Page 49 of Carved in Ruin

“Where’s the bedroom?” she asks, I can tell she’s trying to hold it together.

I nod toward upstairs. “Follow me.”

She trails behind. Her gaze darts around, studying the place like it might bite her. When we reach the door, I push it open and step aside, letting her go in first.

She pauses on the threshold, eyes scanning the room. A soft sigh escapes her, and then her hands rise, fingers brushing over the walls.

Her lips part, a hint of confusion crossing her face. “This… this is your old room?”

“It’s still my room,Kroshka.”

“Oh.” She takes a hesitant step further inside.

“Don’t worry, it’s just as big as the master bedroom that belonged to my father.” I deliver the dig. We couldn’t afford to move out after the fire. The mansion was a ruin. So, we stayed, repaired it brick by brick, room by room.

I never had the heart to move into his old bedroom. It didn’t feel right—like stepping into something haunted, something that belonged to another life. This mansion is part of me, just like every scar left behind by that night.

I can see the apology forming in her eyes. “I didn’t mean—” Her voice falters, but then she changes the subject. “We’re… we’re going to share a room?”

“And a bed,” I hiss.

Her gaze flickers around again, but then it lands on the wall beside the bed. Her breath hitches. Her entire body tightens, like she’s bracing for something.

“Did…” She stutters, swallowing hard before trying again. “Did the fire… touch this room too?”

“No,” I snap. The question digs at something raw inside me.

She nods, her face unreadable, and steps closer to the wall. Her hand reaches out, fingertips grazing the smooth, white surface.

I know what she’s looking for.

“It’s gone.”

I don’t respond.

She doesn’t turn to look at me, just keeps her palm pressed against the wall where the childish drawing used to be—the one she scribbled with crayons, a picture of us.

“It’s just a wall now,” she says softly, almost to herself.

Her shoulders sag when I don’t tell her otherwise, and her fingers trail off the surface. Her eyes fall to the mirror on the opposite side of the room. Turning her back to it, she fights with the zipper on her dress, her movements jerky and impatient.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her struggle. Her fingers fumble, pulling, tugging, getting nowhere.

Minutes pass.

“Aren’t you going to ask for help?”

She whirls her head around, glaring at me with eyes that could burn the place down. Again.“No.”The word is sharp, venomous, and her expression says she’d rather drop dead than let me help.

I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

She keeps at it, muttering curses under her breath as the zipper refuses to budge. Finally, she stops, her head dropping forward.

“Can you help?”

I push off the wall and approach her, slowly. “Ask nicely,Kroshka.”

Her eyes roll so hard I think she might sprain something.“Can you please help me, Rafael?”Her tone is drenched in sarcasm.

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