Between Windows 3

                Chapter 1. Voices Outside.



   That evening, the air felt oddly dusty. Lera walked to the window and shut it with a soft click. Outside, cars roared by, and the wind chased litter across the asphalt. Sergey sat in an armchair, absentmindedly watching some old movie on TV. He didn’t care what was playing—he just needed the sound to fill the silence.

The phone rang at 6:47 p.m. Lera flinched. The screen showed no number—an anonymous call. She didn’t answer immediately, just stood there, holding the receiver as if listening for breath on the other end. Something inside her whispered: this call would change everything.

“Hello,” she finally said.

There was a short pause. Then a man’s voice. Even, familiar—like a shadow from an old dream.

“Are you living with him?”

She felt her chest tighten. She sat on the edge of the couch, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Who is this?”

“Don’t pretend. I was nearby. I saw you. You were walking with him. Smiling. So it’s serious?”

Lera stayed silent. Her heart pounded, but coldly.
“Yes, it’s serious,” she said. Her voice was calm, like icy water.

“I’m not trying to take revenge,” the voice continued. “But do you even understand who you’re with?”

“Goodbye,” Lera answered softly.

“This isn’t over,” he said—and hung up.

Sergey didn’t notice anything. She didn’t say a word. She smiled, as always. Did the dishes, turned off the lights, lay down beside him. But something had shifted in her movements, a barely visible tension. He sensed it, though he said nothing.

Two days later, they were walking down the street. Near the bus stop, among the passersby, she spotted a man. He stood leaning against a pole, watching them. His face was in shadow, but she recognized him immediately. Him. Not a husband. Something deeper. Earlier. The one she’d long feared to forget—and feared just as much to remember.

She squeezed Sergey’s hand a little tighter. He looked at her and understood instantly: her eyes held no surprise, no fear—only guilt.

That evening, over dinner, he asked:

“Who was that?”

She put down her fork, avoiding his gaze at first.

“The one I’ve been afraid of my whole life.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She nodded.
“He wants to destroy us.”

Sergey wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“We won’t let him.”

“What if I can’t handle it?” she whispered.

He placed his hand over hers.

“Then I’ll handle it. For both of us. I won’t let him drag you out of this life.”

The next morning, an envelope lay at their door. No name. Inside was a photograph—Lera and Sergey, taken from behind, on that very street.

On the back, scrawled in thick black marker:

She’s not yours.

That’s how their war began.

                Chapter 2. Boiling Point.



Sergey held the photo in his hands, unblinking. The paper was thin, slightly damp. The marker bled through even to the front. He read the message again and again: “She’s not yours.” Three simple words. But something inside him ignited with a heat he hadn’t felt in years.

He gently set the photo down on the table, stood up, and walked to the kitchen. Took a glass, filled it with water. Set it back. Then sat down. Silent.

Lera stood at the window. Staring at the street like she was expecting something. Or someone. He looked at her and realized—she wasn’t just scared. She felt guilty. And it drove him mad.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he said. “But you need to understand—I won’t stay silent.”

She turned. Her eyes were tired but alert.

“Are you going to do something?”

“No,” he said. “I just want him to understand this isn’t a game. I’m not giving you up. Not to exes, not to ghosts, not to shadows of the past.”

Lera opened her mouth to say something, but he raised a hand.

“I’ve been silent for too long. Swallowed it all. Lived it inside. But not now. Now—you’re mine. And I’ll protect you. Even if it costs me everything.”

He left the house fifteen minutes later. Didn’t say where. She didn’t ask. Just watched him pull on his jacket and leave, the door closing louder than usual.

He went to where the photo had been taken. That same intersection, near the bus stop. He stood there, smoking. Waiting. Boiling inside. He wasn’t an aggressive man by nature. But something had flipped. Not from fear. From love. Pure, but defenseless.

Half an hour later, he saw a figure. A man in his forties, black jacket, holding a phone. Trying to look casual. Sergey walked up silently. Stood next to him.

“You took the photo?” he asked calmly.

The man flinched slightly.
“Who are you?”

“I’m the one who’s with her now. Not the one she fears. Not the one from before. The one she lives with.”

The man smirked, but his tone cracked slightly.

“You think she’s yours?”

“No. I know she belongs to no one. But she chose me. And you… you’re the past. If you interfere again—I’ll silence you. For a long time.”

Sergey didn’t shout. Didn’t threaten outright. But his eyes said enough. The man stepped back. Then another step.

