flurry-of-stars

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𝔖𝔨𝔢𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔉𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔬𝔪

✩ Prologue: 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝓒𝓪𝓷𝓿𝓪𝓼

Content Warnings: Angst, parental loss, grief, human trafficking, emotional abuse, child abuse, violence (physical/emotional.)

𝔒𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔢𝔴/𝔐𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔠𝔟𝔬𝔵

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 11.1k

They say rumors are like pigeons. They flutter about in the wind, leaving a trail of mess in their wake. Rumors pollute the air, a thick miasma that poisons wells once pure and lively.

Many dismiss the notion, never once daring to drink from the tainted waters… and that’s the secret to keeping things hidden—the darker the corner, the less anyone dares to believe that what lurks there is anything more than an odd jacket lounging across a chair that just so happens to resemble a monster.

But if they looked beyond the silly jacket, they would see the true monster before their eyes. The night is still and silent, as if the world, too, has slipped into slumber alongside those who roam its surface. The cobblestone streets lie bathed in the soft, golden glow of streetlights, standing like tall, watchful guards, their iron posts casting long shadows on the ground. Moths flutter about, circling the lights in a dance as old as time itself, their delicate wings tracing arcs around the glow they will never touch.

In such silence, one could almost hear a pin drop. Or the faint buzzing of the streetlight at the end of the street as it flickers—a desperate, stuttering effort to stay on—before finally choosing to remain illuminated. The stack of bills changes hands in the dim light, its crinkling sound the only mark left on the stillness.

A voice as smooth as rich velvet and charming enough to hypnotize a viper, speaks into the silence, “Count it as many times as you please. I can assure you the full amount is there.”

The iron plated tip of his cane clicks against the cobblestone beneath his feet, his green eyes gleaming with cold amusement as they fixate on the scruffy gentleman before him, watching each movement with the precision of a predator tracking its prey.

There’s something unnervingly calculating in their depths as he listens to the loud sobs of the young child by the side of his father.

“Papa, I’m sorry..." the child, no older than nine judging from his height, wails, his small hands clawing at his father’s tattered coat. The older man yanks the fabric free from his son’s brittle, dirt-covered nails. “I won’t do it again! I promise I won’t!” “Hush, boy,” the father snaps, his voice cold, “or I’ll give you a damn good reason to cry.” His fingers flip the crisp bills with an almost reverent precision, handling the paper with more care than he has ever shown his own flesh and blood. The green-eyed man huffs out a soft laugh, gloved hands clasping together over the silver magpie carved delicately into the hilt of his cane. "Ah, children. What little blessings they are, no?"

He crouches down, the rich fabric of his multicolored tailcoat brushing the cobblestones as he peers at the boy through the white and red-marked full face masquerade mask that obscures his face. Black and crimson feathers tumble over the forehead of the mask, framing his dark eyes as he takes in the boy’s appearance.

Scrawny, dressed in torn clothes...the child looks fragile. He could only hope to guess the last time he’s had a proper meal. A metal cuff circles his ankle, likely a reminder of the incident his father had so scornfully described.

Wide hazel eyes meet his own piercing green, and the boy cowers back, instinctively shrinking from the strange man. The green-eyed man chuckles, a low, amused sound. “What a frightened little one you are.” He can’t help himself. “Don’t be afraid, young one. I’m going to take such good care of you,” he promises, his tone syrupy sweet. “You’re going to be part of something fantastic, a special little family. A family you’ll come to love…” His smile widens, and his voice drops a pitch. “…and play a part in.”

“But I want to stay with my dad,” the young boy insists, his small hands desperately tugging at his father’s coat. The father grunts, a rough sound that precedes him jerking his arm away from his son, just as the boy is about to latch on again. For a fleeting moment, it seems as though the man will strike him, his fist poised in the air. But then the green-eyed man intervenes, his presence cutting through the tension.

“Your father only wants what’s best for you,” the green-eyed man croons, his gaze flicking briefly to the other man. The father grunts, shoving the wads of cash into his jacket with a swift, jerky motion, his back turned as he creates distance between himself and his son. “He wants you to have shelter, a place to call home, a nice, warm, cozy bed… doesn’t that all sound so lovely?” His voice drips with warmth, a smile curling at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah,” the father huffs, shoving his son towards the green-eyed man. The boy squeaks, barely containing his fear, which earns another amused chuckle from the man—less of a child now, more of a mouse, it seemed. “Go on, runt. Get outta here. Go live a happy, cushy life. Don’t you dare come crawlin’ back, you hear?” The father’s voice hardens, a final threat in his tone. He gives his son one last, cold glare.

The boy shrinks away, eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and desperate hope, his gaze flicking to the green-eyed man. The man chuckles warmly, lifting a hand toward the trembling child and lightly touching the metal cuff around his ankle, inspecting it with a thoughtful expression.

The child tenses, clutching at his torn shirt, his eyes searching his father for any sign of mercy. But all he finds are the cold, indifferent eyes of a man who doesn’t even spare him a glance—only concerned with the money shuffling between his hands.

With a soft whimper, the boy looks back at the green-eyed man, whose gentle nod gives a faint, cruel reassurance. “Yes... you will fit in quite nicely indeed.”

.･｡ﾟ��ﾟ.･｡ﾟ

“Be careful little love, you don’t want to drop it.” With a gentle touch, your father takes the sticky sweet honey bun from your hands. You savour the delicious taste and lick your fingers clean of the sticky honey coating them as you look up at your father. He starts cutting it into smaller pieces for you to eat more easily.

Across the table, your mother sips her cup of tea, watching you with a well known warmth and love in her eyes, her new necklace sparkling like a thousand little stars the moment the gentle sun’s rays touch each perfectly placed gem.

Golden sunlight cascades over your table, painting it in a warm and comforting glow. The air is filled with the sounds of happy families enjoying the perfect Summer's day, their laughter and chatter blending together into a symphony of joy. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime jingles as the wind plays with the cylindrical bells, creating a soft rhythm to sway to.

The warmth of the sun on your cheek warms your heart as much as it does your skin. The mischievous wind rustles through your hair, dancing with your locks, making this moment feel like a dreamy escape from reality. A plate full of cut up pieces of your honey bun is placed in front of you, gently clinking against the metal cafe table.

“Thank you, papa!” You happily say as you return to eating your afternoon treat. Each bite is soft and sweet, leaving your hands sticky and your mouth messy. Your father chuckles softly as he and your mother watch over you.

Today has been nothing short of perfect. Your parents woke up early, both excited to spend the whole day with you. Mama said something about papa’s job—something about taking food to other cities? You didn’t quite get it, but you knew your father had this week off at least! So this was the first time in almost six months that you’d gotten to spend the whole day together as a family.

These moments were like shooting stars; before your eyes one second, then gone the moment you blink. The first stop had been to a local tailor and shoe shop to get papa new, shiny shoes, and for you and mama, new clothes for the cold months. The memory of the tickly measuring tape still fresh in your mind, you gnaw into the pillowy softness of the honey bun. Then, papa had taken you to a toy shop to pick out a new toy. Of course, you had picked a new stuffed bear to cuddle with. One with a big, light blue ribbon.

Lastly, papa had led you and mama to a jeweller, buying the necklace around mama’s neck—a gift that made her kiss and hug him so tight, much to your intrigue. With papa being as busy as he is, it was rare for you to see him, let alone see your parents share any affection.

It was cute.

Icky but cute.

As you devour a piece of fluffy honey bun, your parents talk softly amongst themselves, sharing a smile and discussing plans for the afternoon when suddenly a new sound cuts through the chatter and laughter.

A strange yet fascinating, whimsical melody dances on the air, easily catching your attention. At once, everyone pauses, their gaze shifting toward the trucks slowly rolling down the street.

Several huge, colorful trucks roll carefully down the road, whimsical, playful music playing from their speakers. On the sides of both trucks, you see a logo on a bright background, each letter written in a different font and color, with cute masks in the background that you’ve never seen before. You can read the words, ‘Come one, come all!’ at the bottom, but the larger words are beyond your reading skills.

You turn your head, eyes widening as bright letters fill your field of vision. You blink, pointing up at it as you try to speak to your father, your mouth full of your delicious treat, “Pah-pah! Waz say!”

Chuckling, he moves closer to you, kneeling down carefully, his hand gripping one side of the chair you're sitting on as he warmly speaks to you.

His voice is low but full of love, “Well that big word up there says Masquerade-” He sounds it out for you, trying to teach you how to say the word correctly before he moves onto the next word, “-And the word after that is Circus. So that means it’s a truck for–”

“A circus!!” You excitedly exclaim, almost leaping off your chair. Your father chuckles, moving his hand from the side of your chair to around you, stopping you from giving chase to the truck. “Papa!! I wanna go to the circus!!”

Chuckling, your father keeps embracing you as the trucks drive slowly by, followed by a large luxury RV bringing up the rear, “Well little love, we don’t exactly have the money for the circus this year.”

“Awww.” Your small frame slouches in your chair, disappointment pressing down on you like a ton of bricks, a deep frown pulling at your lips. You look up at your father with wide, pleading eyes. “But I really wanna go, papa!”

He huffs softly, a little apologetic smile tugging at his lips as his hand raises to ruffle your hair. You giggle, the sound soft as he speaks to you in that warm voice of his, “I’m sorry, kiddo. I know you do. But we have to save some money to get all the things you’ll need for kindergarten, remember?”

You pout; you’d been excited to start school in a few weeks but if it was going to stop you from going to the circus, then– “I don’t wanna go to school anymore,” you announce, almost proudly. You reach up, grabbing another piece of honey bun, a happy smile on your face, “So we can go to the circus now, can’t we?”

An amused chuckle escapes papa, his hand messing up your hair further, “Nice try, sweetie. But getting an education for your future is more important than seeing the circus.”

Another whine escapes you, your eyes turning back towards the trucks, disappearing quietly down the street, that alluring melody drawing you in. How desperately you wanted to go. How you dreamt of tasting cotton candy, or seeing clowns or a lion, or what if they had a tiger!

You grin wildly as you imagine all the attractions the circus could possibly have, each one sounding more appealing than the last. As you happily munch away on your honey bun, your parents, along with everyone else around you, resume their conversations. The sight of the circus trucks has caused quite a stir in the plaza. Many children are chattering away eagerly about the circus, many pleading with their parents to take them. Some even seem to have earned the assistance of friends to plead in pairs.

There’s some wails. Some excited cheers and whoops. Even some tantrums. It’s a complete cacophony of voices. You munch peacefully away on your honey bun, eyes lifting up from the plate’s shiny surface to the pillowy clouds in the sky.

All of your thoughts were on the circus. 

You couldn’t help but imagine yourself with brightly colored cotton candy on a stick that was as large and fluffy as one of the clouds drifting over your head. You thought about seeing a real tiger up close; maybe it would even let you pat it! The cats that visited the back garden at night usually let you pet them after some wet food, so a tiger would probably love a pat from you too!

A sweet giggle escapes you as you bite into another piece of honey bun. That’s when your eyes catch sight of something unusual. Or rather… someone.

Standing across the café, panting heavily and slouched over, is a young boy with messy hair as luminous as pale moonlight. His hands—several fingers wrapped in plasters—work quickly in his hair, twisting and turning the strands to create a small braid, too short to even rest on his shoulder.

He’s wearing a short-sleeved cotton shirt, the top buttons undone, his tie hanging half-off, the collar ruffled and messy. His pants are simple black slacks, but what catches your eye is the gold chain dangling from his closed fist, with a strange T charm dangling from it.

You blink, your curiosity piqued, as his eyes slowly lift to meet yours. At once, you’re captivated by them. His right eye glimmers with the vibrant hues of emeralds, as bright as a field of clovers. His left, however, is as clear as a river but crashes with a fierce look of rebellion and determination.

You lock eyes with him, your breath hitching for just a moment. He slowly turns his troubled gaze from yours, suddenly running off. He darts around the corner of the café, disappearing down the alleyway. A moment later, you gasp as an older woman, dressed in a nun’s habit, comes rushing toward the exact spot where the boy once stood, just as your father finally speaks up.

“Let’s go get started on that school list, shall we?” He looks down at you, a warm smile on his face. You blink curiously and glance up. He reaches down, picking you up effortlessly, his voice playful. “I’ll even give you a piggyback ride.”

You squeal, giggling loudly as your father begins walking, purposely bouncing you on his shoulders. You cling on tightly, your mind slowly drifting away from the strange boy you saw as you happily cheer and laugh all the way to the nearest store.

.･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.･｡ﾟ

“Attention! Attention!”

Climbing up onto your bed, you stand proudly. Glow in the dark stars hang above your bed, dotting the ceiling in faint glows of green. Moving your bedside light, you’ve managed to point it at your bed to serve as a rather harsh spotlight, casting a warm glow on the spot you, as the ringmaster, would stand. Although the bright glow does hurt your eyes.

You hold up your toy wizard wand with one hand, causing magical sounds to play from it’s tiny speaker, the other holding up the sparkly dark blue cape your mother hand sewed for you for Hallow’s Eve the previous year. Each gold star hits the warm lamp light, twinkling gently under it. With a big grin, you look down at your gathered plush toys, giggling happily.

“Welcome to my circus!” You announce to your toys, waving your play wand. The chime of a bell and a mystifying ‘ding!’ sound plays next as you wave the plastic toy around, waving it about as you bounce around on your plush mattress. You crouch slightly, tapping the play button on your toy boombox.

A rather shrill sounding rendition of a circus-sounding song begins to play as you parade around your bed, pretending to be the ringmaster putting on a grand show for your beloved toys. You wobble slightly as you crouch, putting your wand down in favour of picking up an old, torn lion toy.

“Behold!” You announce, holding up the plush full of beans, its orange and yellow mane losing hair all over your bed. It’s even missing one of it’s beady black eyes. “The mighty Jack will now do his magic trick!” With that, you hold him up, making the lion do a multitude of flips through the air, before he lands on the back of a small tiger plush full of beads.

“Ta-daa!!” You announce gleefully to your toys. You drop the lion and tiger quickly. You get up, scurrying over to pick up your toy dolls next. One is dressed in a beautiful ballerina outfit, her hair still tied up the way she came in the box. The other two are forced to wear torn clothes your mother sewed for them by hand with fabric from your old baby clothes.

“Now, it’s time for the ack-grow-bats!” You cheer, tossing the trio of dolls into the air, making a dramatic ‘da-da!’ sound as they fly clumsily up–

–Before the trio of dolls thump unceremoniously into the carpet, oblivious to you bouncing up and down on your bed, squealing and clapping with delight, “That was good! Great!! Now it’s time for the magical magician–!” 

You reach over, grabbing your new white bear plush. You wrap the plush’s paw around your wand, making whooshing sounds. Magical sounds play from your wand as you let go of the bear, hopping down to grab your plastic bird toys; a single seagull missing its legs and a pigeon plush.

Tossing them into the air, you gasp, announcing, “The magic magician has made birdies appear from thin air! He’s the most magical magician in the world!!”

Before the ‘circus’ can continue, the bedroom door creaks open. Looking towards the sound, your father chuckles as he steps in, eyes scanning around the room. His deep, gravelly voice fills your ears,  “Oh dear, am I interrupting the show?”

You giggle, rushing towards your father, arms open wide before snapping around his legs like an adorable vice. He chuckles, leaning down to ruffle your hair, as well as click off your boombox, “I’m sorry, little love, but it’s your bedtime.”

“Awww,” you pout. He reaches down, scooping you up into his warm embrace, “Okay papa.” Kissing the top of your head, he holds you in one arm, using his other hand to move your remaining toys off your bed. He pulls your soft blanket back, placing you into bed before you point at your new teddy bear, “Papa, I need my magic magician bear to sleep!”

“Magic…magician…?” He huffs out a laugh at your words. He turns his head, grabbing the fluffy bear and tucking him into bed beside you. He kneels next to your bed as you giggle and squeal, cuddling up to your magician bear, the soft faux fur tickling your nose. “There. Snug as a bug.” His voice is a low, warm rumble as he tucks the soft blanket around you. The smile that’s spread across his face is warm, practically glowing with love for you, his only child, his hand idly tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear as a small sigh escapes him, “Little love…I'm sorry but I have to go away tonight..."

