The apartment was dim and silent, with shadows stretching across the walls from the thin light filtering in through the heavy curtains. Aleksandr sat slouched on the couch, a half-empty bottle of vodka resting on the table in front of him. His gaze was unfocused, staring blankly into the bottle as if it held answers to questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Five-year-old Sam stood a few feet away, clutching a worn stuffed bear, eyes wide and uncertain. He’d wandered into the room in his pajamas, drawn by the muffled sounds of his father’s footsteps and the soft clinking of the glass against the table. “Papa?” Sam’s voice was small, almost a whisper.

Aleksandr didn’t look at him immediately. He took a long swig from the bottle, wincing slightly as the liquid burned down his throat. When he finally turned his gaze to Sam, his eyes were dark, tinged with exhaustion and something else—something Sam didn’t understand but felt deep in his chest, like a weight pressing down.

“What are you doing up, Samuil?” Aleksandr’s voice was rough, a blend of irritation and weariness.

Sam hugged his bear tighter, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I… had a bad dream…”

Aleksandr sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t move from the couch, his expression tense. “A bad dream,” he muttered, almost to himself, the words dripping with bitterness. “We all have those, Sam. Life’s full of them.” He looked away again, his fingers tapping idly on the bottle as if the rhythm could drown out his thoughts.

After a moment, Sam took a tentative step closer, his small frame trembling. “Can I… can I sit with you, Papa?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Aleksandr’s jaw tightened, a flicker of conflict crossing his face. For a moment, he didn’t respond, letting the silence stretch thin between them. Then, with a weary sigh, he patted the spot beside him on the couch, his expression unreadable. “Alright. Just sit quietly, Samuil.”