Page 17 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

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Papa didn’t speak when I got in the car the next morning.Just nodded once, started the engine, and pulled onto the icy road with that same blank stare he wore like armor.It was early, still gray out, the kind of morning that made your joints ache just from existing.

I leaned my head against the window and exhaled a foggy patch onto the glass.Neither of us said anything for the first ten minutes.

Then, somewhere between two streetcar crossings, he asked, “Did you sleep?”

I nodded.“A little.”

Which was a lie.I’d tossed around all night like a dog dreaming of bones.Petyr’s face kept popping into my thoughts—grinning, teasing, bright as a match in a gas leak.Even when I shut my eyes, it was like he was still in the room, perched on the edge of my bed, cracking some joke just to see if I’d finally laugh again.

Papa said nothing in response.I turned my head and studied him out of the corner of my eye.

His skin looked sallow.There was a heaviness behind his eyes, the kind that no sleep would fix.His jaw clenched when we hit a bump in the road.I caught a faint whiff of something sharp—vodka, maybe, or that god-awful cologne he occasionally wore.

I remembered hearing the front door creak open after midnight.I’d been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, when it happened.The sound of his boots being carefully removed.The slow exhale of someone trying not to wake anyone up.

I opened my mouth.“Where were you la—?”

But we were pulling up to the factory.

Papa parked the car with a grunt and stared at the entrance like it personally offended him.

“You remember what I told you,” he said, voice low and clipped.“Work hard.Don’t run your mouth.Keep your head down.Don’t give anyone a reason to notice you.”

I bit the inside of my cheek.“I remember.”

He didn’t say goodbye.Just nodded once again and lit a cigarette like the conversation had never happened.

I got out and slammed the door a little harder than necessary.

The air hit me like a fist, and I smelled wet wool, oil, and metal.I stepped into the tide of bodies moving toward the entrance, men bundled in coats and hats, half of them yawning, the other half already complaining about the line, the cold, the smell, the quotas.One guy tripped and cursed loud enough to draw a laugh.Another lit a cigarette and got smacked for it.

And then, just as I stepped through the enormous steel doors, I saw him.

Petyr.

He was standing a few meters in, coat undone like the cold didn’t touch him, talking to some guy I didn’t recognize.His hands moved when he spoke—he talked like he was narrating an invisible opera.And then, like he sensed me watching him, he turned.

And smiled.

No—grinned.

Without thinking, my face did something I hadn’t asked it to.

It smiled back.

Not the forced kind I gave to Mama when she asked how my day was.Not the tight-lipped nod I offered to coworkers or neighbors.

An actual smile.The kind that cracked open something inside my chest and let the morning air in.

Petyr jogged a couple steps forward like he couldn’t wait to get to me.

And just like that, the factory didn’t feel so gray anymore.

ChapterSix

Petyr

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