“You’ll regret this,” he muttered, and left.

Sergey didn’t move. He didn’t need to win. He needed to protect.

When he returned home, he said nothing. Lera watched him. He took off his jacket, sat on the couch, covered his face with his hands.
She came over, sat beside him. Placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have…”

“I couldn’t not,” he said. “If I have to, I’ll go all the way. For you. And for myself. Because for the first time, I know what it means—to not live alone.”

The photo still lay on the table. He’d burn it tomorrow. But tonight—let it remind them: they weren’t alone. But now—they were together.



                Chapter 3. Everything You Know About Me

They made the decision at night.


Lera lay beside him, wide awake. He could feel the tension in her breathing, like she was holding something inside—something too heavy to name. Sergey didn’t speak—he just waited. And when she finally whispered, “I can’t stay here anymore,” he was already ready.

“We’ll leave,” he said. “Tomorrow, even. A new city. A new life.”

“Can you? Leave everything?”

“What do I have here?” He turned to her. “I’m already living only through you.”

They started packing early in the morning. Quietly. No panic. Everything felt calm, almost routine. As if they weren’t fleeing, just moving—like any ordinary couple might.

By midday, everything was boxed. They arranged for a place in a city where no one knew them. No traces. No old windows. No foreign eyes. For the first time in a long while, Lera smiled—truly smiled. Sergey kissed her forehead.

“We’re starting over.”

But that same evening, someone knocked on the door.

Lera froze. Sergey went to the peephole. A woman stood outside. Around Lera’s age, plain coat, short dark hair. She looked like she knew she’d be let in.

Sergey opened the door.

“Hello, Lera,” the woman said. Her voice was calm but carried something sharp—like a blade.

Lera stepped into view. Froze in the doorway.

“Masha?”

“Yes. I found you. Did you really think you could just disappear?”

Sergey stood back, sensing this woman was a chapter of their story he hadn’t read. And now it was spilling into their living room, their boxes, their future.

“We’re leaving,” Lera said softly.

“I know. That’s why I came.”

“Why?”

“So you’d know. He’s not alone. The one who’s after you. He has people. Money. Memory. He’s not just getting revenge. He’s hunting.”

Sergey clenched his fists.

“What do you want?”

Masha looked at him—long and hard.

“I want nothing. I’m not your enemy. I just know how he works. I worked for him. I was there when you ran. I saw him unravel. He won’t forgive. Not you. Not him.”

“What are you suggesting?” Lera asked.

“Leave. But not where you planned. He already knows. He’s searching. I’ll give you another address. Safe. Through people I trust. But don’t wait.”

After Masha left, the apartment felt hollow. Sergey shut the door. Lera stood by the wall, pale.

“I wanted to tell you,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t.”

“Who is she to you?”

“A witness. A shadow. She knew everything about me back when I didn’t even know myself.”

They carried the boxes back into the room. Changed the tickets. A new city. A new address.
But now—with caution.

And all the unsaid words lingered in the air.

Because sometimes, words are more dangerous than silence.


                Chapter 4. Between the Words.



They hit the road early. The city faded behind them like a failed conversation, a wound that never healed. Sergey drove in silence, focused. He didn’t check mirrors. Didn’t play music. Didn’t ask where exactly they were going. He only knew one thing: leaving meant surviving. Not the fear—but what the fear does to a person.

Lera sat beside him, hands folded in her lap. She stared out the window but saw nothing. Fields, gas stations, houses passed by, but she registered no names, no faces. Only her thoughts—heavy, sticky, like mud on the roadside. The fear didn’t vanish right away. Even after they left the city, it lingered—in her body, her breath, the silence.

They didn’t fight, didn’t blame, didn’t mention the photo or the words scrawled on its back. This was a new day. But the shadow was the same. And now it rode with them.

Sergey tightened his grip on the wheel when a junction appeared ahead. He wanted to say something—but didn’t. Lera noticed. She felt his tension, like her own. It didn’t separate them. It connected them.

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” she asked quietly.

“Is there another way?” he answered, eyes on the road.

She nodded. Slightly. In acceptance. As if agreeing there was no other choice.

An hour later they stopped at a gas station. Lera went for coffee. Sergey stayed in the car. For the first time on the trip, he checked his phone. No messages. No missed calls. He wanted the emptiness. But emptiness, when you expect it, is worse than noise.

When Lera returned, he sat with his forehead resting on the steering wheel.

“You okay?” she asked.

