Page 7 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

The walls were a faded blue, like they’d once tried to be cheerful and then given up halfway through.A narrow bed stood against one wall, the mattress bowed in the middle but freshly made with a plain wool blanket.A small dresser squatted beside it, three drawers deep, the handles mismatched.And in the corner stood a cracked floor-length mirror, leaning against the wall like a tired sentry.

“I bought all of it on the black market,” Mama said, watching my face.“With the money you sent us.I saved every kopeck, only used what we needed.But this… this was worth it.”

My throat tightened.

She cupped my face with her hand, her fingers cold but gentle.“Go wash up now.Dinner’s almost ready.”

She kissed my cheek, then left, closing the door softly behind her.

I dropped my bag beside the dresser and turned to the mirror.

The crack ran through the glass like a vein, but it didn’t stop me from seeing the truth.

I didn’t recognize myself.

When I left Leningrad two years ago, I’d been a rail-thin kid with too much hair and not enough spine.Now I stood broader, my shoulders squared, my neck thickened, hands callused and lined with scars.I’d grown into a man, or at least something that passed for one.My jaw was harder, my eyes darker.And the scowl—God, when had that settled in?

I reached up and touched my cheek, then dropped my hand.The reflection didn’t move quite fast enough.Or maybe I imagined that.

With a sigh, I sat on the bed and let myself fall back onto it.The springs groaned, protesting.I stared at the ceiling, watching a slow crack inch its way toward the center light fixture like a road to nowhere.

Was this it?

Was I supposed to wake up every day and churn out blankets until I died?

Was I just another cog in the Party machine now?Like Papa?

He lived like a machine that had forgotten it could be turned off.Work.Come home.Eat.Sleep.Repeat.Never smiled, never laughed unless vodka was involved.Not really.He never sang, never danced, never told stories.Just… moved through the world as though the best thing he could hope for was to not be noticed by it.I ran my hands over my face, rubbed at my eyes.The bed creaked again, reminding me it was there.Reminding me that this room was something.A gift, or at least a brand new start.

I didn’t want that.

God help me, I couldn’t end up like Papa.But what choice did I have?

ChapterThree

Dimitri

The radiator hissed like an angry cat and I rolled over in bed, blinking at the cracked ceiling.For a moment, I forgot where I was.No barracks.No shouting.Just the soft creak of floorboards and the muffled clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.

Mama, always up before the sun.

By the time I dragged myself to the table, the smell of butter and hot milk had filled the flat.She’d made grechnevaya kasha with cream and sugar, plus boiled eggs and black bread toasted in the pan.There was even a dish of jam—apricot, my favorite.A total feast by our standards.She’d spoiled me all weekend, as if she could fill in the last two years with bowls of porridge and careful smiles.

Papa sat across from me, already dressed in his work coat, sipping his tea like it was a punishment.He hadn’t said much all weekend.Not that he ever did.We’d exchanged more looks than words, but even those were stiff.He’d ask how my boots fit or if I needed another pair of gloves.Nothing personal.Nothing about the army or what it was like being back.He didn’t want to know.Or maybe he already did.

He passed the sugar bowl to Mama without looking up.“Next time, don’t overcook the eggs.”

Her smile didn’t falter.“They’re fine.”

He didn’t argue, just kept stirring his tea like he’d said nothing at all.But I caught it—the flicker of regret in his eyes as he glanced at her.Quick and sharp, like a pulled muscle.She didn’t even look his way.

That was the other thing.

I hadn’t said a word about it, but I’d noticed Papa hadn’t slept in their bedroom once.All weekend, I’d heard the creak of the couch under him at night.The sighs.The quiet.They’d finally gotten their own room after years of sharing apartments with strangers, and he wasn’t using it.

Something had changed between them, though neither seemed in a hurry to explain it.Maybe it had always been like that and I just hadn’t noticed as a kid.Or maybe the years apart had stretched something too thin to repair.

Still, none of my business.Right?

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