Page 16 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Another word that hit harder than it should’ve.My heart was strong, but that wasn’t the problem.

I didn’t know what to say, so I broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup.

“Where’s Papa?”I asked instead.

Something shifted in her eyes.

“He’s working late,” she muttered.

Mama didn’t look at me, just picked up her spoon and stirred her soup without tasting it.She didn’t ask if I wanted to wait for Papa.Just stirred her soup like it might give her the answers she wasn’t saying out loud.

I watched her for a moment.Something about the way her shoulders curled inward made the kitchen feel smaller.Or maybe I’d just never noticed how quiet it got when Papa was gone.

I wasn’t the kind of son who asked personal questions.Not because I didn’t care, but because it always felt like opening a curtain I wasn’t supposed to look behind.

Still, I asked, “How did you and Papa meet?”

She blinked.Then actually laughed, soft and surprised, like the question had come from someone else.A little blush rose in her cheeks as she finally took a spoonful of her soup.

“Oh, that was a long time ago,” she said, chewing slowly.“Your babushka and his mother arranged it.”

I stared at her.“Arranged?”

She nodded, brushing her bangs back from her forehead.“It was normal, back then.He had excellent prospects.Joined the Party when he was nineteen.Had a decent job—he was laying concrete for a housing project at the edge of the city.This was, oh...’63?The war wasn’t long behind us, and there was so much to rebuild.”

I tried to picture Papa laying concrete.Laughing.Young.

“He was so handsome,” she sighed.“All the girls liked him.Tall, quiet, serious.But he never flirted back.Never paid attention to any of them.He wasn’t like the others.”

Something in her voice tightened, but she kept smiling.

“We were happy,” she murmured.“In our own way.”

Her voice trailed off after that.Her eyes drifted toward the window like she could see something past the frost.

I waited for her to say more, but instead, she stood up and pressed a hand to her temple.

“Dimitri, will you clean up?I think I’m going to lie down.I’m getting a headache.”

I watched her leave, her steps soft but deliberate.

And then I was alone.

I cleared the bowls, washed them slowly under the weak stream of hot water, and stacked them neatly on the drying rack.My mother had always been particular about the dishes.She said how a man treated his kitchen showed how he treated his wife.

As I wiped the counter, my thoughts drifted back to Petyr.

That silly smile of his, and that voice cutting through the noise of the factory like it belonged somewhere better.The way he made people laugh—made me laugh.The way he’d looked at me when I did.

And then I thought of the way Mama had sighed about Papa.He was so handsome, she’d said, like it still hurt to remember.

I pictured Petyr’s eyes, clear and cutting, like they were always looking for the truth in you.And for a second, I wondered—why was I comparing the two?Why did I feel anything at all when I thought about Petyr?

The question flickered, warm and uncomfortable, in the back of my mind.

I turned off the kitchen light and stood in the doorway, listening to the silence in our apartment.

Maybe I’ll get to work next to Petyr again tomorrow?

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