“What?” You whine, sitting up. At once, your good mood is dampened, your lips tugging downwards as your bear drops into your lap. “But you promised you’d be here for the whole week papa.”

His shoulders sag, his hand continuing to twirl some of your hair between his fingers, his gaze not meeting yours, “I know, I know, I haven’t forgotten. But you remember daddy’s friend, Alfie?” His eyes finally meet yours as you nod. He offers a small smile, his voice gentle, “Well, Alfie and his wife are…” He pauses, considering his words, “...Going away to get the new baby they wanted. So I have to go and handle Alfie’s work while he’s away.”

“A baby??” Your eyes sparkle. If it wasn’t for your father gently guiding you to stay sitting, you would’ve gotten up and hopped around the room by now, “Can I meet the baby? Will we be best friends? When are you and mommy going away to get us a new baby??”

A jolly chuckle escapes your father, causing his broad shoulders to shake as he keeps a strong hand ontop of your head, stopping you from bouncing out of bed like a coiled spring and running off to ask your mother the same question, “Easy now, little love. I’ll take you to meet the baby as soon as Alfie says it’s okay.”

He lifts his hand to gently boop you on the nose affectionately, your giggles—delicate as a butterfly's wings—music to his ears. “But only if you’re good for mama while I’m away, okay?”

“I will, papa! I promise!” you exclaim, a smile stretching across your face. With gentle guidance, your father ushers you to lie back down as you babble on, “Can I name the baby? I think it should be a girl, and we should name her Isabella because I think that name is really pretty–”

He doesn’t reprimand you for chattering but tenderly replies, “Little love, Alfie and his wife will name the baby. But I promise to let them know about your name suggestion if they have a girl.” He leans down, kissing your forehead one last time. “For now, rest your little eyes. Tomorrow is going to be another wonderful day.”

Sweetly giggling, you watch your father stand, before he adds, “I love you, little love. I’ll be back home before you know it.”

“I love you more, papa!” You babble a little more as he moves toward the door, switching out your bedside light for the small star string lights hanging on the wall. He dims them, taking a step into the hallway as you add, “I love you more than all the stars! More than mama loves jewelry! More than–!”

He can't help but shake with laughter once more, his deep eyes filled with mirth as he gazes at you one last time. "Alright, alright. You win, little love." He pauses, his smile growing as he looks at your little face, as if committing every detail to memory. He bends down slightly, grabbing a faded brown satchel from beside your door.

"Sweet dreams, my dear."

The door shuts with a soft, gentle click; outside the safety of your warm bedroom, the sky begins to growl.

.･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.･｡

Thunder roars like a dragon overhead, hidden behind the shadow of dark clouds, only briefly illuminated by bright flashes of light. Freezing rain pelts down, drumming thunderously against the tin roofs of homes that could barely afford to patch the leaks. The cobblestone road is slick, filling with puddles faster than usual. His sleek black shoes, usually reserved for Sunday service, splash through puddle after puddle, leaving his pants soaked and weighed down.

He grunts, squirming against the firm grip of his caretaker, her fingers digging into his arm like an iron vice. She drags him down the street, a relentless force that he can’t escape. His feet slip under him, but she’s relentless, her voice a sharp, venomous hiss that cuts through the storm. "Stop struggling! I warned you this would happen if you kept up with your behavior!"

He grunts as she yanks him harder, his short braid flying back from the force of her pull as he almost slips over a particularly slippery spot. His heart pounds in his chest, each beat thudding in his ears louder than the thunder roaring overhead. His breath comes in ragged, short gasps, each step dragging him further down the alleyway, towards the only glowing streetlamp.

Her tone is biting, sharp. Like being snarled at by a rabid dog. “You never even tried to listen to me, did you? Now you’ll learn what happens when you don’t obey the Lord.”

The dark alley looms ahead, darker and more suffocating as they approach. The light from the last streetlamp flickers and dims, casting shadows across paths he once knew as well as the back of his hand in the daylight.

His breath forms in misty clouds as fridgid rain pelts down on his back. His legs shake with every step, every inch of him fighting against the inevitable. He had never believed her threats—never thought for a second they were real.

He always thought she was bluffing; telling him white lies to force obedience, to silence the questions she hated so much. How could he have known her threats were serious?

She had raised him since he was first dumped on the orphanage’s steps as a baby. He had come to her a lost, abandoned boy, and in a way, she had saved him.

Or at least, that’s what she had made him believe. He hadn’t realized her rescue came with strings attached. But now, here she was, the woman who had taken him in, who had sworn to care for him, standing over him with cold eyes—ready to cast him aside.

Nikolai was young, yes—only recently having celebrated his tenth birthday—but even at that age, he had known something wasn’t right. He might have been too young to fully grasp the weight of the decisions she was making, but it had become clear to him that she cared more about his obedience than his well-being.

It had never mattered what he wanted, only what she demanded.

He had hoped—wished—that one day she would come around. That she would understand him, accept him for who he was. But those hopes had been nothing more than a foolish dream, like catching fireflies in a jar and hoping they would become stars.

He had tried. He had tried so hard to be the boy she wanted him to be, the child who obeyed, who prayed without question. But the longer he stayed, the more he realized: this wasn’t home. The orphanage, the church, the faith they tried to force into him—it had all felt like a cage, a place where he had never truly been free to live as he was.

And now, just like his birth parents, they were discarding him. She was discarding him.

Once, he had been her treasure, something she would keep close to her side, always. Whether he was clinging to her apron as she prepared dinner for him and the rest of the children in the orphanage or playing tricks on her to make her laugh.

But now? Now, he was just another lost soul to her, as disposable as anything else in that cold, institutional place.

For all his defiance, Nikolai couldn’t help but search for the woman he had once known—the one who had taken him in when no one else had. The one who had promised to protect him, who had wrapped him in her arms and whispered that she would never leave him, no matter what. Where was that woman now?

Had she ever truly existed? Or had she been a shadow, vanishing the moment he had questioned her beliefs, rejecting the faith she demanded he follow?

His thoughts are interrupted by a sharp, woody scent that cuts through the fresh, musky air around them. His eyes instinctively turn upwards as they round the corner, his heart stalling in his chest for a brief moment caught between fear and curiosity when he meets the man’s gaze.

The stranger’s eyes are an unsettling mix of jade, while black and red feathers cascade down the top and sides of his white-and-gold masquerade mask, giving him the appearance of a feathery lion.

Something about the man felt wrong, like he wasn’t quite real—as if the world itself bent around him, forced to comply with his presence. Nikolai’s breath hitched, his pulse quickening, and yet, there was something almost hypnotic about the man’s gaze, pulling at him despite the warning bells in his mind.

He towers like a giant old oak over both Nikolai and his caretaker, even as he leans on his black wooden cane. His voice is smooth like honey and just as deceptively sweet. “Ah, so good of you to finally arrive, my dear lady.”

Though he addresses the orphanage matron, his gaze never leaves Nikolai's face. He tilts his head and crouches down to the boy’s level, forcing Nikolai to take a step back, his lips curling into a faint sneer.

“My, what unique eyes you have, young boy,” the masked man praises. Instantly, Nikolai bristles, sensing the cold, faux warmth in his voice. He’s heard this tone enough to recognize it. Thunder roars once more as he backsteps, avoiding the masked man’s touch. His slender fingers, once outstretched to touch his cheek, curl inward into a fist.

A faint crack in the mask goes unnoticed by the nun as the man chuckles. “Quite a stubborn boy you are. Fortunately, I was warned about your… attitude.” His tone sharpens for a moment, becoming malevolent.

At last, he stands, cane clicking against the stone as he turns his attention to the nun, his voice regaining its sickly-sweet tone. “But have no worry, madam. We’ll get him back on the right path. With hard work and a strict schedule, he’ll be set back on the right track in no time.”

“You’d better.” Nikolai’s heart pounded as his eyes finally met hers. Her gaze was cold and unwavering, like an iron bar locking him into place. She didn’t have a single regret about what she was doing. The warmth he had once seen in her eyes was gone, replaced with something far harder. She was resolute, like a stone statue, unmoving and unyielding.

Her eyes, once soft and maternal, now held a calculating sharpness. Blue as a glacier, as distant and unfeeling as the ice she resembled.

‘This is for your own good.’

“You’re going to learn how to be a good man, Kolya,” she said, her voice edged with steel as she pushed him forward, hand still gripping his wrist with unnerving firmness. Her fingers tightened, forcing him to take a step toward the masked man.

His shoes slip against the slick cobblestones as he tried to pull away, but her grip only tightened. The sharp breath she took wasn’t a sigh of regret—it was a breath of finality. Annoyance, even. “Stop fighting. Go with the man, now.”

“No, please!” Nikolai gasped, his voice cracking with desperation as his heart raced. Not again...not again... He searched her face for any sign of hesitation, but found none. “I’ll be good! I promise—I’ll go to church without complaining, I’ll clean the orphange top to bottom, I’ll—”

His pleas fell on deaf ears, his words drowned out by the sound of a large, unyielding hand tightening around his wrist. He looked back to the masked man, his heart sinking further. Her grip loosened, and with a cold glance at him, she released him entirely.

She steps back, her face unreadable, but her eyes scanning his face as though committing him to memory. There was no affection in her gaze now, only an emotionless appraisal, as if she were disappointed in him.

“I love you, Nikolai,” she said flatly, the words cold and lifeless. They felt like a sentence more than a sentiment. The man’s hand tightened around his wrist, pulling him further down the silent alleyway, thunder snarling overhead.

Nikolai’s body shook, the terror rising like bile in his throat. “No, please—!” Don't go....don't leave me here....He tries to break free, his body straining against the man’s grip, but it was no use. The strength of the man dwarfed his own.

His caretaker didn’t even flinch as she turned away, her shoes clicking sharply on the wet stones as she hurries back into the darkness, fading into the distance like a puff of smoke. Her back was straight, her pace steady. Her decision is final.

Nikolai cries out for her, his voice breaking in the storm, but the roar of the rain and the crashing thunder above swallowed his cries. The masked man dragged him further away, and with every step, Nikolai’s hope drained away, his heart growing colder with each stride.

She wasn’t coming back.

“Come now, don’t make a scene,” the masked man’s voice borders on mocking beneath that layer of sweetness. He yanks Nikolai with him, dragging him far more easily than the nun had moments ago, “We have places to be and people to see. If you don’t want your first lesson to begin now, I suggest you come along quietly.”

Nikolai growls, spitting rebelliously, “Let me go, you old jerk! I’m not going with you!” The words stick in his throat when the man’s grip tightens. He’s yanked forward, almost off his feet. His heart skipping a beat. Fear grips him—not the sharpness of pain, but the suffocating weight of helplessness.

For a moment, he’s suspended in that silence, his breath shallow, mind racing as he faces the hard reality that he’s no longer in control. The fear is quiet, deep, settling like a stone in his chest.

But then–

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Nikolai’s head jerks toward the gravelly voice, his heart seizing in his chest at the sound of the shout. A man approaches, his broad shoulders cutting through the rain-soaked streets. A faded satchel drops from his shoulder and onto the wet cobblestones.

The stranger’s eyes harden, filling with a dangerous sort of protectiveness that sends a ripple of hope through Nikolai’s chest. For the first time in what feels like forever, someone might actually care enough to intervene. The man’s hands are clenched at his sides, his brow furrowed in a way that makes Nikolai’s heart skip a beat.

The masked man turns slowly, his head tilting with an exaggerated calmness. He clicks his tongue in quiet disapproval, his grip on Nikolai’s wrist tightening slightly. But it’s more of a statement than a reaction. “Ah, forgive me. You know how it is when children don’t listen.” He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

The older man doesn’t flinch. His eyes narrow, locking onto the masked man with a cold, calculating glare. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you let the boy go. Now.” His voice is even, unshaken, as he takes a firm step forward, determined not to let the masked man escape with Nikolai.

For a brief moment, the rain pours louder, almost drowning out the older man’s words, as if the storm itself is trying to wash away the threat in the air. The masked man doesn’t respond immediately—his gaze flickers back to Nikolai, studying something in the boy’s terrified eyes, before shifting back to the older man.

The masked man’s demeanor shifts ever so slightly, his calm breaking just a little, but there’s an unmistakable menace beneath the smoothness of his voice. “You don’t want to get involved,” he warns, his grip on Nikolai’s wrist unyielding. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the older man snaps, his voice cutting through the heavy drumming of the rain. “The moment I turned that corner, it did concern me.” He steps forward, his presence unwavering, the steel in his voice burning with resolve. Nikolai stares up at him, a surge of awe mixing with his fear.

This man—someone he’d never met—was willing to risk everything to stand up for him. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe.

But the masked man’s response is only a humorless smirk, his lips curling with cold amusement. He jerks Nikolai towards him roughly, a sharp cry of pain slipping from the boy as his wrist is twisted. The masked man reefs him around like he's nothing more than a ragdoll in his grasp.

“You, my good sir,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery, “are an incredibly foolish man.” His eyes narrow, locking on the older man with a deadly intent. “This is your last warning. Walk away, before that option is no longer available to you.”

Thunder cracks overhead, as if trying to drown out the tense standoff. Nikolai’s heart pounds in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears. But beneath the fear, something else stirs—something warm, something powerful.

Hope.

The older man’s resolve hardens. There’s no fear in his eyes now, only a steely determination. He steps forward again, unwavering, his posture shifting into one of readiness. He’s not going to back down. He’s not going to let this man hurt the boy.

“I don’t care who you are,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, as he takes another step forward. “Let the boy go.”

A flash of lightning strikes the sky, bright enough to light up the darkened street for a split second, followed immediately by a deafening clap of thunder. Nikolai flinches, shrinking in on himself for a small moment. Only for a moment.

The masked man begins to chuckle softly. Then the sound grows more menacing, his tone darkening, “Oh, you foolish man…” He laughs, a low, sinister sound that sends chills down Nikolai’s spine. Fear clenches at Nikolai’s heart as he raises his gaze just in time to see the cruel look in the masked man’s jade eyes.

“But you can’t say I didn’t give you the option to leave.”

Suddenly, the masked man jerks back, pulling Nikolai with him. His heart leaps into his throat, panic spreading through his chest. He stumbles, his legs failing to catch up with the sudden movement, and the world tilts around him.

He tries to pull free, but the grip around his wrist feels suffocating, like it’s not just holding him in place but trapping him in this moment.

Before he can make sense of it, the older man shouts again, “Hey!! I said, let him go–!!”

The masked man doesn’t even flinch. He subtly shifts his other hand, and Nikolai barely registers the faint hum of a current crackling through the air. The hum intensifies for a moment, and in the blink of an eye, sparks jolt forth from the inside of his coat sleeve, vibrating through the air with a sickening crack.

Nikolai watches, his jaw dropping open as the older man, his saviour, jerks back violently, his body seizing up. His muscles lock up, as if he’d been struck by an invisible force. His eyes go wide, twitching a few times, his mouth open in a silent cry, but not a single sound escapes him. Only a few strained breaths, judging by the frantic rise and fall of his chest.

That sickening crackling sound fills the air for a few moments more, before with a strangled breath, the man stumbles backwards, twitching violently before collapsing to the ground with a sickening thud. His body spasms for a few moments more, before going still.

All of a sudden, the world seems to stop. Nikolai becomes acutely aware of his heart pumping in his chest, each beat seeming slower than the last. His multicolored eyes are wide, staring in horror at the man’s hollow, lifeless eyes as he lays sprawled on the wet pavement, rain continuing to pour down around him.

There’s no trace of blood. No sign of physical injury.

Just a man who suddenly dropped dead, as if his soul had been torn from his body in a heartbeat.

The masked man stands unmoved, as though nothing has changed. His posture is calm, almost eerily so, and his eyes hold no emotion—cold and distant, as if nothing of significance has happened. He turns away from the lifeless form of the older man, pulling Nikolai along with him as if the moment means nothing at all.

Nikolai’s breath catches in his throat, his mind racing to understand what he just witnessed. His stomach churns, a heavy weight settling in the pit of his gut. He’s numb, the world around him feeling unreal, as though he’s caught in a nightmare he can’t wake up from.

“You see,” he says, voice low but steady, “Sometimes, death is closer than you think. Take this as your first and last warning, child.”

