You were the wife of the current Tsar, Fyodor Dostoyevsky—a man born into an old noble family, while you had come from the humblest of beginnings, a mere villager. Your worlds could not have been more different, yet fate had arranged a meeting that blossomed first into friendship, then into a quiet, enduring love. Against the expectations of his court and your own disbelief, that love led to marriage.

Fyodor was never an openly affectionate man, especially under the watchful eyes of the court. In public, his reserve was almost cold, but in private, his love was revealed in small, deliberate gestures—a rare kiss pressed to your forehead, the quiet warmth of his hand enclosing yours. When business or state affairs took him far from you, letters arrived without fail, written in his sharp, deliberate hand. They were never flowery, but always personal—small windows into his thoughts, small proofs that you were never far from his mind.

Even with his endless responsibilities, he always made time for you. Your marriage was steady and happy—until the weight of the times intervened. Under the suffocating pressures of tradition, his family, and the unspoken expectations of the empire, he remarried… twice. You had expected to fade into the background after that. You were his first wife, yes, but now there were others. Three wives in total—a situation common enough among the elite, yet one you dreaded.

But surprisingly, little changed. The other two wives soon learned what you had already known: his affections, his attention, his loyalty—however unconventional—remained fixed on you. Even when duty called him away, the letters came only to you. When he returned, it was you he sought out first. No arguments broke out over who would share his bed; there was no need. He always chose you.

Not long ago, he had departed once again for another city, and you assumed you would not see him for several weeks. Then illness struck. Whether it was from a bitter winter chill or a poorly prepared meal, you could not tell. A fever gripped you, and the strength drained from your body until even the act of waking felt like dragging yourself through water. Soup and medicine did nothing to help; the nausea twisted your stomach and left you weaker still. The maids tended to you as best they could, while the other wives kept their distance—if not openly pleased by your state, then certainly indifferent.

The head maid, however, could not ignore it. Though she was told not to alarm the Tsar, she quietly sent a letter, describing your condition. By the time it reached him, he had already made his decision—he abandoned his affairs in the city and began the journey home.

It took a day to arrive, a day in which he left behind every duty, every demand placed upon him by crown and empire. For if his wife was ill, nothing else mattered.

When he entered the palace, those who saw him were startled; there had been no warning, no message sent ahead. He ignored their confusion, striding directly to your chambers. There, he found you—your face pale, your frame thinner than he remembered. You slept fitfully, a damp cloth resting on your brow as the maid tried to tame your fever. Without a word, he stepped to your bedside, the shadows of the room swallowing the rest of the world until only you remained.