A chill ran down Maria’s spine. She imagined her mother doing the same with Tykhon. The sun had already set and the cool dark blue evening air flowed into the church through the open doors. It was time to go, but there, outside, everything was as unbearable as it had been before.

“I told you so Mum, I told you it wouldn’t help. That things would only get worse.”

The anxiety and nausea were threatening to get out of control. And then in a corner of the church she spied a flickering light. The only lamp among the many in front of a Virgin Mary with child that had a flame burning inside. With a sinking heart she rushed in that direction. She lifted all three candles to the lamp at once, squeezing her eyes shut, as though she was setting light to the wick of a dynamite. The candles splashed their red-hot paraffin, crackled and released a puff of oily-smelling smoke. An old woman quietly emerged from the nave.

“Dear, when you leave, please blow out the candles,” she said, and then giggled strangely.

And something inexplicable happened: Maria burst into tears. She couldn’t understand where this had come from. The old woman had vanished. Maria tried to recall some prayer, but nothing came to her. As the tears rolled down onto her hands, it occurred to her that there was no shame in all this. It was normal. Nobody would approach, hug her, ask questions, tell her off, or give advice. She felt she had every right to her loneliness, sadness, and tiredness. Maria asked for forgiveness from God, Andrei, Tykhon, that unfortunate Pavel, or whatever his name was, hanging from a rope. From those who had never been born. With a deafening bang, a weight was released from her chest, broke its chain and sank into the icon’s bottomless eyes. Maria covered her face with her hands. She heard the hiss of a shell whizzing over Andrei’s head at night. “F., for God’s sake, why won’t you just write?” she whispered.

For the next few minutes, Maria was in a trance, her mind was blank. Finally, she turned around and headed outside. It was dark.

“Fucking catharsis. Should have gone to the hairdresser’s.” Maria took out a handkerchief, wiped her moistened cheeks and her paraffin-greased hands. She was spent. Fear and apprehension had melted away, leaving only emptiness. She walked out under the cold streetlights.

Going through the subway underpass by the Historical Museum, Maria got a flat white and petit pain from a French bakery. She could go on now. Before re-entering her block, she sat on a bench in the yard, looking up at the windows of the flat. Their flat. Andrei’s flat. She and Tykhon didn’t have their own home. She shifted her gaze to the yellow maple leaves stamped onto the tarmac by passing soles. Autumnal letters. A fat crow looked up at her.

Something had to happen.