Nikolai’s chest tightens with a mix of disbelief and terror. He’s not sure what just happened. His mind can’t even begin to comprehend it. The way the masked man moves—unbothered, unfazed—suggests he’s been here before, that this is nothing new to him.

It begins to sink in: Maybe Nikolai isn’t the only one in this world with a special power. And now, he’s standing before someone who can take life as easily as a flick of the wrist. .･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.･｡

Your family home had never felt this quiet before.

You shuffle quietly across the family room, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet. The walls are adorned with framed photos—moments frozen in time.

There’s one of you as a newborn, cradled gently in your mother’s arms, and another from your parents’ wedding day, their young faces glowing with happiness. A picture of them as teenagers hangs beside it, captured in a carefree moment that feels distant now.

The cuckoo clock - an anniversary gift from your father to your mother- ticks methodically, the green and yellow budgie perched inside the little brown house, patiently waiting for its cue to pop out and sing. The room hums with the quiet rhythm of the clock, adding to the stillness that weighs heavy in the air.

The fireplace crackles softly as one of your father’s co-workers adds more logs to the fire, the flames licking at the iron poker with a quiet hiss. You watch, your fingers wrapped around the edges of a white paper plate, on which a few snacks lie untouched, as if the warmth from the fire is failing to reach you. You can smell the smoky wood and the faint, lingering scent of your father’s favorite cologne, but it doesn’t quite settle the unease in your chest.

Besides mama moving to hand you the plate, everyone was so still. Like everyone was playing musical statues, waiting for the music to resume. Mama, papa’s co-workers…everyone looked so sad. Mama couldn’t seem to stop sobbing and wailing into the handkerchief papa had said he’d given her when they were younger.

You couldn’t understand why everyone was so upset.

Placing the paper plate on your wooden chair, you shuffle towards the window in the living room, peeking out of the window at the quiet street outside. You hoped papa would be home soon; he was good at making mama smile. You pause by the window for a few moments more, watching the stillness of the street outside. A couple of blackbirds flutter by, and for a moment, it almost feels like any other day. But when you glance back at mama, her sobs growing louder, you feel something cold grip your chest. Why couldn’t she stop crying? Why didn’t she look like herself anymore? Everything felt so… wrong.

You notice the way mama is almost crumbling in on herself like a scrunched up piece of paper as one of papa's co-workers rubs her back, murmuring words to her in a strained voice. Maybe you didn’t have time to wait for papa’s return. You couldn’t let your mama keep crying like this.

Turning towards the hallway, you scamper unnoticed to your room. You walk towards one of the Christmas gifts your parents had gotten you the year prior; your beloved sketchbook and your coloring crayons.

They were almost stubs at this point, worn down from so much use, but you didn’t mind. You liked how they felt in your hand, how the tips were smooth and curved from being pressed into paper so many times and the waxy smell they left on your hands.

Flipping through the pages of your favorite drawings—some drawn by you, others by your papa, who loved to draw with you—you find a nice, clean page to begin drawing on. But what would make mama happy? You hum, laying on her stomach with your feet kicking up in the air. You tap the page with your favorite colored crayon, thinking for a few seconds.

You knew mama loved flowers. That’s easy. You’d seen her pick them from the garden all the time, always so careful, as if they might break in her hands. You add big, colorful blooms—daisies, tulips, and roses were the ones your mama had taught you about—with their petals way too big and the stems way too thin, like they could be knocked over with a breath. You add bright purple ones because you remember her face lighting up whenever she saw that color.

She also loved the stray cats that would show up in the garden. She seemed overjoyed when one showed up with kittens last week! They always seemed to find her when she was sitting outside, sipping tea.

Oh, and she liked dogs too! But not the big ones—she liked the little ones that would follow her around, wagging their tails. So, you draw a couple of big-eyed, fluffy cats, their tails flicking playfully at a scruffy little dog with a big tongue. They don’t quite look like the ones in real life, but they’re the happiest animals you can imagine.

Not to mention pretty jewelry! You remember how mama would always twirl the sparkly necklaces papa gave her. You thought they looked like stars strung up on strings around her neck. So, you draw a necklace, but instead of one, you draw three, stacked on top of each other in bold colors. They shimmer with exaggerated circles around them, because they’re not just pretty— they're the most beautiful things in the world, right?

The sound of your crayons scratching against the paper fills your ears, mixing with the soft hum you make as you draw. You can almost feel the warmth of the sun as you draw your favorite parts of the world—flowers, animals, and bright jewels. Everything feels bright and safe.

But there was one thing you couldn’t forget to add.

In the middle of the page, you draw your mama first, careful to add her long dress, flowing and too wide for the paper. You give her a big, wide smile, with her eyes drawn as little upside down U’s from the happiness she always had. You make her look like she’s laughing, with a big smile, because when she laughs, the whole room feels lighter.

Next to her, you draw your papa, with his hair a bit too big and his jacket a little too round at the shoulders. He’s holding more jewelry in one hand, but the way you draw it, it looks like it’s sparkling even though it’s not real. With his other hand, he’s holding mama’s, and you make sure their fingers are all tangled up together, just like how they always held hands at dinner.

And at last, you add yourself between them, with your arms up high as if you’re trying to reach the sky. Your smile is the biggest of all, stretching almost off the page, because you want them to see just how happy you are. The joy you feel in your heart is so big, it’s hard to fit it all into the picture.

Sweet giggles escape you as you scratch the last details onto the page, your crayons clicking together as you carefully press them against the paper. Once you're done, you sit up on your knees, hands on your hips, and stare down at the picture with wide, satisfied eyes.

It was the best picture you’d ever drawn, no doubt about it. You couldn’t help but grin, proud of your work. It had everything in it—the flowers, the animals, the shiny jewelry—and, most importantly, mama and papa. This was it.

You tilt your head thoughtfully, tapping your chin with one finger, trying to remember the word. You’d heard it before. What was it? Ah, yes.

With a giggle, you exclaim, “It’s my mister piece!” You nod confidently, pleased with your cleverness. “My mister piece.”

You don’t notice how the word isn’t quite right, or how wide your smile is as you beam at the picture. To you, it’s perfect, and that’s all that matters. It’s your misterpiece, your very best, and you know mama will love it.

Giggling with elation, you pick up your sketchbook, your feet thumping loudly as you run out of your room and down the hall.

The excitement bubbles inside you, and your bright smile feels like the biggest, most important thing in the world. Your heart races as you rush toward the kitchen, where mama and papa's co-worker are talking quietly, the low murmur of their voices almost swallowed by the sound of your hurried footsteps.

Your mother’s voice catches in your ear, heavy and strained with pain. “--I don’t know how I’m supposed to--”

“Mama! Mama!!” You cry out excitedly, your voice bright with the thrill of sharing your creation. You stop right between her and the stranger, nearly knocking over a chair. Papa's co-worker looks down at you with a sad smile, his round glasses reflecting the dim light. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already bouncing on your toes, too excited to listen.

You shove your sketchbook into your mother’s hands with both of yours, practically vibrating with excitement. “I made this ‘specially for you!” You squeal, bouncing up and down like an excited rabbit. Your eyes twinkle with joy as you watch your mother’s face—

Fall. Her brows dip lower, her lips quirk downwards sharply, the corners twitching as her eyes shimmer, filling with unshed tears. You stop bouncing. In that moment, it feels as though all the joy in your body has evaporated, replaced by a heavy, hollow uncertainty.

It feels like a hand is grasping at your heart as you whisper,  “Mama…? Do you not like it…?” Her sharp intake of breath makes you jolt. You gaze up at her, your stomach churning as though millions of worms are squirming inside, twisting and turning, making you feel nauseous. Her eyes lock onto you, tears streaming down her cheeks, her lip trembling as she stares.

Then, with a sudden, violent motion, she throws your sketchbook onto the floor. The loud thump echoes through the room, and the silence that follows feels suffocating.

“Is this some kind of joke....?” She spits the words at you, her voice laced with bitter pain. Your hands instinctively move to cover your ears, but it does nothing to muffle her harsh, twisting tone. She steps toward you, the heel of her shoe scraping against the floor as if to punctuate each word. “Are you trying to make me angry...?!”

Your voice is barely a whisper, trembling in your throat, “Mama…”

“Don’t speak back to me!” Her scream rips through the air, sharp and biting, and it sends a shudder of fear through you. Papa's co-worker, who had been standing nearby, steps forward, reaching for her shoulder to pull her back, but she shrugs him off with a dismissive force.

Tears sting at your eyes as you look up at her, towering over you, her face twisted with a mix of fury and anguish.

“That’s your daughter!” His voice cracks, trembling with desperation. He steps closer, his hands shaking but still trying to reason with her. “She doesn’t understand what’s going on—”

“How can she not?!” Your mother’s shriek cuts through the air, a sound of raw agony. She spins to face him, swatting his hand away as she gets in his face, eyes blazing with pain and rage. “Her father is dead. My husband is dead! How can she not know that?!”

Dead...? Like the little kitten the mama cat had brought? The one your mother had said "wouldn't move again"?

“Papa... is dead?”

The words feel heavy as they leave your mouth, hollow and distant in your own skull, as if you're not even saying them, but just hearing them from somewhere far away. The adults around you don’t notice the shift, too wrapped up in your mother's emotional outburst to hear the quiet devastation building within you.

Her screams, her sobs—the sharp, pained sounds that fill the room—are all you can focus on, and they seem to drown out the world around you.

Your mother crumbles, her body folding like a ragdoll as she collapses to the floor, her wails echoing through the room, but it all feels distant, as though you're looking at it from behind glass. The weight of the word dead settles in your chest, suffocating you as you stand frozen in the midst of it all.

He’s….dead….? .･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.･｡ Night falls quickly, as though the sun itself were mourning the loss of your father too. You were sent to bed early tonight, your mother too exhausted and broken to care for you. Since her outburst, one of papa's co-workers - a nice older lady- had been your guardian for the afternoon. She’d flipped through your sketchbook with you, chuckling softly at the drawings your papa had made, telling you stories about your papa to ease the ache in your heart.

She said your father always called you his precious gift and that now, he would be watching over you from above. You liked that idea, imagining papa in the stars, cuddling fluffy clouds. He’d like that. Maybe, just maybe, he’d let you visit him there one day.

After making sure you ate a small meal, she tucked you in, your favorite fluffy bear tucked tightly under your arm. The bedroom door was left cracked open just enough to let a sliver of light from the hallway spill into the room. It wasn’t like you could sleep anyway.

Your small hands trace the picture you’d drawn earlier that day, the crayon-drawn lines still bright despite the dim light. The image of papa, with his gentle smile, feels like an anchor—something to hold on to in the midst of the swirling, empty silence that now fills your room. You trace his round face, caressing the rough stubble on his chin, as though you could still feel it scratching your forehead like it did when he kissed it…

You trace his face over and over, each pass harder than the last, as if willing him back into your life. You can almost hear him saying what he always would, his voice soft and warm, “Oh, wow.” He’d point at himself with a big, goofy grin. “This handsome man looks just like me. My, you’re so talented, my little love.”

Your hands shake, and you raise the sketchbook to your chest, clutching it tight as if somehow, its pages could bring him back. You wish, you wish with all your might that he would come back, that your mother would stop crying, that everything could go back to how it was before…

But the book doesn’t hug you back. It doesn’t open and reveal your father standing in the doorway, laughing and apologizing for making you both so upset.

You let out a heavy sigh, the tears you thought had run dry beginning to gather in your eyes once more. You pull the sketchbook away from your chest, gazing down at the crayon masterpiece. Your fingertips hover above the page, tracing the flowers surrounding you and your parents, each petal and stem slowly coming into focus as the soft sound of crayon against paper fills your ears.

You can feel the scratches of the paper beneath your fingertips, the scent of wax faintly lingering on the page. You trace the stem of a red rose you’d drawn, slowly, almost absentmindedly, as the sound of crayon on paper grows louder. You frown, confusion knitting your brows. There was no one in your room. You weren’t drawing anymore.

The sound of the crayon scratching against the paper continues, and a shiver runs down your spine. You stop, your breath catching. You glance down at the rose you were tracing. It—was it—glowing?

You blink, slowly, trying to process what you’re seeing. The soft light flickers faintly, and you press your hand over the glowing flower. The light intensifies in response, brightening rapidly, and the paper beneath your palm begins to vibrate. It shakes so violently that you almost think the page will tear.

Then the light flashes bright, so blinding that you have to squeeze your eyes shut.

When it fades, you blink several times, clearing your vision, and there it is…

A crayon-drawn rose, exactly as you had drawn it, now lying atop the page. You gasp, staring at it, wide-eyed, as awe floods through you. How? What? When…?

Hesitantly, your hand inches toward it. You reach out, fingers brushing against the rose’s crinkled petals, half-expecting it to crumble. Instead, it sways softly with the breeze from your ceiling fan.

The delicate flower, despite being drawn in rough, jagged lines seems…real. In your palm, it feels fragile, thin. You could crush it between your hands if you wanted to. Would it crinkle like paper? Or would the thorns you drew cut your palms, like the real thing?

Could it be… magic? Did that mean it was…your magic?

You slowly twirl the flower between your fingers, the soft, crinkling sound echoing in the stillness of your room. Your eyes drift back to your sketchbook, landing on the unevenly drawn chubby cats, the leaping dogs...

The smiling face of your father.

You reach out with your free hand, tracing the jagged lines that form the shape of one of the cats. A spotted one. Your fingertips glide along its ears, then down its cheeks, gently following the lengthy whiskers you’d drawn, along the curve of its rounded body, and tracing the swirl of its long tail.

Once more, the paper begins to glow softly. You focus even harder on the cat, every movement deliberate as you follow the lines with careful precision.

A strange pull tugs at you, an instinctive feeling that you need to do something more, so you pull your hand back, hovering just above the page. You watch, mesmerized, as the glow intensifies.

The paper shakes violently beneath your hovering fingers, the sound of crayon on paper filling your ears as the glow blazes brighter.

Suddenly, you squeeze your eyes shut, flinching back as the flash becomes blinding, far brighter than before. The burst of light lasts a few seconds, leaving your senses tingling. When you finally open your eyes again, you’re met with a soft, inquisitive “mreow?”

Sitting on top of your sketchbook is the scribbled cat, its paper tail flicking side to side as though it’s alive. The green scratchy dots that form its eyes stare up at you, and before you can even react, it steps forward. Its tiny paper paws press gently against your leg, and it leans up, rubbing its paper head against your cheek.

It…it worked again… You did it.

You made it real...! With an excited squeal, you scoop up the paper cat, holding it close in your arms. Even though it’s made from paper, you can feel its weight, the softness of it in your embrace. It doesn’t crinkle when you hold it tight, though the sound still reaches your ears as it mewls and purrs, its scribbled head bumping against your cheek.

“I’m magical!!” you shout, your wide smile bursting across your face. You jump out of bed, resisting the urge to spin in circles from joy. “I’m magic!! I made you real, kitty!!” You gaze down at the unblinking feline as it meows again, its paper paws pawing at your arm. You pat its head, the crinkling sound filling the room.

Your voice softens, the excitement tapering into a more thoughtful tone. “If I made you real, kitty... do you think that means... I could make papa—”

The words die on your lips as the bedroom door creaks open.

Your mother’s voice, strained and hoarse from crying all day, reaches your ears first. “Darling, you’re supposed to be in—”

The moment her eyes land on you, on the paper cat in your arms, her gaze locks onto you. Her breath catches, her voice dying in her throat as time seems to freeze. Your heart clenches, and your smile falters. You hold the paper cat a little tighter, then hesitate for just a moment, before remembering your plan.

“Mama, look!” You exclaim, lifting the cat high for her to see. “I’m magic, mama! I made the kitty on my page become real!!” Your smile returns, growing wider as your excitement bubbles up again. “I made a flower real too, mama! I can make things real!!”

Your mother stands frozen, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. You giggle to yourself—she just needs a moment, right? She’ll understand soon, and then she’ll be grinning, scooping you up, praising you for being so special. She’ll be happy, like you are.

You keep going, unable to contain the rush of joy building in you. “So I’m gonna draw papa and make him real again!” you announce with all the confidence of a child who believes anything is possible.

