Page 9 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I glance up as Marsha appears from around the corner, apron dusted in flour. Her hair’s a little grayer than last year, her smile just as quick. “You’re a day early!”

“Had a shift change,” I say, peeling off my gloves. “Figured I’d drop by before the chaos caught up.”

She pulls me in for a tight hug that smells like vanilla and cinnamon. “You’re too good to us.”

“I’m paying off a debt,” I murmur into her shoulder.

Marsha steps back and waves a hand. “Oh, nonsense. Come in, come in.”

I follow her down the hallway, past the playroom, where a handful of kids are sprawled across the floor with board games and puzzles. A boy with dark curls shrieks with laughter as two girls gang up on him with stuffed animals. The walls are covered in crayon-colored murals, bright and chaotic. I feel it stir inside me—a quiet ache that isn’t sadness exactly, just something deeper, shaped like memory.

I leave the envelope with Marsha at the front desk. She doesn’t look inside. Just presses her hand over mine in thanks, eyes warm. “You could’ve sent it.”

“I wanted to see the place.”

She nods like she understands. Maybe she does.

Before I can ask after some of the older kids, footsteps echo from the back hallway. They’re heavier than the usual staff tread, more deliberate. When I glance up, he’s already coming through the doorway.

William Barlow.

Still tall. Still neat in that rumpled, professorly way. Graying hair combed back, glasses perched low on his nose. His coat’s folded over one arm, and he carries a mug that’s probably gone cold.

“Elise,” he says, smiling like the sun has just come out.

My chest tightens in that old, inexplicable way. I return the smile without thinking.

“William.”

He opens his arms and I step into the hug. It’s brief, familiar. He smells like pine soap and old books. He always has.

“You look good,” he says as we pull apart. “Tired, but good.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Come,” he gestures with his mug. “Walk with me. I’ve just escaped a meeting with the board—they’re threatening to modernize again.”

I fall into step beside him as we move toward his office at the back of the building. The halls are quieter here, lined with old photographs in wooden frames—some crooked, all treasured. He unlocks the door with the same key he’s had for years, the one on the leather fob worn smooth with age.

The office hasn’t changed either.

Books stacked in precarious towers, framed newspaper clippings half hidden under papers, a small window that barely lets in any light. There’s a chipped teapot on the filing cabinet and an old clock ticking softly above the door.

“Sit,” William says, clearing space on the visitor’s chair with a sweep of his arm. “Don’t mind the mess. The chaos is part of the charm.”

I smile and sit, folding my hands in my lap.

He settles behind his desk with a quiet sigh and leans back in his chair, eyes on me like he’s reading more than just my posture.

“You don’t come often,” he says gently. “When you do, it’s usually on days you need grounding.”

He’s not wrong.

“I had a rough shift,” I admit, then shake my head. “No, that’s not it. Just… needed to be somewhere that doesn’t ask anything of me.”

William nods, patient and unhurried. “Here you are.”

“Here I am.”

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