Page 300 of Ruins
“I wanted to do something nice,” she tells me in hushed tones, “A gift. I wanted to give you something that would mean a lot to you.”
I take in another deep breath, forcing down the lump in my throat. My hands reach out for the painting gently, tracing over my mother’s portrait reverently.
My wife has somehow managed to bring life back to a woman who is no longer with us. Every curve of my mother’s face, every crinkle at the corner of her eyes, every strand of her hair - it’s all there on the canvas.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, my heart swelling with love for this incredible woman before me. “You’ve brought her back to me.”
Vasilisa looks relieved at my words and allows herself a soft smile. She moves closer towards me and slips an arm around my waist while resting her head against my chest.
“Thank you,” I tell her sincerely, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer into me. “Thank you for this and for coming back home.”
Her fingers trace over the fabric of my shirt as she says quietly, “This is our home, Santo. No matter where we go or what happens, this will always be our home.”
I press a tender kiss on top of her head, my other hand still holding onto the portrait of my mother. “I know the perfect place for it.”
***
I hang my mother’s portrait in the dining room, its presence a quiet reminder of the past, of everything that shaped me into the man I am. But when I turn, my gaze lands on the present—on myfuture.
Vasilisa stands beside the table, her delicate hands adjusting the final details, ensuring everything is perfect. The table is beautifully adorned, not just with the meal she and Mrs. Keen worked on with Julian, but with the subtle touches of her love woven into every piece. Fresh flowers in a delicate vase, folded napkins with precise creases, a warmth in the setting that never existed here before her.
She beams at me, proud of her display, her expression expectant—seeking my approval, my appreciation. But she should know, she has it. Shealwayshas it.
I take a long look at my mother’s portrait, and for the first time in years, a sense of peace washes over me. A peace I never thought I’d find. A peace that exists only because of the woman before me.
I look at my Vasilisa, truly look at her, and awe anchors deep in my chest. At the love she shows me so effortlessly, so openly. She is my light, my peace, my salvation.
The constellation of my entire existence.
A love like this should be celebrated—not just today, but every single day for the rest of my life. And I will. I will honor her. Protect her. Worship her.
For now, I take a seat beside my wife and do what I do best—
I watch her.
Because there is no world worth living in where she is not beside me.
Epilogue One
Santo
Two Months Later
Visitingmybrotherwasthe worst mistake I could have done. Vasilisa insisted I hear him out andfor what? To find out he hadfootageof what happened to my wife.
The bastard put cameras inmybasement and now Iknow.
I watched it.
How she fought.
What they did to my wife.
What I was inept to prevent…
The sound of her humming reaches me before I step into the room. It’s soft, almost airy, and I know without looking that she’s painting. She always hums now when she paints, like the brush and the melody are tied together, creating something I don’t deserve.
I stop in the doorway, leaning against the frame as I watch her.