But then, you notice it—the slight shift in your mother’s expression. Her eyes twitch, her lips quiver as they twist into something else entirely. Her face doesn’t soften into joy like you expected.

No. Her face hardens, her eyes narrowing. The joy that had been filling your chest quickly fades, replaced by a wave of dread. You clutch the paper cat tighter, your voice barely a whisper, “Mama? Do you like my idea?”

Her silence is suffocating. Then, her gaze sharpens, and the shift in her expression is swift, almost too fast for you to catch. Your heart sinks as she speaks, her words dark and heavy, “No. Your father is gone. And nothing you do will bring him back.”

You flinch, taking an unsteady step back, your hands trembling. She storms past you, heading straight for the sketchbook on your bed. The weight of her words crashes into you, but you can't stop yourself from following her, calling out, “Mama, no!”

But it’s too late.

She snatches the sketchbook, ripping it down the middle with a violent motion. You watch in horror, frozen, as she tears through the pages—each one a precious memory. The ones you drew. The ones your father drew. The first picture in the book. The last one you had made for her.

It’s only then that you realize how much you’re crying. The tears fall quickly, hot on your cheeks, as each shredded page feels like a piece of your heart being torn away. The paper cat and the flower you had made with your magic—the things that meant the world to you—disappear in a flurry of small, scattered pieces on the floor.

You fall to your knees, sobbing uncontrollably, your hands pressed to your face as you curl into yourself. Your mother’s voice cuts through your anguish. “No more drawing. You are banned from ever drawing again in this house. Do you understand me?”

You can’t stop the sobs, each one leaving you weaker. You lift your tear-streaked face to her, your eyes full of confusion and hurt. She stands in the doorway, cold and unyielding, as if daring you to argue. You barely manage to whisper, “But—”

“No buts,” she interrupts, her voice a harsh command as she turns to leave. “If I see you drawing anything, anything at all, there will be consequences. Have I made myself clear?”

You can't answer. You're crumpled on the floor, lost in a storm of sobs. She doesn’t even look back, slamming the door behind her with a finality that echoes in the silence. The faint glow of the stars on your ceiling is the only light you have now.

You aren’t sure how long you stay crumpled against your knees, sobbing and wailing, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The fabric of your pajama pants clings to your skin, damp from your tears. You can’t bring yourself to move. The world feels distant, like you’re trapped in a fog, and every breath feels too heavy to take.

You don’t even realize right away that your tears have stopped flowing. Only when your hiccups become slower, more ragged, do you notice the silence that has settled around you. Your body is exhausted, spent, but still, you can't stop the shuddering breaths that shake you every few seconds. Your hands instinctively reach out, feeling for the shattered pieces of the paper cat you once held so dearly. The fragments are scattered across the carpet, each one a cruel reminder of your mother’s anger. You trace the edges of the torn paper with trembling fingers, as if somehow the magic might return if you just hold onto it long enough. Her words echo in your mind, cold and unforgiving. ‘No more drawing.’

An icy chill runs through your veins, your heart aching heavily in your chest. Your palms press against your tear-stained eyes, trying to erase the image of her fury, her anger, and disgust from your mind. To erase the memory of another precious thing you’ve lost today as the weight of her words makes your heart feel like it’s full of stones.

In the dark, stillness of your room, you can feel something trying to spark in your chest, despite the heavy ache within. It tries to ignite, to re-spark itself into a flame; the flame of hope. Of determination. It’s weak, but it’s there, faintly flickering like a weak heartbeat, as though pleading with you to not give up.

But what could you do? Your mother had shredded your sketchbook, forbade you from ever drawing again at the risk of punishment. You had never disobeyed your parents before; yet that weak spark in your chest begs you not to let go completely. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to draw for a while. Maybe not even until you were an adult.

But you couldn’t let your magic die. That’s what the spark was telling you.

Maybe someday, someone would see the beauty in your magic. Someone would smile and praise you. Maybe they’d even ask you to draw something for them and bring it to life. You sniffle, almost smiling as you imagine using your powers to put on shows for crowds. Maybe that would make the ringmaster of the circus hire you when you were bigger.

You smile a broken, soft little smile, rubbing your teary eyes with your palms.

Yeah…maybe someday....

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Circus divider by me (❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ Red divider by @/firefly-graphics

[flurry-of-stars]

𝔖𝔨𝔢𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔉𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔬𝔪 - 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜

����𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖎𝖚𝖒 ⋆｡°✩ 

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The Masquerade Circus

You never expected the place that once filled your dreams with joy and excitement to bring you so much pain. Once, you longed to be part of the performance—to be revered as a star, to dazzle the audience, and bring even just a shred of laughter to anyone who needed it. You should’ve been more careful about what you wished for on shooting stars and clover leaves.

Were it not for Nikolai and the rest of the circus troupe, your life would be unbearable.

With the crackling fire of rebellion in his heart and a thirst for freedom, Nikolai is determined to prove that forever has an expiration date and that the strings controlling him—and everyone he cares for—are as fragile as the cage holding them.

But change always begins with a single, uncertain step into the unknown. The question is…are you brave enough to take it, or will you allow fear to keep you a marionette forever?

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

⋆｡°✩ 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆𝔐𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔠𝔟𝔬𝔵⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝕹𝖎𝖐𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖎 𝕲𝖔𝖌𝖔𝖑 𝖝 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖓'𝖘 𝕬𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 ⋆｡°✩

⚠️ Dead Dove; Do Not Eat ⚠️

Multipart fic, Abilities AU, Dark Circus AU, found family, hurt/comfort romance subplot.

Content warnings: Child exploitation, manipulative behavior, violence, blood and wounds, misuse of power, child abuse, animal abuse/cruelty.

This story contains themes of suicide and self-harm.

Warnings and tags will be given at the start of each chapter. Please read them. If this fic is not to your taste, please do not read it. Future tags may be added if needed.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢: 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝓒𝓪𝓷𝓿𝓪𝓼

𝔒𝔫𝔢

𝔗��𝔬

𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢

𝔉𝔬𝔲𝔯

𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢

⋆｡°✩ 𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘 ⋆｡°✩ I STARTED THIS IN JUNE OF 2024 AKSSKSKDD. I was not expecting this to become another multichapter fic. I wanted this to be like a silly little two part thing, but here we are again. I just started having new ideas and new scenes and the characters started getting fleshed out and just...I had to make it a multichap fic. I have no idea how long this will be so bear with me. This one I plan to be much slower uploading. It'll be a little side project to work on when I feel up to it. My original inspiration was the song and music video Itaino Itaino Tondeike by Tooboe. It was the very first inspiration for this fic. And since I did take such a long break from writing it due to life, alot of other things have added to my original inspiration and helped develop it into what it's become (❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ This story has honestly changed so much over the course of almost a year. I'm so excited to finally be sharing it. It literally devours my brain when I can't find the energy to be creative. I hope you all enjoy it!

⋆｡°✩ 𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖎𝖘: In progress~ ⋆｡°✩

© 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦-2025 Circus themed banners by @/dollywons Red dividers by @/cyberbeat

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩

𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩

Fluff.

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.1k 𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 *сонечко- Little Sun

“You truly are a remarkable assistant. Simply amazing.”

Nikolai’s voice is smooth as velvet, with the charm of a warm fireplace in Winter. He had a voice that could draw people in like a siren's song. From the kitchen, Fyodor could practically visualise the familiar gestures he was making while speaking.

The grand gestures, the elegant swoops of his hands...

Knowing him, he’s likely touching your shoulders and arms here and there too…Fyodor stirs the porridge a little faster as it bubbles and boils.

Yet beneath his charming voice, something about his rambunctious friend's tone causes Fyodor’s jaw to tighten. He shifts uncomfortably as he listens from the kitchen, wooden spoon scraping gently against the sides of the saucepan.

Nearby, Tolstoy lays across the kitchen table, head tilted and ears directed down the hallway. He's gazing down the hall, the tip of his tail twitching faintly, his eyes half closed.

A small huff of amusement escapes Fyodor; it’s as though even the cat knows what's going on too. That small flicker of humour dissipates faster than a flame being doused with a bucket of water as Nikolai’s voice reaches his ears. 

“Back when I was an author, I saw seasoned professionals crumble under less pressure than this. But you—” Nikolai’s voice escalates, changing from charming to flirtation. “—handle it with grace.”

“And with that wrist of yours on top of it—” Fyodor can almost picture Nikolai reaching out to touch your hand, gently caressing the soft beige bandage. He imagines him kissing your hand, his large hand enveloping your smaller one. Suddenly, it feels hard for Fyodor to breathe. “—You are an inspiration to us all. We could all learn to be harder workers from you. You, my dear, are one of a kind.”

He hears the flustered stammer in your voice, the tap of your ankle boots echoing like distant thunder against the floorboards; it’s a rhythm of retreat, each step a hesitant heartbeat, pulling you away from him as if the very air between you has thickened.

Nikolai definitely kissed your hand. “Ah…I’m just doing my job as Mr. Dostoyevsky's assistant,” you insist, tone trembling. Fyodor is quick to assume you’re not used to interactions like this. “I take my job seriously since I want his book to succeed, is all....”

A brief flare of pride ignites in Fyodor’s chest, only to be swiftly extinguished once more by Nikolai’s next words: “There’s no need to be so modest! You, my darling, are a true gem in the literary world. And so early into your career! Perhaps I should start calling you the muse of Mr. Dostoyevsky himself~ After all, every great writer needs one, don’t you think?”

“Except,” he continues, his tone shifting. Fyodor frowns, straining to catch his old friend’s flirtatious murmur as it softens to a near seductive purr that causes his lip to curl into a deep, displeased frown, “Maybe you’d prefer to be my muse instead~? Perhaps you’re just what I need to be…inspired to write again~”

Suddenly, the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. He swallows roughly, his throat parched and his chest tightening as he grips his wooden spoon tightly. Before he even realises it, Fyodor's opened his mouth and called out for you, his tone firm, “Огонёк. I require your assistance in the kitchen. Now.”

He barely hears your murmured apology, but the swift pace of your footsteps echoes in the silence. His gaze drags across the countertops to take in your appearance—your rosy cheeks, the way you struggle to hold his gaze while your hands fidget nervously with the fabric of your skirt.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, as if caught on the rough waves at sea.

“Bowls,” Fyodor replies, forcing himself to look away from you. The longer he stares, the more queasy he feels. “Please.” He adds, the wooden spoon circling the pot, his hand never pausing in stirring the thick, bubbling porridge. Swiftly, he removes it from the heat, shutting the stovetop off.

“Y-yes, of course..!” you stammer. Your flustered response makes his throat constrict. He feels a faint breeze as you rush behind him, grabbing a trio of porcelain bowls from the cupboard. He clears his throat and turns his dark eyes in your direction.

“Just two, Огонёк,” he remarks, watching as you look up at him in surprise. “I was not expecting Nikolai’s presence this evening, so there isn’t enough for three.” He notes the slight relaxation in your face, before he watches your lips tug downwards.

“But what’s he going to eat? We should at least serve him something.” Your insistence makes his shoulders tense. Even his own upbringing taught him not to let a visitor go hungry. His hand hesitates in its stirring as you place the bowls on the countertop.

He could think of a few of the meals you'd both prepared for the week that Nikolai may enjoy that you wouldn't. He had begun to learn your tastes this week especially, so he has a pretty good idea of what could be served to Nikolai.

As he begins portioning the food, Nikolai’s mischievous voice wafts in from the hallway.

“Your assistant and I could share a bowl,” he suggests deviously. Though deep down he knows his old friend is teasing, Fyodor feels his chest clenching tightly again, his gaze never wavering from the porridge he’s serving. The gentle tap of Nikolai’s footsteps approaching makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his chest seeming to tighten further. 

Nikolai adds, his voice growing more flirtatious once more, “Maybe you can even feed me a few spoonfuls, Огонёк~” The moment he tries to walk past him to get closer to you again, Fyodor holds out his wooden spoon like a barrier, making sure not to splatter porridge across the kitchen.

“Only I can call her that,” Fyodor states, his dark eyes finally lifting to meet the playfully charming gaze of his best friend. Nikolai holds his hands up in mock surrender, his charming smile turning into a devilish smirk. He steps back, his voice sounding as cheerful as ever. 

“Oh, my apologies! I didn’t know, Fedya!” Nikolai replies, his voice as devious as ever. As Fyodor turns his attention away from his old friend to watch you organise the table, Nikolai steps passed him, adding, “Do you need some help setting the table, сонечко~?” 

For a brief moment, something ignites in Fyodor’s chest. He’s tempted to smack Nikolai in the back of the head with his wooden spoon. Just a little bop, nothing too bad--

Goodness… over their three decades of friendship, Nikolai has gotten under his skin countless times, but he’s never felt the urge to strike him like this…

The earlier argument he had with you must be why he’s still so agitated.

Shaking his head briskly, he dispels the odd thought and focuses on filling the now-empty saucepan with water, tossing the wooden spoon in alongside it. As you set the table, he hears you reply, “Oh no, I can handle it. Thank you though, Mr. Gogol—”

“Just Nikolai is fine, dollface.” Fyodor turns his gaze as Nikolai continues, “Although, I’d much prefer if you called me Kolya~” As his gaze lingers on you, Fyodor notices the small smile blooming on your face as you pick up Tolstoy, your hand idly caressing his fluffy head.

“I’m sorry, but you’re my senior in the writing world,” you respond kindly as you continue scratching behind the cat’s ear. The corners of Fyodor’s lips tug upwards into a smirk as he scatters defrosted berries across your bowl of porridge. “It would be disrespectful to call you by your first name.”

“Come on, сонечко. I insist! After all you’re friends with Fedya, right? Any friend of his is a friend of mine, so there’s no need for all this last name business!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Gogol, but I just can’t–” 

Before Nikolai can whine again, Fyodor interrupts, “You are not making a good first impression on my assistant, Kolya.” He smirks at his friend as he places your bowl of porridge down first, adding a drizzle of honey on top. “Do not force her to call you by your first name. And besides—”

He sets his own bowl down, crossing his arms. “You still have not told me what you are doing here. The convention isn’t for another five days. Vivian told me that you and the others would be arriving as a group the evening before the convention.”

Nikolai’s flirty smile shifts into a mischievously devilish grin. Like a cat that's about to do something devious. He rocks on his feet, speaking in a carefree, warm tone, “Can’t I just show up early to surprise my bestie?” His voice takes on a mockingly hurt tone. “And here I thought you’d missed me this past year…woe is me, unloved by my best friend. I might just shed a tear…”

Fyodor scoffs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There’s always a reason for your actions.” As he takes his seat across from you, he eyes Nikolai suspiciously as he settles into the chair closest to you.

He watches as Tolstoy leaps out of your arms, the feline disappearing into Fyodor’s bedroom. Feeling his jaw tighten, he picks up his spoon and digs it into his porridge, idly stirring it. “So?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Nikolai holds up his hands in feigned defeat. “Alright, alright, you caught me! I was supposed to arrive here in four days.” He leans back, hands behind his head. “But a..shall we say, opportunity presented itself that allowed me to be here early.”

Mid-scoop, Fyodor pauses, narrowing his dark eyes at Nikolai’s carefree expression. Silence stretches before he lets out a heavy sigh. “You stole Ivan’s ticket again, didn’t you?”

Nikolai’s lips curl into a barely concealed smirk, the kind only Fyodor would recognize. “Ivan’s ticket, my ticket—really, who’s to say whose it was? What matters is…first class is cushy, especially when you’re not the one paying for it!”

Fyodor can’t help the amused smirk that rises on his face. “I always knew those hacking techniques our old technology teacher showed us would come in handy in one way or another.” He grabs the honey, giving himself a smaller drizzle as he mumbles, “Imagine what else he could've taught us if we kept praising him--”

“You two have really been friends for that long?” Your voice snaps Fyodor out of his small moment of banter with his old friend. Placing the honey back down on the table, he casts his gaze toward you, noticing the curiosity lighting up your face. 

“Oh yes, yes!” Nikolai speaks up before Fyodor can even think about replying. He casts his gaze towards him, noticing just how eager he is to talk about their past. “We’ve known each other since…” He looks at Fyodor, pursing his lips together. Holding his hands up, he mumbles, fingers twitching as he counts the years.

