I’m sorry, Vanya. Tears poured down my cheeks. Forgive me. I never asked you about your father, or what it was like growing up.

All of a sudden, I felt an aching desire to know these things. Vanya had probably been the only one alive in his immediate family, and now that line was gone forever.

Tell me about all the people you loved, Vanya. Had you ever gone this far in your life? If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?

I bit back my sobs, taking deep, rapid breaths through my nose as I fought the urge to scream curses through my gag.

None of those questions mattered anymore. They would never be answered.

I would make them all pay. For as long as I lived, I would never forgive the Fraktsiya for everything they had done. For tearing Galina from me. For killing Vanya, destroying all that he was and could be.

Beside me, Mikhail lay motionless on the grain sacks, deathly pale against the burlap. His entire shirtsleeve was soaked in blood, and the cloth they had tightly bound around his shoulder grew redder by the minute. Each time the wagon lurched, he groaned, his breath cutting off in a hoarse gasp. He opened his eyes and looked at me, his gaze drowning in pain and misery.

“Toma, I saw him. His head. His face.” Tears flooded his eyes. “I...I’m so sorry.”

My teeth gnashed into the wadded fabric.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, more forcefully this time.

I placed my bound hands on Mikhail’s arm and shook my head firmly. I wished I could tell him it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t to blame for what had happened.

“I liked him,” Mikhail whispered, his voice torn with wrenching grief. “I liked him.”

Turning away from me, he curled into a fetal position. Subdued sobs racked his body.

All this time, Mikhail had tried so hard to hide his emotions and maintain a strong façade. His mask had cracked when Aleksey had died, and again in Kraylesa. Now, it had finally broken.

I felt as if a part of myself had shattered, too. Had Vanya been terrified or had it been quick and painless?

“He could be so aggravating.” Mikhail’s choked voice became quick and fervent, as if by talking about Vanya, he could bring him back. “But he spoke—he spoke to me like an equal. And it was genuine, instead of just empty praise. He wasn’t just trying to impress me or get something in return. Nobody ever spoke to me that way before, and I kept telling myself I hated it, but I liked it. Oh, Toma. I really admired him for it.”

Shut up, just shut up, I thought, the words straining in the back of my throat. Stop talking about him that way.

I couldn’t stand to hear Mikhail talk about Vanya in the past tense. It made it all the more real. Vanya was already gone, and there was no going back. No matter how much Mikhail spoke about him or how many tears I shed, there was no way to rewind the clock.