“No,” he answered honestly. “I’m not okay. But it’s not because of you. It’s because I feel there’s more. Something you’re not telling me.”

She froze. Set the coffee on the dash and sat down. Her shoulders trembled slightly. She stared forward, into a road that didn’t exist yet.

“It wasn’t just him,” she said.

Sergey turned. His face calm, but his eyes shifted—something inside moved.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But I didn’t stay silent out of fear. I stayed silent out of shame. I lived in someone else’s game. Did things I didn’t want to. For money. For safety. For a chance to breathe. And then—I disappeared. Left everything. Even my name.”

He stayed silent for a long time. Then said:

“You think I don’t imagine what you’ve been through? I don’t need the dirty details. I need to know what you’ve chosen now. And who.”

She looked at him. Her eyes were clear, like after tears—but she hadn’t cried.

“I chose you. Back then. Before the window. I just couldn’t come close. I thought I didn’t have the right.”

Sergey turned off the engine. Faced her completely.

“And now—do you have it?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s go. Before it’s too late.”

They drove for hours. The road drained the last of their tension. Somewhere midway, they began to talk. Normal things. About how fresh bread smells. How old men sell honey by the road. How one morning you want to wake up and nothing hurts.

When night fell and the city they didn’t know came into view, Lera’s phone buzzed. A message. From Masha.

“He knows. Be careful. I can’t help you anymore.”

She showed it to Sergey. He read it and nodded. Not surprised. Not scared.

“So it’s real,” he said.

They entered the city. New. Without traces. But with a memory that wouldn’t wash off.

And ahead—only what they could endure together.


                Chapter 5. A Street with No Name.



The new city greeted them without ceremony. No rain, no sun. Just damp air and dust on their shoes. The courtyard was narrow, with peeling facades, identical to dozens of others where people with borrowed faces and false names might hide. The key didn’t fit the lock right away, as if the door resisted accepting new tenants.

The apartment was empty, Khrushchyovka-style, with low ceilings and a dark kitchen. The furniture was poor, but clean. Sergey unpacked the bags, checking sockets, windows, locks. Lera put the kettle on and kept washing a mug that was already clean.

“Smells like loneliness,” she said.

“No one knows us here. No one will knock on the door,” he replied.

“Does that comfort you?”

He shrugged.

“It gives us a chance. At least for now.”

They drank tea standing up. Like at a train station. Like they were heading somewhere else. But the journey had ended. Or maybe just begun—no one could say.

Later, in silence, Lera lay down on the bed. Without a sound. As if lowering herself into water. Sergey sat nearby, not touching her. Stared at the wall. The wallpaper was covered in tiny gray patterns—like bars. Like a cell.

“Did you ever think this was all for nothing?” he asked.

She didn’t open her eyes.

“Yes. But only before you.”

He nodded. Turned to her. Wanted to say: “I won’t let you go, even if I have to die.” But he didn’t. Because now, words meant little. Only actions. Only the kind of silence that holds presence.

The next morning, he left first. Bought bread, salt, a few apples. Came back quietly. But at the door stood a woman. Young. Nervous. Holding a note.

“Are you Sergey?” she asked.

He tensed. Didn’t answer right away. She lowered her eyes.

“They told me… you need to be warned. She’s in danger. You too. Masha… she’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Two days ago. No one’s seen her. Phone’s off. And that man… he knows where you are.”

Sergey took the note. It had an address. Masha’s handwriting.

“If I don’t contact you—leave. Don’t stay. He found you.”

Inside, Lera waited by the window. When he entered, she knew immediately.

“What now?”

He didn’t answer. Just came up to her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and held her close. Quietly. As if saying goodbye. Or, maybe, preparing to stay forever.

Outside the window stretched a street with no name.
And a foreign city that now had to become their home.

If they made it in time.


                Chapter 6. The Crack.



They barely spoke the entire day. Lera paced the apartment, restless. Sergey sat by the window, eyes unfocused. Looking inward.

With each new piece of the past resurfacing, the tension between them thickened. It didn’t scream. It didn’t blame. It just grew. Like water under tiles—unseen, then rust, then collapse.

By evening, she placed her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t react. Just flinched slightly.

“We can’t keep running,” she said.

He stayed silent.

“We need to talk. Or we’ll lose each other.”

He stood slowly, walked deeper into the room, sat on a chair across from her. Looked into her eyes for a long time.

“Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”

She looked away.