A low chuckle escapes Fyodor. “Since we were very small.” His voice softens as he turns his eyes on you. The way your eyes twinkle with curiosity is captivating, and he can’t bring himself to look away. “Kolya was visiting the area on vacation right before Winter one year—”

“—When I swear I saw this huge bird! It was one I'd never seen before! ” Nikolai interjects, his excitement as palpable as the day their paths first crossed. Fyodor’s shoulders slump slightly as your sparkling eyes turn in Nikolai’s direction. “So, like anyone else would, I ran after it! And I’m glad I did. This place always becomes so beautiful in Autumn…”

Nikolai turns his multicolored gaze toward Fyodor, grinning widely. His eyes are vibrant and alive, burning with the memory of that fateful day. Fyodor can practically see it playing over in the colourful hues of his eyes. “I lost sight of the bird but Fyodor here just so happened to be outside!"

"Well, I say he was outside," Nikolai adds, gently nudging Fyodor with his elbow as he smirks at him, "But really, he was huddled by the front door of this place reading a book!" He raises an eyebrow at Fyodor, as if saying 'what was up with that?'

"I was told to spend time outside," Fyodor nonchalantly replies, shrugging. "I was not told I couldn't take my book with me." Nikolai scoffs, rolling his eyes in response. You, on the other hand, giggle in amusement. Fyodor's dark eyes turn towards yours, gazing into your soft eyes, twinkling with mirth.

"That sounds exactly like something you'd do," you jest back, grinning at him. "You'd be the type to read at an amusement park instead of enjoying the rides."

Nikolai cackles softly, giving Fyodor another playful nudge, "I see she already has you all figured out, huh Fedya~?" He teases, earning a scoff from Fyodor. His eyes linger on you for a few moments as Nikolai continues his story. "If his mother didn't come outside and ask him to help her with the gardening, he probably would've sat there all day!"

Suddenly, Fyodor's heart clenches at Nikolai’s words, and he finds himself staring into his porridge as if it holds the answers to his unspoken questions. The meal suddenly seems less appealing, his stomach feeling constricted. He tries to swallow but his throat is abnormally dry.

“It was hilarious, honestly!” Nikolai continues, his laughter ringing through the air. “She dropped his ushanka on his head-- It was so big on him! It kept flopping down onto his face! Not to mention, his Winter coat was so big, he had to keep stopping to roll the sleeves up! At first I was shocked, because I didn't think he had hands!”

He laughs heartily. Fyodor hears your soft giggles mingling with it. His spoon glides through the porridge, a stone settling uncomfortably in his stomach. “—But it was honestly adorable how much he was helping her, with his little hand trowel and tiny watering can. All the while, he looked like a little puppy with floppy ears!”

Nikolai's voice is filled with the warmth of a sunny day. Each soft chuckle and tease made that ball of cold ice in Fyodor's stomach grow havier, weighing him down. “Why, if you ask me, I’m almost certain he—”

Suddenly, Fyodor clears his throat, interrupting Nikolai. He takes a deep breath, briefly locking eyes with him before his gaze drops back to his bowl of untouched porridge. He stirs it once, twice, before finally looking back up at Nikolai.

All traces of mischief have vanished from Nikolai’s face; even his smile feels empty. Despite this, the understanding and sympathy in his expression are unmistakable. In a heartbeat, he hums, turning his gaze back toward you. “Aaah…I can’t seem to recall…! It was quite a long time ago, so you’ll have to forgive my fuzzy memory.”

A sense of comfort washes over Fyodor. Even if he was intent on teasing him to death, Nikolai still understood and respected his boundaries without question. Fyodor couldn't help but appreciate that. As your warm tone of understanding reaches his ears, he relaxes further, “That’s okay; I have trouble remembering a lot of my early years too.”

The sound of your spoon tapping against the inside of your bowl as you scoop up more porridge isn’t lost on him. “So then, Mr. Gogol, if you gave up being a writer, what are you doing now?”

“Oh? Interested in my career, are you? What, want to make sure your future husband is earning enough~?” Fyodor feels his body starting to relax as the topic of conversation shifts. He hears you splutter a bit, coughing and dropping your spoon, clearly to Nikolai's delight, judging from his amused cackle. Fyodor keeps his gaze down at his porridge, stirring the thick, pale substance around as Nikolai continues, “Well, I gave up writing…god, quite a while ago at this point!”

Fyodor listens to Nikolai’s story, his stomach slowly feeling lighter as he reaches for a glass of water. His gaze briefly rests on Nikolai’s cheerful expression. He nods a few times in confirmation as he sips from his glass. Just like that, Nikolai’s gestures become more animated as he leans toward you.

“I stopped writing after Fedya’s published his first novel, under his pseudonym of course. I'd already been writing for a few years before this one started publishing.” He rests his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his knuckles.

He nods, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes, “I'm very proud of the novels I've published and I'm glad so many readers enjoy them too.” Fyodor can practically see his best friend’s ego swelling. “Since then, I’ve just been in and out of jobs, travelling the world and–”

“Basically… Kolya struggles to hold down a job,” Fyodor teases, his eyes flickering toward you. He notices your amused smile beneath your curious eyes and adds, “He’s always been a bit of a wanderer. A free spirit, if you will. Don’t follow in his footsteps, Огонёк, or else this porridge may become a staple in your diet.”

Your gentle giggles fill his ears, causing his lips to tug a little higher. His eyes soften as he watches you, even as Nikolai starts to scoff. The sound of your laughter and the sight of your smile are almost soothing to him.

It doesn’t seem like you’re still upset about earlier—

Nikolai’s loud voice shakes him from his thoughts. “I’ll have you know, сонечко—” That nickname again. Fyodor's hand clenches tighter around his spoon. “—that just because I enjoy drifting between jobs and places, that I have, in fact, had many jobs and have quite a decent nest egg, if I say so myself!"

"I didn't work for a while after I published my last book. All of my freetime went into planning my future trips around the globe! But when I finally did get another job, I--"

Before Nikolai can continue, his phone buzzes and chimes. He glances at the screen, scoffing as an amused smirk tugs at his features. “Ah, I’ve been caught already, it seems. I’ll be back in two shakes of a bird’s tail! Don’t miss me too much~!”

He looks towards you, kissing his fingers and blowing you a kiss. Fyodor doesn’t miss the way your cheeks light up at the gesture, his eyes trailing after Nikolai as he leaves as he notices your turning to stare into your bowl.

Before Fyodor can correct the expression he used, Nikolai gets up from his spot beside you, heading for the front door. He lets out a silent sigh of relief as he hears him answer the call, the door gently shutting behind him.

Then, he turns his attention back to you. “I apologize for his sudden appearance. I would have warned you if I’d known Kolya was going to show up on my doorstep today. He can be a bit… much.”

“Oh, no, it’s completely fine. Mr. Gogol just seems very… eccentric. I don't mind his company." Your voice is quieter now, more relaxed. Fyodor’s gaze drops to your bowl, noticing you’ve been eating the whole time. There’s about half of the porridge left in your bowl, while his remains full. “But you still haven’t had a single bite of food.”

Blinking a few times, Fyodor looks up at you, mildly surprised that you’ve noticed his untouched bowl. “Ah… I suppose I just got caught up in our conversation.”

He watches as a frown tugs at your lips faster than you realise. You sigh, shaking your head lightly, your tone slightly exasperated. “I thought we fixed your eating habits.”

Before Fyodor can respond, you stand up, sliding your bowl across to the spot next to his before taking a seat beside him. He’s taken off guard, his mind short-circuiting for just a moment as you gaze up at him, that familiar warm smile finding its way back onto your face.

“Taking care of yourself is important, you know.” He can hear the care and worry in your gentle tone. His dark eyes turn down to watch as you grab his spoon with your non-dominant hand, scooping up some of his porridge along with a berry or two. “If you don’t eat, how are you going to keep coming up with those fantastic ideas of yours?”

“And what of you?” he replies, his gaze rising to meet yours with a hint of sternness. He gently caresses the back of his hand and wrist, reminding himself to soften his tone. “Your wrist won’t get any better if you keep forcing yourself either.”

A huff escapes you, a mix of frustration and understanding. “Okay, fair enough…” There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken words with a dash of anxiety. When you speak again, your voice has grown softer, barely above a whisper. He notices how you look down at his bowl of porridge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe within its creamy texture.

“I’m…sorry. For earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” His brows raise slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. He leans closer, silently urging you to continue.

“It’s just… I feel like I’m the one responsible for making sure your international debut goes well. If the work isn’t done in time or my translations are poorly done… I feel… I just…” You take a sharp breath in, fingers twisting the fabric of your skirt for comfort.

Your gaze shakily lifts, meeting his, revealing the intense sea of disquiet swirling in your usually bright, burning eyes.

He watches the way your lip quivers, the furrow of your brows deepening as you seem to search for stability in him. “I feel like I’ll be the one responsible for ruining your career. And I can’t… I just can’t do that to you…”

The weight of your words hangs in the air, heavy with apprehension. Fyodor can only imagine that this same burden has been weighing on your mind and heart all this time.

His chest clenches as he starts to realise the weight you’ve been silently carrying, that burden that’s been pushing you to work harder and harder, despite the agony it’s bringing you.

Despite the risks that come with it. 

He wants to reassure you, to tell you that you’re not alone in this, that the success of his book relies on so many other factors outside of you. But the intensity of the moment leaves him momentarily speechless.

Taking a deep breath, he finally speaks, his voice soft, “Огонёк, you could never ruin my career. Your translations are…phenomenal. This is your first job, yet you have the talent of someone ten years your senior.”

He notices the way your eyes widen as if his words have struck a secret chord within your heart. Slowly, he lifts his hand, his slender fingers gently brushing against your bandaged wrist resting tenderly on your thigh. A silent gasp escapes your lips at his touch. With deliberate care, he caresses your wrist, his gaze firm yet warm.

“You are the best assistant I could ask for. That’s precisely why I need you to look after yourself.”

“I only scolded you earlier because I’m concerned about what could happen if you keep pushing yourself this way.” His tone softens, fingers pausing their gentle caress as he almost whispers, “I care about you, Огонёк. I don’t want to lose my assistant. So please, let’s find a middle ground so you can continue your work without risking your wrist.”

Without skipping a beat, a soft, shaky “O-okay,” escapes you. Fyodor smiles gratefully, his hand sliding off your wrist as he sits up straight. He's fast to notice the brief pause of silence that flows between the both of you. He lets it continue for a few seconds before he decides to speak up.

But before he can break the silence, he blinks in surprise as you lift the spoonful of porridge toward his lips, a playful- though still somewhat shaky- grin on your face.

“But if I’m going to start taking my wrist more seriously, you need to promise me you’ll keep eating well and looking after yourself too, okay?”

A small chuckle of amusement escapes Fyodor. He pauses for a moment, as if considering it. Then, with a shrug, he murmurs, “I suppose it’s a fair deal…”

Leaning forward, he accepts the mouthful of porridge, letting you feed him. He sees the way your eyes light up with relief, despite the anxiety still present in them. The way your smile doesn’t light up your face like normal, how your brows are furrowed….

As he swallows the porridge, he reaches out once more, his hand easily finding yours without him so much as glancing down. Instead of touching your wrist, he tenderly grasps your hand. He notices the way your eyes widen as he leans forward, his tone a serious whisper, “I’m serious, Огонёк. I want you to lean on me, okay? I do not want to see you pushing yourself again.”

His eyes peer into the shimmering surface of your eyes, watching as you fully absorb his words. Your silence is telling enough. It’s a silent sign to him that this will be more difficult than he initially thought. “Promise me, Огонёк. Promise me you won’t do this again.” His fingers gently intertwine with yours, his touch careful as he squeezes your hand.

A silent plea to agree to his terms.

“Mr. Dostoyevsky…” He notes how breathless you sound as you whisper his name. He remains unwavering, his hand gripping yours, refusing to let go until you agree to his terms. There’s a flutter in his chest as he remains silent, waiting with bated breath for your confirmation. Just a simple okay will be enough…

“Ooh la laaa~” Fyodor jolts, his shoulders going rigid as Nikolai’s mischievous voice fills the kitchen once more. His hand quickly releases yours, but it’s too late.

As Fyodor turns to meet Nikolai’s teasing, devious grin, he knows Nikolai has already drawn his own conclusions. “Have I interrupted something~? Oh dear! Fedya, you should’ve told me your assistant is—” He shifts his gaze back to you, his Cheshire-like grin widening, “—more than just your assistant.”

You take the bait before Fyodor can even think to stop you. “It isn’t anything like that!” You sound so flustered that it almost catches him off guard. You’ve never sounded like this around him before—it’s strange to hear your usually resolute and passionate voice tremble like this. But it’s almost… cute. “We were just talking–!”

A mischievous hum lingers on Nikolai’s lips as he approaches the table, a taunting sway in his steps. You've snatched the bait, hook, line and sinker.

“Talking while holding hands, hmm~? Forgive me for saying so, but that seems a bit more—” He moves closer, almost standing behind Fyodor now, “—amorous than a boss should be with his assistant~”

“She’s wounded, Kolya.” Fyodor interjects, stepping in before you can reply. “I was checking the condition of her wrist. You haven’t strayed so far from writing that you’ve forgotten just how valuable our hands and wrists are, have you?”

Nikolai holds up his hands, that sly grin transforming into an innocent smile that could fool anyone else. “Hey, don’t let me stop you from being a caring boss. I just think that normally, when you’re checking someone’s injury—” His smirk reappears just as quickly as it had vanished. “—you normally… well… check the injury. Not stare into the patient’s eyes.”

Fyodor interrupts calmly, “I was watching her expressions for any signs of discomfort or pain. Огонёк and I may be on friendly terms, but I wouldn’t put it past her to hide her pain from me if she thinks for even a second that I’m going to stop her from translating those chapters.”

“Oh, so she’s resilient? That's interesting...” Nikolai clicks his tongue, his eyes gleaming deviously. Fyodor sighs, mentally preparing himself for whatever flirtatious comment Nikolai might make next—aimed at you, of course—when your voice cuts through the banter.

“So… you’d say we’re friends then…?”

The question catches Fyodor off guard. It’s not just the question itself, but the soft, almost meek tone you’re using, as if you’re afraid he might deny it. His dark eyes shift to meet yours. You look up at him, uncertainty etched on your face, a glimmer of anticipation shining in your eyes.

Friends… 

Fyodor hadn’t considered the nature of your relationship before you said that.

At first, he had to admit he hadn’t enjoyed your company that much. You were a brilliant translator, an asset to him as an author and in achieving his current goals. But having someone else’s presence lingering in this cottage with him after the past year he'd spent here alone had felt unpleasant at first.

You didn’t know how sacred this place was to him. You didn’t know how long he had spent in these walls, absorbing their atmosphere and essence, burning the memory of thi splace into his memory. Wanting every small detail etched deep into his soul so that when he ultimately met his end, he would remember it in the afterlife.

But that wasn’t your fault.

You had come here to perform a job, plain and simple. You hadn’t come to trample all over the sacredness of this place. You probably didn’t even realise how deeply this building and its location means to Fyodor. When he finally came to accept that and let you in, he couldn’t deny that he began to enjoy your presence.

You'd even gone out of your way to spend your paycheck on food these past few weeks, just to make sure he was eating well. You even helped him get some much needed rest that fired his creativity and drive to write into overdrive.

In fact, a part of him desired your presence now. You brought warmth back into his life that he had lost a year ago when his spark had been swept away. Stolen from him in the blink of an eye, leaving him cold and alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. 

It wasn’t the same burning intensity he had known, but a gentle flame, a determined, passionate one, unique and all your own, that you’d brought with you was warmer than any candle currently lit around the cottage. He was drawn to your captivating flame, your burning passion and drive, like a helpless moth. 

He couldn’t deny it, even if a small part of him didn’t want to admit it: Fyodor enjoyed your company.

“Yes.” He pauses, considering his words carefully. His dark eyes never leave the hopeful shimmer in yours, the words leaving his lips causing that flutter in his chest to grow as he continues, “That is to say....I would consider us to be more than acquaintances…”

He watches your eyes light up, that shimmer becoming a full sparkle. Her doesn’t even realize you’re leaning slightly closer to him, that hopeful undertone to your voice growing more intense, “And more than acquaintances is…?”

