Page 42 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Suddenly, I felt something strange, unfamiliar—a pressure building in my chest, tightening like a vise.

And then it broke.

Long, braying sobs racked my body.

I tried to choke them back.Tried to hold the damn thing together.But the tears came, hot and merciless.

To my shock, my father’s rigid stance softened.

He stepped forward slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

Then he opened his arms.

I hesitated, then stumbled into him, burying my face against his shoulder.

His coat was rough, smelling faintly of sweat and leather, but it was real.Solid.

I let the sobs spill out, raw and uncontrolled.

He held me steady, whispering something I never expected:

“I understand more than you’ll ever know.”

My father didn’t say another word right away.He just held me there, on the icy sidewalk, while I tried to remember how to breathe.The cold nipped at my cheeks, but I hardly felt it anymore.My whole body pulsed with the aftershocks of something I hadn’t let myself feel in years.

Grief.Rage.Relief.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, but not suffocating like before.My father gave my shoulder one last squeeze, then pulled back enough to look at me.His eyes weren’t angry anymore.Just tired.Knowing.

“Come inside,” he breathed.“Before we give the neighbors more to gossip about.”

I nodded, numb now, every nerve frayed and humming.We didn’t speak as we crossed the courtyard and climbed the worn stone steps to our apartment.

Inside the entryway, we each took off our shoes in silence, setting them neatly by the radiator.Habit.Muscle memory.Even as my world collapsed inward, I could still follow the rhythm of home.

The apartment was quiet.Unnaturally so.

I looked down the hall toward the kitchen.“Mama?”I called out, already knowing the answer.

No response.

I stepped into the kitchen and saw a note sitting on the table.

I’ve gone to help Luda at her shop—she got a shipment of new dresses.There’s soup in the pot.Don’t be loud.

I read it twice, then folded it carefully and brought it into the living room.My father had already settled into his usual chair, the one that creaked every time he sat in it.

“She went to Luda’s dress shop,” I said, holding up the note.

He snorted, the sound low and humorless.“Of course.Another private business.Perestroika—suddenly everyone wants to be a capitalist.”

He waved a hand as if brushing away a foul smell, then glanced at me with a different kind of weight in his gaze.

“Sit down, Dimka.”

I froze for a moment.Everything in me screamed to keep moving, to pace, to run, to crawl into my bed and pull the blankets over my head like I was a child again.

But I sat.

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