Page 8 of Carved in Ruin

Mila looks up from her plate. “Thank you for protecting me,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. I nod, nothing more.

Before the silence can stretch, Layla jumps in, her energy filling the space like too much sunshine in a dark room. I much prefer cloudy days.

“So, Rafael,” she says, her eyes sparkling, “how was the trip here? I hope the roads weren’t too bad?”

I finally notice how she has grown as well, “It was Fine.”

“It’s been raining so much lately! I thought for sure you’d be stuck in it.” Layla continues.

“Yeah.”

“Do you like the mansion? I feel like it’s changed so much since we were kids.”

I shrug, not really a fan of small talk. “It’s alright.”

She chuckles, her laughter bright. “You’re a man of few words, huh?”

“Guess so.”

Despite my clipped replies, Layla continues, seemingly unfazed. “Well, we’re glad you’re here! We should all catch up sometime.”

Mila knocks her glass over, cutting through the conversation. The sound startles the room, but it’s empty, and she quickly sets it upright. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, her voice shaky as she clears her throat. A few loose strands of hair fall over her face, and she pushes them back, her cheeks flushing.

Then her eyes find mine, and she speaks almost in a whisper, as if finally getting the courage to, “Do you remember the fountain?”

I want to tell her no. Lie. Pretend that it didn’t mean anything, that I haven’t thought about it since. But the way she’s looking at me—there’s so much damn hope in her eyes, like it’d shatter her if I denied it. So instead, I just hum, unable to voice the truth: I never forgot her or that damn fountain.

“If you’re finished with your food, we can go sit by it for a little, you know, like old times?”

Before I can respond, Milos slams his hand on the table, rattling the dishes. “Mila, Rafael has no time for these silly ideas of yours.”

“It’s not silly, Father,” she hisses. Milos’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The first time your little princess defies you, Milos? Get ready for a lot more firsts.

“Sure, why not?” I interject as I watch Milos’s fist clench on the table. Mila’s eyes dart to her father again, softening her tone. “I’m sorry, Father. It’ll just be a little while, I promise.” She goes to him, kissing his forehead before grabbing my arm and leading me out the door.

“Wait up for me!” Layla chimes in, stuffing her face with steamed vegetables as she stands.

“Your plate is still full! Eat up, we won’t be long,” Mila rushes to say, her hand gripping my arm as she tries—unsuccessfully—to drag me along. I smirk at her effort, my feet firmly planted, but enjoying the sight of her trying.

Mila looks up at me with those wide, puppy eyes, soft, innocent, the kind that could probably get her anything she wanted. I raise an eyebrow, and only then do I let my feet move, giving her the illusion she’s actually dragging me along, even though we both know she couldn’t budge me if I didn’t let her.

Her hand rests on my forearm. It sends a jolt through me, something electric spreading from where her fingers grip to my shoulder, down to my fingertips. I flex my hand, trying to shake the feeling, but it’s not going anywhere.

We sit on the bench in front of the fountain, and it’s like stepping into a time capsule. Memories flood in, the two of us as kids, running around this fucking thing until we were out of breath. For a second, nostalgia grips me, and I hate it. I glance at her, catching the small smile on her face as she watches me take it all in.

“This,” she says softly, “is my absolute favorite place in the whole world.”

Something shifts in my chest, the cold stone I like to keep there tightening just a little. “Really? And why’s that?” I say, my tone purposely casual. “My favorite place could be a lot of other places—Moscow, Paris…”

Her face falls, just like I wanted.

“No,” she says quietly, but firmly. “I would trade the whole world—every tourist attraction, every city—for just five minutes here if I ever had to make that choice.”

“Why?” I already know the answer, but I need to hear her say it.

She sighs before answering. “Because it’s where a certain little boy and I used to play. I used to hide behind that fountain, thinking I was invisible, and that little boy would pretend not to see me so I could feel like I had the best hiding spot in the world.” She laughs, but it’s tinged with sadness. “We used tochase each other around this fountain until our legs hurt. And… because that little boy and I had a tradition here.”

Neither of us says anything after that, just sitting and staring at the fountain, lost in whatever thoughts haunt us. A cool breeze drifts through, making her shiver, and before I can think twice, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders.

---