He huffs at you, pulling back. He looks away, returning to swirling his porridge, “Forget I said anything.” Despite his dismissive tone, he stifles a chuckle as you whine beside him, pleading for him to say the words you want to hear.

“Aww, come on! It doesn’t count if you don’t say it!” He can easily hear the joyful mirth in your voice, the slight rise in pitch as you plead with him.

He may not have openly called you friends, but his words have nonetheless brought you happiness. Alot of it by the sounds. He can tell that much, at least. That’s rather sweet; he didn’t expect his words to make you this happy.

Something about it warms his chest, that fluttering feeling growing more intense. Before he realizes it, a faint smile is sneaking onto his face.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“Dad, I’m home!”

Your keys jingle in your hand as you push open the apartment door, greeted by the musty smell of mildew and the irritating flicker of the lightbulb in the dining room when you switch it on. It buzzes and flashes a few times before settling into a soft glow, illuminating your dingy little apartment.

You know it might seem odd to others, but it’s hard to break this habit. Whenever something makes you particularly excited or happy, you find yourself coming home, calling out for your deceased father just as you did in your youth.

The last time you'd done this was the day you'd graduated from university. Even though he’s gone, you can’t help but share the good news with him as if he were still here.

“Sorry I’m late,” you continue, turning to securely lock the door behind you. You giggle happily, hanging your still damp amber coat on a clothes hanger by the window, the chill of the evening still clinging to your skin. You crack the window open slightly, hoping your coat will be dry by morning.

The silence of the rundown apartment wraps around you; the only sounds you can hear is faint honking in town. It’s a familiar silence. A lonely silence. “One of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s friend’s showed up early. Something about hacking and stealing tickets?”

You giggle, the sound echoing in the quiet space. “I don’t know. I didn’t really get it, but that friend of his was quite the charmer.” Your smile softens as you think of the encounter, a flicker of warmth igniting a memory.

“Oh, and get this!” You almost squeal as you walk toward the kitchen. Pausing, you turn to gaze at the dining room, imagining your father sitting at the table, listening to you gush about your day, that big goofy grin of his on his face. “Mr. Dostoyevsky said we’re friends!”

You know you have the goofiest smile on your face as you open the old refrigerator. It hums loudly as you reach in, grabbing a chilled water bottle before heading back into the dining area.

Your tone hushes slightly after you take a few mouthfuls of the cold liquid—the last thing you need is for your neighbors to think you’ve finally lost your marbles. “Well... he didn’t say the word ‘friends,’ but that’s basically what he meant!”

Giggling happily, you feel like you’re on cloud nine. Maybe it was silly to be so happy about something like this, but the thought of actually being friends with Fyodor filled you with the warmth of a cozy fireplace in winter.

During your time working for him, you’d come to admire both him and his work. The idea that someone as talented as him saw you as a friend made you want to jump around and squeal.

“I wish I could introduce you to him and Mr. Gogol,” you mumble, a wistful tone in your voice as you approach the dull gray buffet table. “They’re really interesting people, Dad. I bet you would’ve loved to share your stories with them too…”

It stands sturdy, even after all these years, with three lockable drawers and two sideboards. But you only make use of one sideboard and the top drawer.

The second drawer holds your school report cards and the arts and crafts projects you’d made for your father during your childhood. He’d lovingly labelled the front of the drawer with your name, decorated with worn-down holographic butterfly stickers and beloved cartoon characters that once filled your days with joy.

As you lean closer, a faint scent drifts up from the surface—something sweet and sharp, reminiscent of overripe fruit mingling with the dust of distant memories. Memories of your youth that now left far behind you. 

Despite knowing better, you attempt to unlock the bottom drawer with your key but it doesn’t seem to work. The key slides in but doesn’t unlock the drawer as you rotate it. It was an oddity that always piqued your curiosity, made worse by the fact that it couldn’t unlock the right sideboard either. 

The key slides into the lock for the left sideboard, unlocking with a satisfying ‘click!’ as you turn it. Opening the door, you smile nostalgically, greeted by the sight of all the short stories your father wrote for you—from the fading, tattered yellow spine of his very first storybook to the deep red of his final creation.

‘Mister Fox.’

Your non-dominant hand reaches out, gently sliding the final storybook free from its slot and into the warmth of your palms. “I bet you’d want me to show them this one. You told me it was your favorite…”

Nostalgia begins to pulse through your veins as you sit down on the floor, your fingers tracing the letters written in gold across the cover, accompanied by a whimsical illustration of a fox.

As your hand glides over the gold letters of your father’s name, a dull ache settles in your chest. You brush away small remnants of dust from the cover, a gentle reminder of time passed.

This was a storybook you had only read once with him, a cherished moment before the day that irrevocably changed the course of your life. The crimson of the book in your hands feels almost too bright against the sombre memories, a stark reminder of what you’d found, what you’d seen that day.

You inhale shakily, your hand pausing on the cover as your heart pounds, the weight of those memories suddenly pressing down on you. The book in your hands feels like it’s carrying the weight of the world within it’s pages. The harsh scent of iron and the rancid, sour stench of bile assault your nostrils, pulling you back to that day as if you were reliving it all over again.

You exhale deeply, reaching for the cold bottle of water you’d brought to the buffet. You clench the plastic, causing it to crunch in your grasp. The chill spreads across your palm and fingers, before you jolt, realising too late that you’ve grabbed it with your damaged hand. Pain shoots through your wrist like a thousand lightning bolts.

You wince, groaning as the bottle slips from your grasp, hitting the floor with a soft thud. You draw your injured wrist close to your chest, clenching it firmly into a fist, waiting for the pain to subside.

On the bright side, the memory has faded like a ghost, disappearing into the deepest depths of your mind until it's roused once more. On the less bright side, you can already hear Fyodor’s morning lecture on being more careful echoing in your mind. 

  As the pain dulls, your attention draws itself back to the small crimson, hardcover notebook that your father had written ‘Mister Fox’ in. It was the same size and brand as the other storybooks tucked away in the sideboard, though in much better condition. 

The artwork on the front cover was whimsical and cute, depicting a charming orange fox with a long bushy tail, surrounded by delicate purple foxgloves. It's pouncing forward, a large cartoonish grin on it's face as it's frozen in time, caught midleap over your father's name written on the cover.

It was pure luck, your father had told you, a wide, lopsided grin on his face. He had just come back from the store, his breath faintly tinged with the smell of something sweet, when he ran into an amazing artist who’d happily drawn the cover for him, free of charge.

Although he couldn’t remember the name of the artist when you’d asked him…

You gently open the notebook, reading the dedication inside. Each book held a different message, all addressed to you.

“To my beautiful daughter,

Remember that I have always and will always love you. I have countless regrets, but you, my little Dahlia, will forever be the single most precious thing in my universe. You are a blessing to me.”

Your lips quirk upwards as your fingertips gently trace over the last dahlia he’d ever tried to draw for you at the bottom of the dedication, scribbled in with a black marker. It was shakily rendered with a nearly empty pen, but to you, it was perfect; imperfections and all. 

“I love you too, Dad,” you whisper sorrowfully, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you begin reading through your father’s last storybook.

The story tells of a charming fox who lived deep in the forest, enjoying a peaceful life. He had everything he could ask for; comfort, peace and food. Until one day, he heard a baby bunny crying and rushed out to find a giant wolf threatening her. The brave fox confronted the wolf and, after a tense standoff, the wolf retreated.

The grateful bunny called the fox her hero, but he felt guilty about his past. He took her back to his cozy den, where they shared food and comfort. He raised the baby bunny for a long while, as his guilt was eating at him from the inside.

Later, overwhelmed by his guilt, the fox confessed his dark history to the bunny, warning her of the danger he posed. He knew the bunny would despise him, hate him for revealing himself as the monster he is. No different than the wolf who had cornered her and tried to eat her when she was a kit.

However, the bunny, undeterred, expressed her belief in his goodness and forgave him for his past. Touched by her words, the fox promised to change for her sake. From that day on, they lived happily together, with the fox dedicated to protecting the bunny he loved like his own daughter.

Your eyes linger on the final scribble in the notebook, a depiction of the fox carrying the bunny on his back. That’s what it was supposed to represent, at least. In truth, it looked more like a smaller, paler orange atop a larger one, with sausage-like legs.

Your father was a writer, not an artist, after all.

Gently, you close the book, holding it tightly to your chest for a moment. This was your father’s final gift before his passing. He didn't get the chance to take it to the writer’s convention himself.

You just knew that if they had read it, this book would have been his breakthrough. It would have been both his first and only step into the literary world...

He had passed his flame to you, his torch now yours to carry. His legacy rested solely on your shoulders.

First, you would get his book out there, and it would be published. Then, after helping get Fyodor’s book out into the world, you would continue to carry the flame for your father.

This book would be the first of many that you would see to publishing under your father's name. The rest of the books in the buffet table would come after. You'd make sure each and every one would see the light of day.

This was the least you could do for him. After all the sacrifices he made for you, after all he had done for you, you owed him that much, didn’t you?

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡ © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

Next

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast @youngkidchaos

Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics  Orange heart divider- @/adornedwithlight

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Hello all! I have a small update of sorts (´｡• ω •｡`)

So it's been a few months coming but I've decided to set up a sub account for all future interactions, reblogs and updates. I thought this blog would be for everything I do, all rolled into one. But it kinda leaves me feeling a bit restricted, for lack of a better term.

So this account will now solely be for new chapters/stories. For all future updates regarding stories, future reblogs of art and stories I'm reading or any asks you want to send in, please follow me here.

Or if you don't want to follow me, I have a tag system in place so you can easily find future updates for stories there to make it easier for you! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Soooo that's about it! Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you guys can understand! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

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Chapter 6 of T.H.H is done and currently onto the editting phase!

But I'm also going to be busy this week, so it may take me a bit of time to edit it.

I appreciate everyone's patience and hope you're all looking forward to the next chapter! Wishing you all a wonderful week ahead and a very Happy (early) Halloween! ദ്ദി (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)~✧

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That new chibi official art! Was late to draw 'em xD

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Painting based on Mephisto by Eduard von Grützner

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Freedom?

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Starting this account fresh with him.

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heyy I just came across your blog and binged the entire These Hollow Halls, it already has a special place in my heart. Your writing is phenomenal and the way you portray Fyodor and the Reader's growing relationship feels so natural that it's impressive. I literally eat all the little details you put in your story and I adore your set of characters. Please please please continue to write more until you finish this series, but don't feel pressured to get it done as soon as possible, take your time ^^

Hey hey! Oh wow, thank you so so much for your sweet words!! I haven’t stopped smiling since I read your message, it’s really made my week!! 🥹💛💛💛 I’m really happy you’re enjoying These Hollow Halls so far!! And I’m SO glad the relationship progression feels natural too. Every chapter I’m always worried I’m going too fast or too slow, so it’s a relief to hear that ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) Thank you so much for your message and thank you so much for reading!! 

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Sigma

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𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓘𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Emotional conflict and distress. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Man...it has been a while. I've had this sitting in my drafts since May. It feels amazing to finally get it out. So sorry for the long delay! I hope you all enjoy! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

“Damn it–!”

A sharp gasp of shock escapes you as your dominant hand betrays you, releasing the cup of tea seconds before it can reach your lips. The fragrant liquid, thankfully lukewarm, splashes on your lap and coat before thudding to the floor, thankfully undamaged.

Curling your hand into a fist, you draw it close to your chest, holding it with your other hand.

A sharp, burning sensation radiates through your fingers and palm, each pulse of agony sending jolts of discomfort through your arm. Inhaling sharply, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bear with the pain.

The pain was getting worse.

You were already well aware it was from the long hours you imposed on yourself as Fyodor’s translator. The lengthy days working away over these pages, treating each of his chapters with care to ensure each was translated perfectly from his native tongue into English, without his story being changed or translated incorrectly.

Well, at least hoped you were doing a good job of it.

You exhale sharply, releasing your pulsing hand from your gentle hold as you get up.

Bending down, your fingers curl around the gold handle of the cup, preparing to return it to its place on the small, new rolling table Dmitry had dropped off for Fyodor over the weekend. It's intended purpose was for a laptop but it made for a pretty good work space too.

Olga had bought it for him when she went into town, Fyodor had said. You smile. The last time you had tea with the couple had been pleasant…even if Dmitry had trouble speaking in English.

Your thoughts are disrupted as another jolt of pain shoots through your hand the moment you lift the teacup by its handle. Like a thousand little lightning bolts rippling through each digit down into your wrist.

Grimacing, you use your non-dominant hand to scoop the cup up, placing it down before you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up.

The bathroom in Fyodor's cottage was simple and practical, with only the essentials. Practical like him, you thought.

You couldn't help but admire the clawfoot bathtub, a novelty for you, and notice that there used to be a mirror above the sink, despite its absence now clearly marked by an outline on the wall.

You shrug off your burnt orange coat as you step into the cramped room, placing the wet fabric gingerly onto the sink, letting the dry portion hang off the side. With a determined effort, you grab the old sponge scourer nearby and begin scrubbing, trying to lift the sweet liquid from the fabric.

As you draw the sponge down the material, the pain flares up again. You wince, your hand trembling with each stroke, the sponge slipping through your fingers as searing pain ignites in your palm. You grip the sponge tightly, each squeeze sending waves of agony through your wrist.

‘Grit and bear it,’ you quietly whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath in to steady your nerves, ‘You can’t let something as silly as this stop you.’

You resume cleaning the coat, each movement accompanied by a few sharp huffs of pain.

Anger flares in your chest, mixing with the burning sensation in your wrist. You can't let something as trivial as a sore wrist stop you from salvaging your coat.

How pathetic would it be if a wrist injury kept you from cleaning your favourite coat? It would end up with a permanent stain, a constant reminder of your failure, and you'd have to abandon it—

Your anger falters, and your hand pauses mid-motion. 

Abandoning your coat was unthinkable. It’s a prized possession, one you couldn’t bear to part with. But if something loses its usefulness, it’s cast aside for something better, something newer, something more valuable.

No…no, no, no. You can’t let that happen.

As pain grips your hand like a tightening vice, you stifle a whimper, continuing to scrub the wet patch with increasing aggression. The determination to remove the stain overrides the pain throbbing in your wrist and hand.

You can’t let it lose its usefulness. You can’t let it be replaced by something better. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t…

No...no, it's okay....the stain is coming out...it’s all okay now… it's not damaged....it's still okay...It’s still wearable. It’s going to be okay…it’s still useful. It hasn’t lost its usefulness…

Breathing shakily, you glance at your wrist, the bandage damp. It’s not broken. No bones are sticking out, your fingers are intact, and your palm is still in place.

It’s just a bit of pain, that’s all. Some ibuprofen and you’ll be fine. There’s no reason to delay work over something that can be managed with a few pills.

As you hang your coat up to dry, you nod to yourself before leaving the bathroom.

You’ll take some ibuprofen and get back to work. The pills will ease the pain, and if they don’t, it really isn’t that bad. You can endure it. You have chapters to finish translating and only five days until the convention.

You have to keep going. 

You have to.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A silvery light cascaded down upon her cheeks, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to transform her countenance into something otherworldly.

The teardrops that glistened upon her skin resembled stars, tracing a sorrowful path along the delicate contours of her face, only to fall, tumbling through the air like unheeded dreams.

It was in this moment that the true weight of my words struck me—a realization that pierced my very being. With my tongue wielded as a weapon, I had unwittingly thrust it into her heart, inflicting a wound far deeper than I had ever intended. How cruelly could one soul harm another in the throes of passion and despair?

My mind scarcely registered the sound of her chair scraping against the stone floor as she rose, her back turned to me, a sob escaping her lips that shook her entire form, quaking as violently as the bitter winds of winter might.

A constriction seized my throat, and my voice, once vibrant, was stifled in the depths of my anguish. In an instant, my body sprang forth, the chair clattering to the ground with a resounding thud. I could not permit her to leave. My heart, that treacherous organ, would not allow it; it throbbed with a fierce determination to bridge the chasm I had unwittingly created.

“No, wait, don’t go…!” I cried, leaping from my chair. I reached out to her, grabbing her wrist–

I tried to reach her—

Grabbing her hand in mine, I—

Fyodor’s pen clatters onto his desk as he rubs his face in frustration, letting out a soft groan.

