Page 72 of Unbroken

Maybe she’s reincarnated. Maybe she’s part of the earth. Maybe she’s finally at peace.

God, I hope she’s at peace.

I walk amongst graves that are cracked, crooked, and forgotten. There are wooden crosses, black iron railings, and Orthodox icons bolted into stone. Rosaries, candles in glass, names in Cyrillic etched into crumbling marble.

Russian graveyards are different from others—more like sanctuaries than places of mourning. You find portraits carved into the headstones, domes on family mausoleums, and candles left behind that still flicker against the chill. They're private places for grief and memory and reverence.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. It does nothing to stop the tears threatening. My chest aches. My heart’s a drumbeat of pain, and my head feels too full.

Mariah’s grave is perched on a small hill, surrounded by white lilies—her favorite. The grass is a vivid green despite the clouds overhead. Forget-me-nots bloom in clusters nearby.

I haven’t been here in two weeks, and guilt tears throughme. Is this how it goes? Weeks bleed into months, and then years?

But it’s hard to come here. It’s always hard.

I cry when I’m here.

I don’t want to cry anymore.

But I need to talk to my sister.

I walk quickly, aware of my limited time and need to get to work.

It isn’t until I round the corner that I see it—the gleaming, familiar chrome wheels.

I freeze, and my heart turns over in my chest as my brain catches up.

Oh my god. No. No, it can’t be.

I’m not the only one who came to visit her grave. Was his visit prompted by guilt too?

I thought I could handle this, thought I was just barely holding myself together before I came, but seeing him here? God, no.

He’s kneeling in front of her headstone, leather jacket clinging to his broad shoulders like a second skin. His head is bowed, hands limp in his lap, and I swear he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world. He misses her; of course he does. Even though I’m not religious, the oldand the two shall become onesomehow rings true.

Vadka needs to talk to her, just like I do.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words sharp and raw in the air. His back’s to me, unaware of my presence. I feel like I’m snooping, but it’s too late now to turn back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I shouldn’t— I know I shouldn’t— I never even looked at her that way before. But I miss you. God, I miss you. And she loved you." His voice cracks—splinters, really, like a snapped bone. "She misses you so much. And I… Iloveher. I'm sorry." He shakes his head, and I can see the desperation in the way his shoulders tremble. "I’m so fucking sorry. But this—this is the right choice. It makes sense. She loves Luka, Mariah. No one loves him the way I do. Except Ruthie. And you know she’s safer with me than with anyone else on earth. You know that."

I shouldn’t be hearing this. I know I shouldn’t. I’m the last person who should be here, the absolute last. Guilt is already eating away at me like acid, but I can’t move. Iwon’tmove. He’s baring his soul to his dead wife, and all I can do is listen, frozen in place, while my heart shatters in my chest.

If I slip away now, will he even notice? Does he know I’m here? God, I hate this—I feel like I’m spying, like I’m trespassing on something sacred, something private. But I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know. I just came here to see her.

I try to back away quietly, carefully. But when I turn to go, my toe catches on a damn tree root, and I stumble, yelping as I go down hard on both knees. My hands slam against the earth in front of me to catch my fall, dirt grinding into my palms. Damp dirt presses into my skin. For a heartbeat, all I can hear is my own harsh breathing and stifledgroan.

“Shit.”

"Ruthie?" His voice cuts through the air, startled. Too close.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to push myself up. Sorry for what? Goddamneverything. For being here. For falling. For the sheer gravity of all of this.

I feel him before I see him, the familiar pull in my chest like the impending roll of thunder before a storm. The air shifts. Heavier. Charged.

The moment I try to shift my weight, pain slices up through my leg, bright and vicious. I stifle a cry.Fuck.

“Shit! What happened, Ruthie?”

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