“I don’t know what you’re more afraid of: that they’ll find us, or that you’ll find out the truth about me.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m afraid of what I don’t yet know.”

“Then I’ll tell you.”

She went to her bag, pulled out an old notebook. Worn leather cover. Set it in front of him.

“It’s a journal. Not for you. For me. But if you want to know who I was—read it.”

Sergey didn’t touch it.

“Can you tell me yourself?”

She sat beside him. Spoke slowly, as if pulling each word from deep within:

“I wasn’t just a victim. I was part of it. Not always unwillingly. Sometimes—deliberately. I did things that destroyed others. To survive. To not be someone’s toy—I became part of the game.”

He listened without interrupting.

“I’m not proud of it. I pay for it. Every day. I thought I could start over. But I realized—you have a right to know who you let into your life.”

“And do you have the right to a new life?” he asked.

She was silent for a long time. Then said:

“I don’t know. But I want it.”

He nodded. Got up. Walked to the window. Stood there a long time before speaking:

“I wasn’t innocent either. I had a chance to stop everything. Back then. But I chose silence. I saw what was happening. And turned away. Not out of fear—out of indifference. And indifference is a choice, too. I pay for that now. With you.”

He turned to her.

“We both came from darkness. Not because we became light. But because we got tired of living in the dark.”

She rose. Came to him. Hugged him. He held her close, like it was the first time.

And the crack between them no longer seemed so frightening.

Because now—it was visible.
And that meant—it could heal.


                Chapter 7. To Stay.



She woke up before him. The gray morning crept into the room through cloudy glass, the air was stale, like in a basement. Lera sat by the window, legs pulled in, arms wrapped around her knees. Inside her there was no fear—only exhaustion. Like after a long, hopeless battle where you survive but aren’t sure if you’ve won.

On the table lay the journal. That one. She hadn’t touched it since their conversation. Her confession had happened not on paper, but aloud. Now all she could do was live with it. And with him.

Sergey slept. Quietly, heavily. Over the past few days, he’d changed. Not outwardly—he had fewer words in him now. He had become stronger, but more closed off. He held on, but Lera could see—he was on edge. He wouldn’t ask her to stay. But if she left—he wouldn’t call her back.

She walked to the door. Took her coat. Looked at the key. She could have just left. Vanished the way she once had from another life. Left it all before it fell apart completely.

But she didn’t.

She took off her coat. Sat on the floor by the door. Hugged herself. And said aloud, as if to herself:

“I’m staying. Even if this is the end. Even if he can’t forgive. Even if we’re never the same again.”

Sergey woke up an hour later. She was still sitting by the door. He got up, came over, sat next to her. Silent.

“I thought about leaving,” she said.

He nodded. Not surprised. Stared ahead at the empty wall.

“But I can’t,” she added. “Not because I’m afraid. Because I love. And if I leave now—it’ll be a lie. Not salvation. Betrayal.”

Sergey lowered his head.

“I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“And I wouldn’t have come back,” she answered. “That’s why I didn’t leave.”

He looked at her. For the first time in a long time—deeply. Without armor. Without shields. In that gaze was gratitude words couldn’t carry. He just took her hand.

And they stayed.

Not because it was easier.
But because it was right.

Sometimes choosing to stay means walking back into the fire. For one chance. For one person.
For yourself.



                Chapter 8. The Unsigned Letter.



They began to breathe a little easier. A few days after Lera stayed, the air in the apartment changed. A rhythm emerged. Hesitant, like a step on ice—but it was there. Sergey started brewing strong tea in the mornings again, and Lera actually ate something. They didn’t talk about the future. They just lived.

Everything changed on Friday. In the morning. When Sergey went out for bread.

He saw the envelope the moment he stepped outside. It lay at the door, neat, like a newspaper. No stamp. No address. Just one line: "For her."

He picked it up, held it for a long time. Then came back into the apartment and handed it to Lera without a word. She didn’t ask where it came from. She already knew.

He went into the other room. Lera opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet. No date. No signature. The handwriting was male, sweeping. The words—like a scalpel.

“You think he knows who you really are? You think you can just disappear and then resurrect in someone else’s arms?

You lived a double life. You know what I mean. You saved yourself by destroying others. I saw. I remember. And I’m not the only one.

If you don’t leave, he’ll find out everything. Not from me. From facts. From people you once hurt. He’ll know—and then you’ll lose it all.

You have time. But not much.”