No matter how hard he tries, the words refuse to flow from his pen as they once did. Gently, he pushes this page to join the other drafts for the latest chapter on the floor, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. 

Just days ago, his inspiration had been explosive. Like a match tossed into a canister of petrol, igniting his mind with a flurry of ideas so intense that he hadn’t slept, desperate to get every thought down.

Ideas had sprung to life like a box of fireworks.

Intense.

Bright.

Uncontainable. 

Now, pens lay empty on his desk, dried of the ink they once held, mere shells of their former selves. He had gone through so many pens and sheets of paper, he'd already needed to call Vivian purchase a restock of supplies on his behalf.

But now, he can barely write a few paragraphs without tossing the draft aside.

He’s gone back, rereading every chapter from the beginning to the latest. He’s even reviewed your translations, hoping that the sentences you’d woven beautifully in English would reignite something, anything within him.

But it has only led to more crossed-out sentences, reworked paragraphs, and shredded pages.

At one point, he even considered rewriting an entire chapter. One of the first chapters. Inhaling deeply, he pushes away from the desk and stands, moving through his room, lit solely by candlelight.

His steps are soft, boots gently tapping against the floorboards. As he moves, Tolstoy rises from his spot under his chair and trots after him, mewling and weaving between his legs.

Fyodor huffs, watching as the old cat bumps his head against his leg, meowing several times. Tolstoy lifts his paws towards him, making a kneading motion in the air. A plea to be held or pat.

“I’m fine, Tolstoy,” Fyodor murmurs, pacing the small room, his footsteps echoing around him. His gaze drifts from the feline to the cluttered shelf of books on his desk. His eyes skim the spines, each one bearing the name of a close friend.

The spines are covered in a thick layer of dust so dense that Fyodor’s finger leaves a clean trail when he brushes over them.

When he withdraws his hand, his fingertip is entirely black. He rubs the dust between his finger and thumb, studying the imprint with a thoughtful expression.

He moves along, using his fingertip to uncover each title, freeing each from the clutches of the dust that clings to them.

Each name represents a fond memory. Each book a reminder of his past, of times part of his heart still ached for. All of these books were cherished, beloved by him.

He felt as though these books were more than just the stories written inside. That they held his past memories in them as well.

Memories of when he received these books and those who were gracious enough to give them to him. It was foolish to yearn for the past. He was foolish to yearn for it.

His slender fingers continue along their path until–

His gaze shifts to the last book on the shelf, one coated with a thicker layer of dust than the others. Thankfully the dust had only accumulated on the plastic covering the book had been delivered in.

The grey hardcover book was missing its name along the spine, a fault by the manufacturer when they had first been in production five years ago. Fyodor was given the first copy to keep while the rest of the errors were destroyed.

It was his first published work—anonymously, of course. Vivian had created his pseudonym, a gesture for which he remained grateful, despite the name alias now representing something more painful.

His fingertip hesitates over the dust-covered spine, pausing as if uncertain whether to disturb it. It lightly caresses the edge of the plastic covering the spine before withdrawing, as if he had touched something he wasn’t meant to.

Inhaling deeply, his right hand caresses the back of his left hand, gently running up to a little ways above his wrist before slowly caressing down as he exhales. 

As he inhales deeply a second time, he focuses on the gentle caress of his right hand on the back of his left hand. With each breath, his hand traces a path up to just above his wrist before slowly descending again, as if following the ebb and flow of his breath.

The delicate movements were almost hypnotic. He exhales slowly, his body relaxing.

Why was he doing all of this?

His reason to write, to create and weave stories was no longer present. His writings, his novels….did any of it have a reason to exist when his own raison d'être was no longer–

He sharply exhales, glaring at the wall.

Suddenly, a loud mewl rouses his attention. He looks towards his desk as a furry paw plants itself on his arm. His dark eyes turn, gazing down at Tolstoy as he paws at his arm, mewling and chirping at him. He huffs, finally reaching down to scratch behind his ear.

“I said I’m fine,” he whispers, much more softly than before. His hand runs smoothly down Tolstoy’s neck, enjoying the softness of his plush fur. He follows the curve of his spine to the base of his tail before lifting his hand, returning to scratching behind his ear.

He turns his gaze towards the clock above his door. He hums softly in thought, finally pulling his hand away from Tolstoy’s soft fur. He gives a soft mewl, reaching out to keep patting at his arm.

However, Fyodor steps away, moving towards the door.

“It’s almost midday,” Fyodor murmurs to the feline, encouraging him to follow. His voice sounds breathless, even to his own ears as he runs a hand smoothly through his ruffled locks of hair, “I’m sure Огонёк has already gotten started on lunch.”

He pushes open the door, gratitude washing through him as he notices you kept the curtains closed and the candles lit just as he asked for hours prior.

He furrows his brow, puzzled by the unusual silence. Normally, you would already be bustling in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans as you prepared lunch.

You would look up and tease him, either about what took him so long to come help or ask if he was that worried about you burning the cottage down. A faint smile briefly flickers onto his face.

His leather boots echo against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the only other room you could be in.

Suddenly, a sound of discomfort reaches his ears, prompting him to quicken his pace towards the living area. He grabs onto the door frame for support as he calls out in concern, hoping for a response, “Огонёк? Are you–”

He pauses, his voice catching as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes scan your figure, starting at your bandaged hand that is clutched tightly to your chest. Your other hand grips it fiercely as if trying to suppress the pulsing, burning pain underneath.

Pages are strewn about on the rolling table and the carpet, creating white patches around you. Even your pen is lost in the mess. But what captures his attention the most is your expression.

Though your eyes widen in surprise at his abrupt arrival, your face is twisted in agony.

 Your eyebrows are furrowed together, lips pulled back in a scowl, and your eyes are glossy. It's not difficult for Fyodor to piece together what happened.

You pushed yourself too hard.

Again. After he had told you not to. After you promised you wouldn't.

You should have listened. Why didn't you listen??

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, yet again.” His eyes are like cold steel, assessing every detail of your struggle, his eyes moving from your bandaged hand, to the twisted look of pain on your face.

How could you keep doing this to yourself? Why do you insist on suffering this way? Did you enjoy making yourself suffer, when he was right here to help?

Why didn't you ask for help?

He continues with a chilling calmness, each word enunciated with a surgical precision, “Your discomfort is palpable, and yet you persist as if it’s inconsequential.”

Were you doing this on purpose?

“Mr. Dostoyevsky–” You open your mouth, attempting to explain, but Fyodor’s narrowed eyes cut you off, silencing you with their intensity.

“It’s as if you’re deliberately ignoring the physical damage you’re inflicting on yourself,” he continues, his tone devoid of warmth. “Do you honestly believe that this relentless drive will yield any true satisfaction, or are you merely too obstinate to face the consequences?”

Why are you being so stubborn? Why can't you just listen to me?

You bristle at his words, your frustration bubbling to the surface. You move the rolling table to the side, “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t handle!” you snap, moving the rolling table aside with a forceful shove. Fyodor’s eyes widen slightly, his usual composure momentarily disrupted.

He hasn’t seen this side of you before now. 

“I’m not going to stop just because you think I’m overdoing it!” Your voice rises, defiant and fiery as Fyodor goes ridged, his arms crossing over his chest, “I don’t need your approval or your pity!”

Fyodor doesn’t waver, his cold demeanor unmoved by your outburst,  “It’s not about permission or pity,” he counters, his voice retaining its unsettling steadiness. “It’s about your responsibility to yourself before you jeopardize your future.”

Your anger intensifies, a wave of frustration surging through you. “I don’t need a lecture on responsibility,” you retort sharply. “I know my limits. I’m capable of pushing through–”

Fyodor steps closer, his presence imposing, his tone taking on a steely edge. “Do you truly grasp what could happen if you persist?” His gaze pierces through you, forcing you to step back, dwarfed by his intensity. “This isn’t mere discomfort or fleeting pain. You risk a permanent injury that could render your hand useless.”

His voice drops to a frigid whisper, “Envision living with that consequence, knowing it was avoidable. Picture squandering your entire future because of a few extra hours of work. That’s the reality you face if you don’t step back and take care of yourself.”

For a moment, he notices your brows knitting together, your lips twitching as if about to curve downwards, your eyes appearing slightly glassy. But then, the fire reignites in your gaze as you step back, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “A few extra hours of work isn’t going to cripple me! You’re just being paranoid–!”

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа.”

Fyodor’s tone, colder than the snow that fell two days prior, makes you flinch, your eyes widening in shock. He remains unmoved, his gaze penetrating as if seeking to unravel the deepest recesses of your soul.

His jaw tightens as he delivers a single, icy command. “Остановись.”

Your hands clench into tight fists, your eyes narrowing with defiance. As your vision blurs and your chest tightens with the sting of anger and hurt, you glance back at the rolling table, where your work remains incomplete.

Inhaling sharply, you turn, grabbing your shoulder bag, which holds several more of Fyodor’s chapters. As you prepare to push past him, he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you snap, “Since you clearly don’t want me here.”

Fyodor’s frustration is palpable as he follows you towards the door. The flames of the candles lining the hallway flicker wildly, some nearly extinguishing from the draft of your angry departure. “You are behaving like a child–”

“Oh, so now you see me as a child?” You retort sharply, not even glancing back. A harsh, humourless laugh escapes you as you wrench open the door. A frigid gust of air rushes in, extinguishing the remaining candles and plunging the hallway into darkness.

As the biting cold brushes against his skin, Fyodor’s body tenses involuntarily. You don’t look back as you leave, slamming the door behind you with a force that echoes in the empty hallway.

Fyodor stands alone in the darkness, his hands trembling slightly.

The impulse to chase after you gnaws at him, but his feet feel as though they are rooted to the spot by an invisible force. He stares ahead into the darkened corridor, his ears filled with the faint, almost nervous sound of his own breathing.

Even as Tolstoy approaches him, mewling and weaving his furry body against his ankles, Fyodor stays completely still, only the sound of his ragged breaths filling the dark corridor. 

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Brown, withered leaves, exposed once more due to the snow melting crunch under your boots as you storm away from Fyodor’s cottage, your shoulder bag swaying wildly.

Anger and adrenaline still flood your mind, your body feeling rigid and tense. Your bare arms are wrapped tight around your body in an attempt to protect your exposed skin from the cold elements.

Honestly, who does he think he was, telling me what I can and can’t handle? He doesn’t even know me. I could handle this and more. If I really wanted to, I could even cartwheel right now! Juggle a trio of bowling balls even!

Well...if you had the strength--

An angered huff escapes you as you slip under the floral archway, the aroma of flowers doing nothing to soothe your furious spirit as their petals seem to curl further away from you and inwards. As if they aren’t sure what to hide from; the growing coldness or your burning anger.

Your boots click against the damp, slick cobblestone path, your eyes catching glimpse of a ball of vibrant orange up ahead. You glance up noticing a familiar orange tabby cat doing circles around a cute, handcrafted bowl with cute, tiny blue paw prints painted along the trimming.

Olga kneels down as far as her old body will allow her as she scoops the intensely smelling wet food onto the bowl, murmuring something sweetly in Russian as the tabby begins devouring the served food as if it would be starving.

As the elderly grandmother stands up straight, she blinks a few times, her eyes falling on you before she gives an old, weary smile, “Oh dearie! Why hello! What are you doing out here?”

Stopping at the gate separating you both, you watch as Olga approaches you, her steps slower and more careful than before, “Did Fedyka send you on an errand?”

You hesitate for a moment, boot tapping against the cobblestone path. You could just say yes and continue on your way. Olga would be none the wiser. But as you stare down at her, fully taking in her kind, warm smile, you feel your resolve caving, despite the anger still clawing at your heart.

“Not…exactly,” you reply carefully, still unsure if you should tell the elderly lady the truth. You could just save all your ranting and venting for later when you could call Trixie. But the idea is dismissed the moment you see her face fall. She moves closer, unlatching the gate and opening it.

“Here dearie, come in,” Olga insists, the loud creak of the old gate startling both you and the tabby cat. Although the feline quickly goes back to eating like her life depends on it, “I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

You hesitate to enter the elderly couple’s garden, your eyes flickering from Olga’s plump form to the cobblestone pathway leading to the bus stop. You hum, looking back as the tabby cat mewls cheerily, following Olga back up the cobblestone steps.

She stops, looking back at you. Her ears twitch as she mewls, as if asking if you're going to join them.

“Mitya is out today selling some of our homemade jam, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves. We can have some girl’s time.” A hearty laugh escapes her as she opens the door leading into her cozy cottage, the mushroom-shaped bell on the door ringing merrily as she opens it.

“It's been years since I last shared tea with my girlfriend's. Come, come.”

With a sigh, your mind is made up. You head after Olga, up the stairs and into her and Dmitry’s marital home. 

The moment you step over the threshold, warmth envelops you like a tight, welcoming embrace. A delectable aroma dances in the air, wrapping around you as if beckoning you deeper into the home with the promise of delicious, homemade food. 

The fragrant scent of fresh herbs fills your senses, mingling with the enticing aroma of deliciously seasoned meat and the sweet-tart notes of pastries cooling on a rack.

As your eyes begin to take in the small, cozy cottage, you notice the floral patterns on the walls, complemented by a beautifully embroidered tablecloth draped over an old, sturdy oak table.

Above the warmth of the crackling fireplace, an Orthodox cross catches your eye, hanging between photo frames that crowd the mantel. The more you gaze around the living space, the more religious imagery you see scattered about, alongside photos of faces you’ll never personally get to meet.

Your gaze drifts to the mantel, where Olga and Dmitry's wedding photos catch your eye, and your heart swells at the sight of her in an elegant wedding dress. One photo captures them at a sun-drenched beach, sharing ice cream and laughter, their joy palpable.

Another image shows them with someone else—Olga, Dmitry, and a heavily pregnant young woman—smiling warmly as they enjoy tea together at the same dining room table, a snapshot of blissful camaraderie.

The warmth radiating from these photos mirrors the inviting glow of the hearth.

An old rocking chair sits nearby, adorned with a warm knitted blanket made from light colored yarn. It seems the tabby cat has claimed this spot as her resting place for the time being. She yawns, stretching her soft body out before curling into a tight ball of fluff. 

Across from the rocking chair, a comfortable-looking recliner holds another similar knitted blanket, bunched on the seat as if someone shrugged it off before leaving. There’s a pair of reading glasses and an old, worn grey hardcover novel left behind as well, an old, fraying bookmark peeking between the pages.

To the right, the warm, welcoming kitchen beckons.

The cupboards are a pleasant, natural dark oak, accented with delicate floral designs in white and light mocha shades. One cupboard door features a painted bouquet of flowers that looks fairly new, judging from the light pinks and yellows used for the petals of the flowers.

One of the two stovetops burns intensely as a large pot of stew boils and bubbles away, the smell almost making your stomach growl.

On the windowsill, several small plants catch your eye—herbs, you realize, their names written in Russian on their pots. Beneath the sill, sweet-smelling pastries cool, their deep purple blackberry filling peeking out from beneath the small pastry stars on top.

And there’s Olga, murmuring to herself in Russian as she prepares the teapot. You hang back, quietly watching as she fills the delicate gold and blue metal teapot with water, the malty aroma of the black tea leaves wafting through the air.

Black tea...Fyodor had a habit of choosing those tea leaves too.

Once the pot is on the stovetop, she looks back at you, mirth in her eyes, “Come, come dearie. Make yourself comfortable. The tea won’t be long.”

Murmuring your thanks, you sit somewhat awkwardly at the sturdy dining table. The timber groans beneath you, as if annoyed to be roused from its peaceful slumber. You grip your black skirt nervously, picking at your tights while keeping your head down.

What should you say to Olga about what happened?

Olga and her husband seemed to know Fyodor very well—so well, in fact, that you briefly wondered if they were related. Their bond was strong.

If you dared to say anything against him, would she defend him? Would she be angry with you for storming out, for yelling at the man she spoke of with such fondness and care?

Maybe she would even be heartbroken that you, the one supposedly doing so much good for Fyodor, would turn around and lash out at him.

You grip your skirt tighter, your knuckles turning white as a flurry of thoughts and consequences clutter your mind.

