“Shush!” Maria lowered her voice to a loud whisper. “It’s guests that get seen out. But you’re not welcome here. Put the keys by the mirror.”

“And how am I supposed to get back in?”

“You’re the master of going into places you shouldn’t. You’ll come up with something.”

Andrei finished lacing his boots and got up.

“And what if I call the police?”

“Call them. What are you going to tell them?”

Andrei thought for a moment, but he came up with nothing. He carefully slid on his jacket. Maria stepped back, keeping her distance, gripping the pistol with both hands. Her right wrist was aching with fatigue. She could see that Andrei was weighing up whether to lunge at her.

“Why?” He stood his ground and pulled on his gloves.

“What do you mean why?”

“Why only three years?”

Maria chuckled.

“God you’re thick. I had a miscarriage. I’ve got a doctor’s note from a psychiatrist. You took me to her yourself. Read a lawbook. Article one hundred sixteen. ‘Intentional homicide committed in a state of emotional distress,’ is that how it goes? And then there’s Tykhon. That’s a mitigating circumstance.”

Maria took one step forward. Andrei backed away.

“You’ve lost it.”

“You’re the one who’s losing it. Me, I’m only now coming to my senses.”

Andrei threw the duffel bag over his shoulder, opened the door, and hurriedly left the flat.

Maria bolted all the locks, threw the pistol into the bin, but kept the magazine, placing it in her pocket. She went into the child’s room, turned on the night light, pulled out the box and poured out its contents, the bricks and the letters, onto the carpet.

Don’t cry, Mari. Look, flowers sprout from your tears and, frightened by a warped face, wither away.

Don’t cry. The world is beautiful, even if it’s impossible to live in. Take a deep breath. The exhale longer than the inhale. Count to thirty. That’ll slow down your heartbeat and calm you down.

Preserve us, who have lost the remnants of hope and rational thought at the edge of our microcosm. You’re with me, even when you aren’t. Filled with love for you, my world will not suffocate in the musty cellars of horror. And when you find out I have died, having escaped this mortal coil, it will flare even brighter. Don’t blame me, Mari, I’m not a selfish monster, though I seem like one. We’re all puppets in the hands of fate. We deserve happiness. Our bodies, these pulsating machines of life, are searching for each other. They touch and freeze in unnatural positions, trying to stop time. Look up through the window of your loneliness, touch the cold, ghostly clouds: these are also my letters to you. Wake up with me.