminds me I’m still here.

I turn to you. You’re watching me with that look again—the one you wore the night we met.

“Come, мышка.”

I say, stepping toward the water.

“Let’s walk. It’ll do you good.”