Page 24 of Porcelain Vows

I settle Bobik in his specially designed apartment in the attic of the Left Wing, making sure he’s comfortable. The space has been customized for his needs— wider doorways for his wheelchair, ramps instead of steps, technology within easy reach. Despite being hidden away for his safety, the rooms are filled with light and color, a sanctuary rather than a prison.

“Chess?” he suggests, gesturing toward the ornate board set up by the window. It’s our ritual, one of the few normal father-son activities we can share.

I nod, settling into the chair across from him.

We play in companionable silence, the familiar rhythm of the game soothing us both. I watch his face as he considers each move, his brow furrowed in concentration. He’s brilliant, my son— his mind sharp and quick despite all the limitations his body had imposed upon him.

He captures my queen with a move I should have anticipated, his eyes lighting up with triumph.

“Checkmate in three,” he announces.

I examine the board, recognizing the trap he’s set.

“Well played,” I concede, knocking over my king in surrender. He wins most of our games these days, his strategic thinking outpacing mine. Pride swells in my chest, alongside a twisting ache.

Hours pass as we talk about everything and nothing— his science projects, a documentary he watched in the hospital, a new theory about black holes he’s been reading about. We carefully avoid discussing the failed operation or what comes next. Today is about being home, about finding our footing again.

Eventually, I notice his energy flagging, exhaustion creeping into his pinched features despite his attempts to hide it.

“You should rest,synok,” I say, rising from my chair. The fact that he doesn’t argue is proof enough that he’s reaching his limits.

I help him wheel his chair from behind the chess table and then accompany him to his bedroom. The hallway feels longer than usual as I guide him, one hand resting protectively on the back of his chair. When we reach his room, I carefully maneuver him beside the bed and lift him into it.

“I can do it,Papa,” he says, straining to get beneath the covers. I stand silently as I watch his thin arms trembling as he struggles to lift his legs up, first one, and then the other, a hand beneath each calf. Finally, he looks up at me, his lips pursing. “Okay, maybe a little help.” He says it with a smile, but I can see the sadness behind his eyes.

This homecoming was supposed to be different.

“You’re tired,malysh.” I lift him in my arms and rest him back against the pillows, hating how small and fragile he feels. “You’ve been through a lot. You need a bit of time to rest, that’s all.”

He gives a nod but says nothing as I straighten his pillows, making sure they support his small frame properly. As hard as he’s working to hide his disappointment, I can feel it radiating from him. I lean down and brush my lips over his forehead.

As I turn to leave, he catches my hand, his small fingers wrapping around mine with surprising strength.

“Papa,”he says softly, his eyes meeting mine directly. “We’ll be okay. This isn’t the end.”

Something shifts in my chest— a tightness I’ve carried since the operation loosening slightly. I squeeze his hand gently, marveling at his resilience. This child, who has every reason to be bitter and angry at the world, chooses hope instead.

“You’re right,malysh,” I manage to say. “We’ll be okay.”

He hesitates, then asks the question that’s clearly been on his mind. “Where is Stella?”

I consider my answer. “She’s been resting. But you’ll see her soon.”

“I’d like that.” He smiles. “I’d like to see her all the time,Papa. She is staying with us for good, right?”

The question gives me pause. Stella’s situation is complicated— her memory loss, her discovery of her parents’ fate, the tentative truce we’ve established. I don’t want to burden Bobik with these complexities, not when he’s just returned home and needs stability.

“Yes,” I say simply, meeting his hopeful gaze. “She is.”

“That’s good,” he says softly. “I like her.” His expression is hopeful, and I’m reminded that it was only months ago that he lost his mother. He’s faced so much in his short life. Too much.

“Don’t worry,” I say firmly, injecting confidence into my words. “Stella’s not going anywhere.”

I just hope she feels as pleased about this as Bobik does.

Chapter Eleven

Stella

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