Maria narrowed her eyes in the dim, flickering yellow light of the jarshaped lamp. “God I’m sick of this building. About time they renovated it,” she thought, bringing the letter closer. An ordinary white envelope, like the ones you buy in packs of a hundred at the stationers, not the post office. Ukrainian stamps. She felt the weight: twenty grams, light. But two stamps, which means he probably didn’t send it from the post office, and he wasn’t certain the one stamp would be enough. It wasn’t clear how the letter was delivered with only that for a return address. Or maybe he posted it himself? No, otherwise there’d be no postmark. Maria turned her attention to the metal number on the door, then back to the envelope, as though she was at the wrong address. But it was all correct. She was at home.

She sighed and took her keys out. Her thoughts were all of household business, conversations that needed to be had and—click—the mechanical ritual of returning home began with a single turn of the key. Click. Her brown eyes skimmed the letter one last time.

She didn’t want to go in.

“. . . I’ve fallen for you once more. ” She snatched that final line before hiding the letter in her bag, next to yesterday’s.

She exhaled, opened the door, put on her happy face, and crossed the threshold.

“Hello dears!” she shouted cheerfully to the two bedrooms and the kitchen.

“Murochka,” Andrei said from the bedroom.

Maria winced. She didn’t like that. Tykhon, a slender, fair-haired five-year-old, darted out of his room and hugged her waist. Maria kissed his curly, sweet-smelling crown. Her solar plexus ached pleasantly.

“Hello, kitten.”

The boy looked up at her without letting go.

“Ma, did you do anything interesting today?”

“The usual, kitten, I looked at dead people to see how they died”

“So?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet, but I will soon.”

“Ma, Granny says that people don’t die, but that they fly to heaven if they’ve been good.”

“What a bother she is,” Maria thought to herself as she resolved again to enrol him in a kindergarten. It would hurt her feelings, but her feelings were already hurt all the time anyway.

“What else did Granny tell you?”

“She said Jesus has saved us all, so I don’t need to go to kindergarten next year.”

Maria couldn’t resist bursting out laughing and she gently stroked her son’s head.

“Kitten, I very much doubt Granny told you that. And even if she did, it’s probably because she doesn’t want you to go to kindergarten, because she won’t get to see you anymore.”

His eyes welled with tears.

“You mean I won’t see Granny Olya again?”

“No, pet, of course you will. What would we do without her?” Maria kissed him on both cheeks.

Tykhon wrinkled his nose, broke free and ran to his room. Andrei never came out. He was completing a mission. Instead, a lazy white cat with a black chin emerged from the bedroom, stretched, and attempted a mew. All he managed was a stifled whistle, before slipping out to the child’s room. Maria’s gaze followed him irritably, she took off her shoes and went to prepare dinner.