Chapter 4: Friendship

After those tireless moments with Tatyana, I finally went home, my arms full and my fingers aching from the weight of the shopping bags swinging against my legs. The sky was already darkening, painted in shades of deep blue and fading gold, and the cold Moscow air brushed against my cheeks as if trying to wake me up from the exhaustion clinging to my bones.

“I’m home,” I called out as I pushed the door open with my shoulder.

The house greeted me with familiar warmth—the faint scent of detergent from freshly washed clothes, the gentle hum of the heater, and something delicious simmering somewhere deeper inside. I slipped off my shoes, barely bothering to line them up properly, and went straight upstairs to my room. The bags rustled loudly in the quiet hallway as I dropped them onto my bed.

I carefully unpacked everything Tatyana had bought for me. Each item felt like a small piece of her—thoughtful, comforting, familiar. She always knew what I needed, even when I didn’t know it myself. There were clothes folded neatly, snacks she knew I liked, and little things that didn’t cost much but meant everything.

She also bought gifts for Mom and Dad.

That was so Tatyana.

I stared at the items for a moment longer than necessary, a faint smile tugging at my lips, before remembering the rest of the house waiting for me. Taking the bags meant for my parents, I headed downstairs.

As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I felt it.

The air was heavier than usual.

Mom and Dad were sitting at the table, not eating yet, their expressions tense and worried. Mom’s hands were folded together in front of her, her thumb nervously rubbing the side of her finger. Dad stared at nothing in particular, his jaw set, eyes distant.

“What happened, Mom?” I asked softly, my heart immediately tightening.

She looked up at me and forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s nothing,” she said, too quickly.

Dad stood up then, clapping his hands together as if trying to shake the heaviness away. “Come, Jane. Sit down. Eat some of your mom’s cooking before it gets cold.”

I nodded, even though the unease stayed lodged in my chest. I sat down at the table, the familiar dishes laid out in front of me. The food smelled comforting—home—but tonight, even that couldn’t completely calm me.

I ate quietly, listening to the gentle clink of utensils against plates.

When we finished, I reached for the bags beside my chair and slid them across the table. “Tatyana bought these for you,” I said.

Mom’s eyes widened as she peeked inside her bag. She pulled out a perfume bottle, elegant and delicate. She sprayed a little on her wrist and inhaled, her face instantly softening.

“Wow,” she said with genuine delight. “She really knows what I want. Mmm… it smells so good.”

Dad laughed and leaned over to sniff it too. “She knows what your mom likes,” he said, shaking his head with amusement, “but she doesn’t know mine.”

I laughed quietly. Dad always had that way of easing the room, even when things felt heavy.

As the evening went on, Mom and Dad began telling stories—stories about me and Tatyana back when we were still in kindergarten.

“You were always crying,” Mom said, smiling fondly. “Every time you fell, even just a little, you’d cry like the world was ending.”

I groaned. “Mom…”

“It’s true,” Dad added, laughing. “You were too careless. Still are.”

Mom nodded. “And Tatyana—oh, she was always beside you. Holding your hand, worried you’d cry again. Even back then, she was protecting you.”

I tried to remember those days, but my memories were blurry. Just fragments—small hands, scraped knees, and someone always pulling me back up. I smiled without realizing it.

After dinner, I went upstairs and took a long shower, letting the warm water wash over me. I hoped it would wash away the thoughts too.

But it didn’t.

Lying on my bed afterward, staring at the ceiling, my mind wandered back to earlier—to him.

That man.

His calm, gentle voice echoed in my head, steady and reassuring, as if he had known exactly what to say. I didn’t even know his name, yet his presence lingered with me in a way I couldn’t explain.

The man who helped me.

The man I didn’t know.

My chest felt strange—tight, yet warm.

“If we ever cross paths again,” I whispered into the quiet room, “I’ll definitely ask for his name.”

And somehow, deep down, I felt like I would.

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