She read without breathing. The paper crackled in her hands. Her vision blurred—not with tears, but with rage. Fear had retreated. Only anger remained.

Sergey came back.

“What is it?”

She handed him the letter. He read it. To the end. Twice. Then folded the page carefully and placed it on the table.

“It’s not a threat. It’s a last push. He wants you to give up.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.”

“But maybe you need to know everything.”

He shook his head.

“I need only one thing: for you to be with me. The rest—we’ll deal with when it comes.”

She came over, hugged him. For the first time in a long time—tightly, truly. As if more depended on it than just the two of them.

The letter stayed on the table. Unsigned. But with consequences that had only just begun.



                Chapter 9. The Face of a Threat.



The next day everything was quiet. Too quiet. Sergey felt it from the morning on—the silence wasn’t peace, it was a trap. Even the footsteps of neighbors upstairs sounded suspiciously light. Lera cleaned the room, arranged books, tried to stay busy to keep from thinking. But the tension grew, like pressure before a storm.

They didn’t talk about the letter. It lay in the drawer. Sergey wanted to burn it, but Lera wouldn’t let him. “If he writes anonymously, he’s afraid.”

In the evening, they went to the store. Came back early. The usual route, familiar faces in the yard. But when Lera climbed the stairs, he was there.

No shadows. No notes. A real man. Tall, broad, in a gray coat, short hair, expressionless face. He was smoking, eyes locked on them.

Sergey felt his stomach tighten. Lera stopped two steps short.

“Good evening,” the man said. His voice was rough, like burned through.

“Who are you here for?” Sergey asked calmly.

“I’m here for her,” he nodded toward Lera. “We… know each other.”

Lera stood silent. Her face pale, but her expression unmoved.

“Why did you come?” she asked.

“To talk. One on one. Without him,” the man cast a glance at Sergey.

Sergey stepped forward.

“Say what you want. Here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then I’ll wait. You won’t hide from each other forever.”

He turned and walked downstairs. Slowly. Like someone who believed he had control.

Lera opened the door. Walked in. Sergey followed and locked it behind them.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“He’s not the main one. He’s a messenger. He worked for the ones you haven’t seen. But he knows everything. He was close. And I know him. Too well.”

Sergey came closer.

“Is he dangerous?”

“Yes. Not because of what he might do. But because of what he might say. He doesn’t know everything. But enough to turn it into a weapon.”

Sergey went to the kitchen. Poured water. Didn’t turn on the light.

“He came because he sees we’re still standing. He’s trying to split us. With truth he doesn’t fully understand.”

“I need to talk to him,” Lera said quietly.

“Not alone.”

“No. I have to. This is my war. If I don’t face him—he’ll keep coming. Stronger.”

Sergey was silent for a long time. Then nodded.

“But he won’t be alone with you. Even if he doesn’t see me—I’ll be there.”

Lera came closer, leaned against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

On the staircase, an old step creaked.

He was still there.

Chapter 10. Without Fear

He waited for her by the building’s entrance. Stood like he knew she would come. Not with weapons, not in panic. Just come. Because the time had come.

Lera opened the door slowly. Dressed simply: coat, scarf, hair pulled back. Her face was calm, her gaze direct. Inside, it was cold—but not fear. Clarity. When you know that endings aren’t always tragedy. Sometimes—they’re release.

Sergey watched from the window. He wouldn’t interfere. Unless something went wrong.

The man turned to her. Nodded.

“You came after all.”

“You wanted this,” she said. “You got it.”

“I didn’t want revenge.”

“But you threatened. Wrote. Followed.”

He shrugged.

“I wanted you to remember who you were.”

“I remember. Every day. But you’re wrong—I’m not hiding. I’m living. And for the first time—not lying.”

He looked at her for a long time. In his eyes—no regret, no anger. Only weariness. A man who failed to destroy someone’s happiness because it turned out to be real.

“You think he’ll forgive you if he knows everything?”

“He knows enough. And the rest—he’ll learn when he’s ready. But not from you. Not from someone else’s mouth.”

He lowered his eyes.

“I won’t come again. Not out of fear. Just—everything I had to say, you didn’t hear.”

“I heard,” she said. “And I forgave. Not you—myself.”

He nodded. Turned. Walked away. Without looking back. Without threats. Without a final word.

Lera stayed for a moment. Then slowly went back upstairs. In the apartment, it was quiet. Sergey stood by the table, pouring tea.

She entered, took off her coat, sat down. Took the cup.

