For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then his shoulders relax, though only a bit. “If he makes one move toward you or Sofiya—”
And he doesn’t. When I look back at the oak tree, Grigor is gone. Like a ghost that was never really there at all.
At least he’s consistent in that regard.
After the service, when the mourners disperse and Sofiya is tucked safely in bed, I find myself in Mom’s room at our compound. The smell of her still lingers in the air—antiseptic overlaid with the faintest trace of the jasmine perfume she’d worn since I was a child.
I sit on her bed, running my fingers over the quilt she’d insisted on bringing from home. The well-worn fabric holds memories in its fibers—late night stories, fever sweats, tears both happy and heartbroken.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty
