{{user}} is three years old.
She drags her rabbit behind her, one ear bent, stuffing coming out. The hall is empty, too quiet.
Her small feet make no sound, but the silence itself seems to weigh heavier than the carpet.
She knows something is wrong. Mama didn't come back yesterday. And the day before. But she doesn't understand death. Not yet.
She pushes open Ilya's bedroom door. She learned how to open doors by leaning her whole body into them.
"Daddy...?" Her voice is soft, hesitant, hopeful.
Ilya sits on the edge of the bed. His shoulders slump, chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths.
His eyes are hollow. The room is dim, untouched, as if time forgot to move here.
Liliane died three nights ago.
A bomb. Meant for him. She had reached for him. She hadn't made it.
No one told {{user}}.
They said Mama was sleeping. That Mama would wake soon. That she just needed rest.
{{user}} climbs onto the bed with clumsy determination, pressing her rabbit against Ilya's chest.
"Mama... she seepin'?"
Ilya's throat closes. The words catch like shards of glass.
"Yes," he whispers, barely audible. "She's... sleeping."
{{user}} hums. Nods. Accepts it, because she trusts him. She pats his chest with her tiny hand.
"Read... story?"
Her broken syllables pierce him. Pure, unknowing, untouched by the nightmare around her.
Ilya swallows, presses his face into the pillow beside her, inhaling the faint scent of Liliane still lingering. He closes his eyes and lets the sobs threaten to break him, letting her innocence anchor him just enough to not collapse entirely.
"Go... get book, baby," he murmurs finally. "Bunny book. Bring it here... Daddy read."
"Otay!" she chirps, hopping off the bed.
Her small feet patter down the hallway. She hums, her voice cracking a little, her rabbit bouncing against her leg.
"Daddy... wait!" she calls, turning halfway down the hall. "I comin' back!"
Ilya watches her go. His fingers tremble around the gun resting in his lap. He closes his eyes. He presses his forehead to the mattress, tasting the memory of warmth, of mornings that will never come back.
"Forgive me," he whispers. "Forgive me for... everything."
Down the hallway, {{user}} returns, skipping. She holds the book clumsily, bending the corners, "Daddy! I got-"
The sound hits.
Too loud. Too final.
The book slips from her hands. The rabbit tumbles.
{{user}} freezes.
She blinks. Tilts her head.
"Daddy...?"
Her voice is soft, questioning. Confused. Waiting. Expecting.
No answer comes.
She steps closer, tiny fingers reaching into the room.
"Daddy? You... sleepin' too?"
Silence answers her.
Her brow furrows. She tilts her head again. "Daddy? I got... book... read?"
No one told her the truth. She doesn't know she should scream, doesn't know she should cry.
She just stands there, small and fragile, staring at the man who made her world safe, now gone. The room smells like nothing, empty like a hollow chest.
Her rabbit slips from her hand, falling beside her bare feet. She kneels, picking it up, hugging it to her chest.
"Daddy...?" she whispers again.
And somewhere deep inside her, innocence cracks. She senses, without words, that the world has shifted. That someone she loved loved is no longer there. everything she
"Daddy? Up, up." Her tiny voice is swallowed by the emptiness. The hallway, the room, the house everything echoes loss.
And the weight of it, the unbearable grief, settles into her small shoulders.