“He’s gone,” she said.

Sergey didn’t ask for details. Just looked at her like at someone who had won—without fighting. Won by standing her ground.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now I want to live. Not hide, not run. Just live. With you. If you still want that.”

He didn’t answer. Just took her hand.

And it was enough.



                Chapter 11. Morning.



They didn’t realize right away that everything had changed. Morning came, unlike the others. No inner trembling, no rustle of fear outside the door. The air was dry, the sun sliced through the blinds in sharp ribbons, like knives—but they didn’t cut.

Lera woke first. Lay with open eyes for a few seconds, listening to the silence. Outside, someone tapped on a pipe—caretaker or bird, it didn’t matter. What mattered—there was no dread. She got up, walked barefoot across the room, stopped at the window. A sparrow sat on the sill. Small, brash, alive. She watched it until it flew off. And for some reason, she smiled.

A cup clinked in the kitchen. She went there, already knowing whom she’d see. Sergey stood by the stove, making coffee. An ordinary morning. But inside that ordinary was meaning.

“You’re up?” he asked, not turning.

“Yeah. Early, but calm.”

“I woke up and wasn’t afraid you’d left. Can you imagine?”

“I can.”

They sat at the table. Drank coffee like people who no longer needed to explain anything. He poured her a second cup.

“You know,” he said, “yesterday I realized—if you had left, I wouldn’t have looked for you. Because I’d know—it had to be that way. But now you’re here. So I don’t have to prove anything. Not even to you.”

She looked at him, feeling something settle inside—something heavy, but not painful. A weight. A grounding.

“You know what I’m afraid of?” she said. “That this—now—is short-lived. That we’re just each other’s break. And it’ll hurt again.”

He silently took her hand.

“Even if it hurts again, I won’t leave. Because you’re not a pause. You’re my point of origin.”

After breakfast they went out. No reason. Just because. The city was still the same—gray, cold, strange. But not frightening. They walked slowly, side by side. Sometimes their shoulders touched. Sometimes they just walked, in silence.

They stopped by a bookstore. Lera sifted through poetry, flipping through Tsvetaeva, Akhmatova. Sergey stood by the woodworking section. Then came over and handed her a slim volume.

“Shall we get it?”

“We’re broke.”

“Then just one. We’ll read it out loud.”

She nodded. They chose. Left the shop smiling, like kids with a secret treasure.

At the corner, they sat in a small caf;. Hot tea, pastries. Outside—buses, strangers. The window reflected their faces.

“If we’d met earlier…” she began.

“We wouldn’t have recognized each other,” he said.

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because only after pain can you see the one who won’t cause more. Before, we weren’t ready. We’d have passed each other by.”

She thought a moment, then nodded.

“Then it’s good we met now.”

He squeezed her hand on the table.

“Now is all we’ve got. But if we hold onto it… maybe there’ll be a tomorrow.”

That day no one called. No letters came. No one followed. In the evening they came home. Sergey read. Lera washed dishes. Then they lay down. Without words. Because everything had already been said.

It was the most ordinary morning. The simplest day. But from days like this, real life begins.




                Chapter 12. The Letter That Wasn’t Sent.




The next day Lera found a draft in an old drawer. A yellowed sheet of paper, folded unevenly. She didn’t remember putting it there. But she recognized the handwriting. Her own. Just three paragraphs—an unfinished letter. Not to Sergey. To herself.

She read it, and the words echoed inside her—like strangers and like home:

“If you’re reading this, it means you didn’t give up. I don’t know where you are, who you’re with, if you’re even alive. But if you’ve made it to this line—you’re stronger than you think. I know how scared you are. How hard it is to look in the mirror and see not just your face, but your past. But you are not what happened to you. You are what you choose next.

If someone is beside you—hold on. Don’t be afraid to love. Don’t be afraid to speak. Even if the words don’t come easily. You don’t have to be a saint. Just be real.

You will survive. You already have, just by not disappearing entirely. And if one day you feel like running again—remember: once, you stayed. And that means more than you know.”

Lera folded the paper. Sat a long time with it in her palm. Then put it back in the drawer. Didn’t burn it. Didn’t hide it. Just left it. For a moment when she might forget who she’s become.

In the kitchen, Sergey was making soup. He turned, and in his eyes was something he didn’t used to express in words.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I found a letter. An old one. Mine.”

“Important?”

“Very. But not to reread. To remember who I don’t want to be anymore.”

He nodded. Handed her a spoon. She sat at the table, tasted it.

