The familiar twinge creeps into my temple. Concentrating on slow, steady breaths, I press my fingers to the side of my forehead to suppress it. After a moment, the twinge dissipates.

Finish the game, Maria.

I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will.

Someone knocks, so I cover my forearm, refold my uniform, and tuck it under the dresses, trousers, and skirts I’ve tossed into my valise. Irena always bursts in without knocking, so it must be Hania. I tighten the robe around me and invite the visitor inside.

Mateusz steps into the room. He keeps his distance, the tightness of his jaw accentuated by a shadow of stubble. I haven’t seen him since passing him briefly when I staggered into the farmhouse, shaken and covered in Fritzsch’s blood. As promised, he had come to say goodbye to a dear friend and was met by a girl who had used him, his kindness, his trust. The look he gave me—concern, confusion, shock, sorrow, betrayal, combined into one, shattering me as I had shattered him. Since that day, he’s never tried to visit, and I certainly didn’t send for him.

For a moment, I’m unsure what to say, but I’m certain why he’s come.

“You haven’t left for America yet?” Thank God the valise gives me something else to look at.

“Next week. Franz said he’s driving you to Warsaw tomorrow since the original plan . . .” He pauses, as if nothing could adequately capture what had happened to the original plan. “. . . changed,” he finishes at last.

A simple conclusion, one that sums up the entirety of what had happened—to the original plan, to me, to him. To us.

He waits, perhaps believing his recognition of the change is all it will take to prompt me into revealing why it occurred. Maybe this is my opportunity to salvage the last of our remaining moments. But to do so requires an impossible play. I clear my throat.

“I’m doing a terrible job of packing. If you’ll excuse me, I should finish.” I rummage through the dresser drawers, pretending to sort the pieces.

The silence is oppressive. Part of me wishes Mateusz would say what he’s come to say, but another part would rather dwell in this instant forever than move forward to the next.

“I wouldn’t have given you that letter if I’d known what it contained.”

Though I’d been waiting for those words, they stir something within me, pushing me toward the familiar brink. Shoving the dresser drawer closed, I turn to face him.

“That wasn’t your decision. The letter was mine.”

“You had this planned all along, didn’t you? Why did you involve me?”

“I trusted you, and I needed help.”

“And I trusted you, but you lied to me. For years.”