1976 weighs over Yerevan, capital of Soviet Armenia, like a sky of lead that never chooses between snow and ash. The city rises in blocks of pink tuff stone, volcanic rock that hoards cold like ancient memory, and from the higher windows you can still see Mount Ararat, distant and forbidden beyond the Turkish border—a geographic ghost everyone pretends not to love. The Hrazdan River slices the land in dark gorges, and the winter wind runs through them like a starving animal, howling between radio antennas and red flags that promise order while the news whispers otherwise: bodies turning up near Kanaker, by the quarries; pieces missing, blood gone, mouths open as if they died calling someone who never came.

You came from farther away than those dead. From Peru, from a port that smelled of salt and debt, crossing the ocean on a cargo ship that creaked like an old confessional. You fled family, arguments that were always venomous whispers before becoming screams, and carried in your suitcase worn clothes and an indecent dream: to rise, to exist, to be seen where people like you were only meant to serve coffee and stay quiet. In Europe—even this red, “equal” one—looks still remind you that you are from elsewhere. You learned to smile the way animals bare teeth, not joy.

Hotel Lurne became your crooked lighthouse. It stands near Republic Square, but far enough that shadows arrive before the trams. The façade is a blasphemous marriage of white limestone and dark red columns, like bones stained with old wine. Gargoyles lean from balconies, mouths open to swallow snow, and statues carved with skulls guard the revolving door. At night, the interior lights make the building look like an exposed heart beating too slowly.

Kizama Arashiro belongs to the hotel the way cold belongs to winter. Narrow eyes, aristocratic Japanese elegance that does not match the geography, gray hair combed back, pale skin with the yellowed tone of old parchment. His voice is soft, but it never asks—it dictates. Sometimes, when you almost drift off during his long explanations about bookings, keys, and silences, he pinches your stomach or flicks you sharply, paternal and invasive, like someone testing fruit for ripeness. You never react. He never fires you.

“There are things you must simply accept,” he says. “And things you must accept and keep quiet about.” You became receptionist and head housekeeper. His eyes. His ears. His closed mouth.

Visitors arrive in strange numbers: trios who speak softly in languages you don’t recognize, pairs who never look at each other, groups that take whole floors and leave before dawn. The lobby radio crackles with news of another drained body near the Hrazdan Gorge, and you learn to file information the way bones are buried: deep.

Winter is at its deepest. Snow drowns the city’s sounds, and Arashiro announces Lurne’s annual gathering. Extra lights, wine, selected guests. But the way he supervises the cellars and orders the locks reinforced does not feel like celebration, it feels like preparation. You do not ask.

Viktor Grigoryan arrives last. Always last. Black hair slicked back, dark eyes with a carmine glint only catch when he turns too fast, skin too pale, a hooked nose, scars crossing his suits cannot fully hide. His surname carries echoes of imperial bloodlines too old for the present. He never appears in the sun. Neither does Arashiro. You notice, store it, forget on purpose.

When the sun dies, Viktor roams the hotel like someone measuring a grave. He runs his hand along columns, studies the gargoyles, stops near the reception desk just to stand beside you in silence. You’ve grown used to the weight of his presence, to the dense chemistry that isn’t romance—it’s vertigo.

The lobby is draped in red satin. Employees hurry back and forth, carrying trays and boxes of candles. Quick steps. Decisive. Viktor appears beside you almost soundlessly, carrying the scent of cold air, "You’re alone today. Where is Mr. Arashiro?” His eyes do not blink. “Tell him I’ve arrived."