“Needs salt,” she said.

“You’re too picky.”

“I’m too alive.”

He laughed. And in that laugh, there was no fatigue. There was future. Unwritten, unguaranteed—but possible.

That evening, they didn’t talk about the past. Didn’t recall where they came from. Because for the first time in a long time—they were wondering where they could go next.



                Chapter 13. Letters That Aren’t Sent.




They sat on opposite sides of the table. Each with a sheet of paper. The room smelled of tea and wood—Sergey had repaired a drawer earlier, leaving a trace of fresh shavings. There was no plan, no agreed idea. Just, at some point, they both knew: they needed to write. A letter. Not a text message. Not a fridge note. A real letter. To the person beside them. But in a way that said more than they ever could out loud.

Lera lifted her mug to her lips, then set it down, took the pen. She wrote slowly at first. Her letters were unsure, like a schoolchild’s. Then faster. Line by line. Her letter held no requests, no declarations. Just gratitude. For him not leaving. For not trying to rescue her, but staying close. For not touching her pain with words, just sitting there when it became unbearable. For never making her a heroine. Never asking her to be someone else. Just—being.

Sergey wrote differently. Fast. Firm. Almost no corrections. He didn’t know how to write beautiful turns of phrase. But he knew how to be honest. He didn’t explain feelings. He wrote how he felt human when she was near. That even silence sounded with her. That he was still afraid—but not of her. Of himself. Of his inability to hold on. Of his past. Of his failure to say the right things. And how now he wasn’t afraid anymore. Because at last, he’d found someone worth waking up for. And falling asleep beside.

They didn’t read the letters aloud. Just folded them. Put them in the drawer. Maybe they’d open them someday. Or maybe never. Some words aren’t meant for voices. Only for hearts. Only for moments when memory falters and the voice grows faint.

They went outside. The letters stayed in the drawer. They walked side by side, in new coats, with warm mittens from a street sale. And for the first time—they didn’t feel fragile. They felt grounded. Like winter wasn’t threatening anymore. Just arriving, on time.




                Chapter 14. Peaceful Days.




Life found its rhythm. Not a routine. A breath. No feats. No disasters. Sergey found odd jobs—fixing furniture, mounting shelves, working with wood. He came home smelling of shavings, hands full of splinters, shoulders tired. But it was honest fatigue.

Lera got a job at the local library. Small, dusty, with mismatched shelves and paper catalogs. At first, she cleaned. Then she helped readers, kept records. In the evenings, she came home with sore fingers and the scent of old pages. And she didn’t complain. Because her hands were busy with work—not fear.

In the evenings, they cooked together. No sentimentality. Just cooking. He chopped, she seasoned. He hammered, she held the board. Sometimes they argued. Sometimes they were silent. Sometimes they played music and didn’t notice the night arriving. They were—together. Real.

Once a week, they had a “holiday.” A little one. Bought wine. Dug out the old player. Danced in the kitchen. Sergey stepped on her toes, she protested. He laughed. She laughed too. And in that laughter—no defenses, no pretending. Only life.

One such evening, they sat on the floor, backs against the cupboard. Lera rested her head on his shoulder. He ran his fingers through her hair. Silently. For a long time.

“I think I remember myself again,” she said.

“Me too,” he replied. “But you’re different now.”

“And you. Softer.”

“Scary?”

“No. It was scarier before. Now—it’s quiet. That’s better.”

They sat, and outside snow was falling. The first snow. Slow. As if even winter had decided—it was time to let them rest.

Or at least—not interfere.



                Chapter 15. The Path.




They went for a walk outside the city. Not because they had a destination—just because they wanted to breathe something different. The air was dry, the sun shone from behind them, and everything around seemed quieter. On the path leading toward the river, there were almost no people. Just trees, roots, stones. And a little memory.

Sergey walked a few steps ahead. Lera lagged behind. Watched the footprints. There were two sets. Only two. And that was enough to feel safe. They didn’t speak—just walked, as if trying to feel not only the ground, but themselves. After everything, this walk felt like a test step into a world that didn’t know them and wouldn’t touch them.

They stopped at an old tree. Its branches reached skyward like arms. Sergey touched the bark. Rough, warm. Lera leaned her cheek against the trunk.

“Look,” he said.

He pointed down. In the roots lay a broken bracelet. Cheap, with faded letters. Two names scratched into the plastic. Almost erased.