Suddenly, the loud whistle of the teapot jostles you from your internal struggle. You look up to see Olga humming peacefully to herself, organizing a wooden tray with the teapot, delicate teacups, and a few of those delicious-smelling pastries.

She carefully approaches the table, placing the tray in the center before she sits down.

As she begins pouring tea into the cups, she looks at you gently and asks, “Now, tell me, dearie. What happened?”

She gently glides the teacup and saucer towards you, the spoon left inside the cup. You gaze into the warm liquid, getting a small glimpse at your reflection.

The weight of your argument with Fyodor still weighs heavy on your mind as you let out a deep sigh. Picking up the spoon, you begin stirring the liquid as you finally speak up.

Whatever would happen after you explained yourself, good or bad…you would just have to accept it.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Honestly, who does she think she is?

Does she foolishly believe her own stubbornness will somehow be enough to stop the damage she is causing to herself? Perhaps I really should have a word to Vivian about her…unruly conduct…

Thoughts swirl like a snowstorm in Fyodor’s mind, his dark eyes scanning your translations but not fully taking them in. He huffs, flipping back to the first page before admitting defeat.

He tosses the pages back onto the rolling table, dropping his weary body onto the window seat in the living space, his hands raising to rub his face.

A mewl comes from his side as Tolstoy joins him, bumping his head against his ankle. He slumps onto his side, his paws gently batting at his shoe.

Fyodor gives an irritated huff, his eyes darkening as he looks down at the feline, “You’ve been pestering me all day.” He grumbles, standing and moving past the clingy feline.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen, the dark tabby on his heels, mewling and chirping almost urgently. He huffs, stopping at the table, “You have never been the clingy type, Tolstoy. I hope you do not intend to make this a permanent habit.”

The feline leaps up onto the dining table, mewling and nudging his broad head against Fyodor’s palm.

Tolstoy didn’t care about the complexities of human emotions and relationships. He was just a house cat, desiring nothing more than scratches and food. Fyodor couldn’t help but envy his simplicity right now.

With a sigh, he absentmindedly scratched behind Tolstoy’s ear, the cat purring contentedly as he settled against the table. Yet, his mind was far from the soothing rhythm of the moment; it wandered restlessly back to you.

What is it about the young that they believe themselves to be impervious? Where do they get this delusion that nothing awful will ever befall them, until they stumble headfirst into danger, as if the world were a playground rather than a battleground?

Fyodor knew this truth all too well; he, too, had once been young and naive, with dreams soaring above the mundane realities of life. A life free from troubles and strife. A true paradise. 

But you… with God as his witness, you seemed determined to earn the title of the most bullheaded human. Your fierce dedication was admirable, yet it danced dangerously close to folly. Did you not see the precarious edge upon which you teetered?

He recalled the way your eyes lit up when discussing your work, a flame that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was as if you were blind to the shadows lurking just beyond your fervor. How could he make you understand the balance between passion and prudence?

He huffs, a small smile playing on his lips. He wondered briefly if he had more grey hairs because of your impulsive, stubborn actions.

How many times had he found his mind wandering to you after you left for the evening, stressing and fretting like a mother hen?

Did she make it home alright? Did she eat? Is she taking the time to rest? How is her sleep schedule? She isn't staying up too late at night to work, is she?

His mind kept him awake a good extra hour each night as he stressed and worried about you.

It felt as if you were a tempest, sweeping through his carefully ordered life and leaving a trail of chaos in your wake.

Yet, there was something within that chaos. A certain warmth—a flicker of life that stirred something long dormant within him. He could almost picture you, fervently writing away at your translations, lost in the world of words, oblivious to the risks that accompanied such fervour with your condition.

It was infuriating, yes, but also undeniably captivating.

With a shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on Tolstoy’s rumbling, soft body, using the cat as a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts.

Perhaps he should apologise for being so hard on you. Sit down with a warm meal and discuss things properly. Maybe he could even help you write the translations.

He just didn’t want to douse the flame of your passion.

After all, wasn’t it this very fire that made you who you were? Still, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The world was far less forgiving than the safe cocoon you seemed to inhabit.

As he steps away from the dining table to brew a fresh pot of tea, he begins wondering if it was possible to find a proper way to guide you, without extinguishing that precious flame in your heart.

Above all, he wished to ensure you were ready for the challenging journey that awaited you.

The road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, and he feared it would be less about sunshine and rainbows and more about thorns and obstacles. His greatest hope was to prepare you for the trials that lay in your future.

He places the teapot onto the stovetop, reaching up into one of the cupboards. He retrieves the matching teacups, stepping towards the table to prepare everything for your return.

He huffs as he notices the once clingy, needy feline is now curled up, snoozing quietly at the end of the table. 

“I suppose you exhausted yourself chasing me around all day, hm?” He muses, resisting the urge to stroke Tolstoy’s soft fur, not wanting to risk the feline chasing him around for pats again.

As Fyodor leaves Tolstoy in peace, he hums softly and makes his way to the fridge, quietly sliding the door open.

His thoughts drift to what you might prefer for dinner upon your return. You had experimented with five different dishes this week, but most had earned only your disapproval so far. He surveys the remaining containers, a frown settling on his face. Given your past reactions, he doubted any of these meals would satisfy you.

He pauses, gripping the side of the fridge more tightly; whenever he was disinclined toward something heavy for dinner—or too preoccupied to prepare a proper meal—his mother would always offer him a warm bowl of манная каша.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he recalls how she would fill the bowl with nuts, fruits, and a drizzle of honey. Back then, he insisted that he didn’t need all the embellishments; plain porridge was sufficient. Yet, as he reflects now, he understands her desire to make it special and full of nutrients.

He reaches into the fruit box, only to find that with the season shifting toward Winter, the selection is limited to cranberries, apples, and pears. Disappointed, he crouches down and opens the freezer. There, next to the ice cube tray, sits a bag of frozen berries.

Perfect.

The sharp whistle of the teapot pulls him from his thoughts as he stands, the bag of frozen berries still in hand.

He places the berries on the countertop, removing the teapot from the stove, turning the hot plate off for the moment. Setting the steaming teapot at the center of the table, side by side with the teacups, he tries to recall where he last saw the bag of semolina when a sudden flurry of knocks at the door jolts him from his reverie.

You’re back already? But he hasn’t even had time to prepare the porridge. He calls out, his voice steady. “Come in, Огонёк.” After that, he heads toward the pantry, opening the doors to continue his search when another set of knocks echoes.

His lips press together in confusion as he closes the pantry. He was certain he hadn’t locked the door after you stormed out. Perhaps he had been too lost in thought to notice. But as he approaches the door, his frown deepens; it is indeed unlocked. He reaches for the handle, calling out, “Огонёк, the door is unlocked. Why are you—”

The door creaks open, a cold breeze sweeping in and playfully tousling Fyodor’s hair and coat. His eyes widen for a moment before returning to their usual calm.

Yes...that would explain why you weren’t opening the door.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“--And so, that’s...what happened.”

Your retelling of events comes to a close, your fingers drumming against the table in a rhythmic motion. Your bandaged wrist rests tenderly on your thigh as you quickly add, “I know Mr. Dostoyevsky is only looking out for me. I know he doesn’t want me to end up in hospital or to lose the function in my hand…”

You pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the orange tabby trotting towards Olga, tail held high. She leaps up onto the grandmother’s inviting lap as you continue, “But this job, my work…it’s so important to me. I…” Your gaze drifts towards your bandaged wrist. You flex your fingers open slowly, “I want to be useful to Mr. Dostoyevsky. I have to be useful to him.”

Your fingers curl up tightly, causing another thunderous wave of pain to rush through your hand, into your wrist. You bite your bottom lip, suppressing those sounds of pain that threaten to leave you. Straining your voice, you continue, “His success as an author in the international world rests on my shoulders. If he fails, it’ll be entirely because of me…”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, a shaky exhale escaping you as you stare at your hand—your stupid, wounded hand. Each pulse of pain feels like a reminder of what you suffered when you were small and vulnerable.

It's a burden you never asked for, a memory of your tainted youth...it looms over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury.

Right now, that burden could cost you your job. Or worse; it could destroy Fyodor’s career as an author…and your own dream of becoming one. The weight of it all crushes your chest, tightening like a vice.

No…no, no…anything but that. Ruining your own dream was one thing, but dragging Fyodor down with you was unthinkable. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t—

The sudden clink of Olga's teacup settling back onto its saucer jolts you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind, snapping you back to the present. Yet, the anxiety clings to you, heavy and suffocating. You swallow sharply, your breathing unsteady as you meet her gaze.

You had braced yourself for a scolding for daring to raise your voice at someone so important to her. Instead, you find warmth in her eyes—a glimmer of compassion that eases the weight on your chest.

A small, weary chuckle escapes her lips as she strokes the back of the tabby purring contentedly in her lap. “Oh, that sounds like our little Fedyka. I remember him scolding that rambunctious friend of his just like that so many times when they were young.”

Another chuckle follows, accompanied by a calm sigh. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with a wisdom you can only dream of possessing. A flicker of hope ignites amid your anxiety, her presence wrapping around you like a comforting hug.

Olga leans forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “My dear, I understand your need to push yourself. It sounds like you’re under immense pressure, feeling as if one misstep could make everything come crashing down.”

“But you must know his scolding came from a good place.” She leans back, her hand scratching the tabby behind the ears as she smiles warmly at you. “I know he worries for you, just as any good friend would.”

She pauses, allowing her words to settle before continuing. “I’ve watched over Fedyka since he was small. He has always been intent on ensuring the safety and well-being of those he cares for.”

Her gaze drifts to your bandaged wrist resting beneath the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but that fire in you—that passion and stubbornness—it’s a double-edged sword. While it drives you in your work, it’s also wounding you…causing you pain, isn’t it, dear?”

Her eyes return to yours, revealing a faint glimmer of nostalgia, of heartbreak beneath her warmth. “You are a determined young lady. But there’s a difference between determination and recklessness."

She reaches for the teapot, gently lifting it. “You should listen to him. I know you feel that everything rests on your shoulders, but it’s okay to take a step back. In fact, you should.”

As she refills her cup, her brows raise, and you feel the weight of her silent, parental scolding. “You were struggling to stir your tea just moments ago with that hand. I may understand your emotions and drive dearie, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with Fedyka.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you cough awkwardly, looking away. A fond chuckle escapes Olga as her tone softens further as she places the teapot back down. “I know that boy. Trust me when I say you can lean on him. In fact, I’d wager he’d prefer you rely on him than continue bearing this burden alone.”

You pause, the weight in your chest still heavy, a storm of thoughts brewing in your mind, looming and ready to engulf you. You glance up at Olga as she delicately sips her tea and blurt out, “But what if I’m the reason he—”

“Ah-ah,” Olga interjects gently, lowering her cup just enough to speak. “None of that, dearie.” She sets her cup down with care. “Your primary concern should be taking care of that wrist of yours.” Her gaze softens, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “Mitya and I want to see you succeed just as much as we want Fedyka to. So please…take his advice."

Your gaze turns downwards, gazing into the cold cup of tea before you. You stare hard at your own reflection, taking the time to really absorb Olga’s words.

Deep down, beneath your drive for success and your fear of failure, you knew she was right. If you didn’t stop and rest like Fyodor had told you to, you would ultimately be the reason for your own failure. 

Your gaze drops to the cold cup of tea in front of you, studying your reflection as you absorb Olga’s words. Deep down, beneath your ambition and fear of failure, you know she’s right. If you don’t heed Fyodor’s advice to rest, you risk being the architect of your own downfall.

Fyodor could find another translator if needed, but if you continued to push yourself, you might lose the use of your hand entirely. You have to stop, even if that thought fills you with reluctance.

Yet perhaps there’s a compromise to be made. If only you could talk to Fyodor—

“Thank you, Olga,” you murmur, your mind racing with thoughts of how to make this work without needing to stop completely. You lift your teacup and down the cold, sweet liquid in one swift gulp before adding, “I need to go.”

With a warm, almost motherly smile, Olga watches you rise from your chair, her trembling hand still stroking the orange tabby’s fur. “Go on, dearie. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.” As you move quickly toward the door, she calls out, “I’ll send Mitya around in the morning with some more tarts for you and Fedyka!”

With that, you step out of the cozy cottage, taking the cobblestone steps two at a time as you make your way back to Fyodor’s place. Your boots greet the cobblestone path as you hurry on, the gate groaning low as you shut it behind you.

Technically, you owe him an apology, don’t you? This isn’t the first time he’s scolded you for pushing yourself. Ultimately, Fyodor is just looking out for you, as any good boss and friend should.

A friend…

Warmth flutters in your chest as you step under the archway of flowers once more. The golden orb in the sky slips shyly over the treeline, casting elongated shadows that dance across the forest floor. Its rays shimmer and create a mosaic of bright highlights that ripple with the gentle movement of the water.

The sky is a canvas of pale blue, tinged with hints of orange and pink, hinting at the day’s slow descent while still holding on to the lingering warmth of afternoon.

The lake’s surface ripples faintly as if greeting you, even if you know otherwise.

A friend to Fyodor…those few little words had you smiling a goofy grin from ear to ear. You’d only been working for him for a few weeks, but you had grown more comfortable with him. Learnt more about him.

You’d learned his preferred tea leaves, his favorite meals, and his love for the cello and classical music.

You knew how he would endlessly gaze across the lake whenever you both sat outside. You even knew why he pursued this career path. You both cooked and ate together for every meal, chatting and joking with each other.

You spent five days a week, ten hours or more each day with him. Sure, those were your regular working hours, and it was part of your role to be there, but that had to count for something!

…Right?

You reach the cottage door just as your thoughts threaten to spiral into another overwhelming storm. Curling your non-dominant hand around the door handle, you twist it and push the door open, calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky! I’m–!”

Your voice catches in your throat as you take in the sight before you. Standing in the candlelit entryway of Fyodor’s cottage is someone else—someone you could swear you’ve seen before. His captivating eyes turn towards you.

You swallow your words, taking in his features: a strong jawline and an old scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, down across his left eye and halfway down his cheek. Yet, despite the prominent scar, his complexion remains fair.

"Handsome" is the first word that comes to mind.

One vibrant blue and one calm green eye scan you from head to toe, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against the doorway leading into the living area.

Most of his hair, white and soft looking, like fallen dove feathers, is tied back into a thick braid cascading down his back, while the rest of his fluffy hair delicately frames his face.

He stands with his hands in the pockets of his grey woolen trench coat that covers his darker grey sweater and white scarf. He straightens up, tilting his head as he continues to appraise you.

Like Fyodor, this man speaks with a deep, gravelly voice, laced with a thick accent that’s subtly different from Fyodor’s. Ukrainian, perhaps? “Why hello there. You must be the brilliant assistant I’ve heard so much about.”

His heavy black boots click against the wooden floorboards as he steps closer, and you find yourself rooted in place, gripping the door handle slightly. He stops just a few steps away, towering over you— he's taller than Fyodor.

“I… I wouldn’t say brilliant—” you manage to reply, earning a deep chuckle from him.

“It’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name. And what a pretty face it is.” He reaches out, capturing your non-dominant hand and lifting it to kiss the back of your fingers softly.

Your heart skips a beat, any word you mumble coming out as a stutter. You cough, trying to find a response as his unique eyes lock onto yours.

Then realization hits you like a ton of bricks. He’s one of the men from the photo in Fyodor’s room. Keeping your voice steady, you gently pull your hand back. “You… you’re a friend of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s. I saw you in that photo he has in his room.”

His eyes flicker with recognition, his hands sliding into the pockets of his black trousers. He tilts his head slightly, the mischievous smirk never leaving his face. “Ah, that old thing? I’m surprised Fedya still has it.” He takes a step back. “But you are correct, Огонёк~ I am a very close friend of his.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his teasing tone.

“My name,” he says, his voice a charming timbre, “is Nikolai Gogol. But please, I insist. Call me Kolya, darling~”

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡ © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

Next

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ (SorryifImissedanyone !)

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Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics

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rip to my sanity

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︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

*taps microphone* New chapter for These Hollow Halls coming soon--

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first post on a new art blog

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sigma truthers. i’ve come bearing food

I DREW HIS HAIR SHORTER THAN CANON IK srry the angle made me nerf your princess hair sigma…