“Someone else was here too,” he said. “And they probably believed in being together.”

“But couldn’t?”

“But we can.”

Lera ran her fingers along the bark. Then looked at him. In her eyes was no promise—only trust. Stronger than vows.

They walked on. The path led them to the river. The water was dark, swift. Stones cold at the shore. They sat and stared at the current.

“Rivers don’t return,” Lera said quietly.

“But they always move forward.”

He took her hand. Held it for a long time. Didn’t let go even when they stood and turned back. The path grew longer. But not harder. They didn’t speak, because nothing more needed saying. Even their silence was shared.



                Chapter 16. The Fight.



It happened over something silly. He forgot the bread. She was tired. He said something sharp. She didn’t answer. Then slammed the door. He stayed in the kitchen. The spoon clinked against the cup. The silence was louder than any shouting.

But it wasn’t about bread. Or fatigue. It was about how, after long fear and pain, they’d started living an ordinary life. And ordinary life isn’t always easy. It requires patience, words, understanding.

Sergey sat by the window. Remembered how he used to withdraw into himself when he didn’t understand his feelings. Now—he didn’t want that. Now—he feared losing not her, but what existed between them.

An hour later, Lera returned. Didn’t apologize. Just sat across from him. Her eyes didn’t hold anger. Just one question: will we stay who we are?

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded.

“I don’t want us to live like everyone else. Fighting, angry, silent for days.”

“Then let’s not.”

“What if it happens again?”

“We’ll talk. Not run. Not shut down.”

“Even if it hurts?”

“Especially if it hurts.”

He reached out. She placed her hand on his.
And everything returned. Even quieter. Even cleaner.

Later they went to the store. Bought bread. Came back. Cooked dinner. In silence. But it was a light silence. Because now, silence wasn’t a wall. It was breath. Shared.

Fights didn’t vanish. But the fear behind them did.

They knew: now they could find their way back to each other.



                Chapter 17. All That Remains.



A week passed. Then another. And nothing collapsed. No one came. No calls. No letters. Silence no longer felt suspicious. It was becoming home.

They woke up early. Drank tea with mint. Lera sorted books by theme—the library had gotten a new shipment. Sergey tinkered in the basement, where a neighbor had let him set up a workbench. They reunited in the evenings, sometimes tired—but without coldness. Without masks. These evenings had no grand events, no triumphs, but they held what mattered—a hand brushing another hand; a gaze that lingered a little longer; a word spoken in a whisper.

One day Lera brought home an old map. She laid it on the table and unrolled it.

“Pick,” she said.

“Pick what?”

“A place. Where would you go if you weren’t afraid?”

Sergey studied the map for a long time. Then pointed to a small village near a forest.

“Why there?”

“I don’t know. It just sounds quiet.”

“Then someday we’ll go.”

She rolled the map back up. Put it in the drawer. Not for planning. For remembering: they now had a ‘someday.’

That evening they sat by the window. Lera was writing in a notebook. Sergey was reading. Then he closed the book and looked at her. She didn’t notice. Her cheek rested against her palm, pen barely moving in her fingers. He watched her and thought: how long he’d feared happiness—and how quietly it now breathed beside him.

“Do you think we really stayed?” he asked.

“I think we chose to stay. That’s stronger than just not leaving.”

He walked over, leaned down, touched his forehead to hers. She looked up, eyes full of warmth—not hope, not tension. Just warmth. Real. Unforced. The kind that doesn’t burn, but comforts.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For everything that was. And what is. For not disappearing. For staying.”

She closed the notebook. Placed it next to the letters. The ones they didn’t read aloud. But kept close.

Later they lay in bed. Didn’t fall asleep right away. He held her hand. She stared at the ceiling. Their fingers intertwined slowly, like roots, growing deep.

“You know,” she said, “sometimes I still wake up and think this can’t be real. That I’m still in a dream. That it’ll all vanish.”

“Then touch me,” he whispered. “As long as I’m here, it’s not a dream.”

She traced his cheek, his lips. He kissed her palm. And in that moment, everything unnecessary faded. No fear, no words, no memories. Only breath, skin, the beating of a heart beneath fingers.

They didn’t make love—they were love. Were in it, like in warmth, like in a song where lyrics no longer mattered.

The night was warm. Even with snow outside. Even with darkness beyond the window.

They sat together. Then lay together. Quiet. Without fear. Without plans. But full of feelings that no longer needed proof.

This is not how stories end.
This is how life begins.



                The End.