Page 128 of Porcelain Lies

“Are you hungry?” I check my watch. “It’s past lunchtime.”

“Can we havepelmeni?” His voice softens. “Like Mama used to make?”

The request squeezes my chest. “Of course,malysh. I’ll have the kitchen prepare them right away.”

I text the kitchen staff, then turn back to find Bobik staring at his hands.“Papa?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Mama can see my drawings from heaven?”

I swallow hard, reaching for his small hand. “Every single one,malysh. She must be very proud of you.”

His fingers tighten around mine. We sit in comfortable silence until a gentle knock announces lunch. The aroma ofpelmenifills the room as I help him arrange his tray.

“Will you stay?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

“Konechno.” I pull up a chair. “Someone needs to learn more about these three-hearted creatures.”

His smile, though tinged with sadness, is genuine. We eat together, his voice growing stronger as he shares moreocean facts, each bite of his mother’s favorite dish a bittersweet comfort.

I notice Bobik’s gaze drifting to his window as he finishes the lastpelmen. The afternoon sun turns the garden gold, making the pool shimmer like polished glass.

“Papa…”His voice carries that hopeful tone that always twists my gut. “Could we maybe go outside? Just for a little while?”

My jaw clenches. The back garden is secure and enclosed, surrounded by twelve-foot walls and constant surveillance. But the risk—

“Please?” He sets down his fork. “I’ve been reading about photosynthesis. And I want to see how the sun affects different plants.”

“Syn, you know it’s not safe.” The words come automatically, the same response I’ve given a hundred times.

His shoulders slump slightly, but he rallies. “We could go when it’s darker? No one would see then.”

I run a hand over my jaw, security protocols and evacuation routes cycling through my mind.

“I promise I’ll be careful.” His voice drops low. “I just… I miss feeling the wind.”

Blyad.

I study my son’s face — Olga’s gentle features mixed with my determination. He’s been trapped up here since she passed, watching life through windows while processing his mother’s death.

“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Just for a while.”

His entire face lights up. “Pravda?Really?”

“Under strict conditions.” I hold up my hand before his excitement can build further. “We come in the moment I say so. No arguments.”

He nods eagerly, already reaching for his wheelchair controls. “Can we go by the roses? Mama always said they smell sweetest at this time of day.”

My chest tightens. “Da,malysh. We can check the roses.”

I guide Bobik’s wheelchair through a hidden hallway out of the manor and down toward a private section of the gardens. The security cameras track our movement, but I scan the perimeter anyway. Old habits. The walls cast long shadows in the fading light, but they’re not tall enough to ease my paranoia.

“Papa, look!” Bobik points to a monarch butterfly landing on a nearby rose. His excitement makes my hands tighten on the wheelchair handles. Too loud. But there’s no one to hear except the guards I trust with my life — and his.

“Here.” I stop at a small clearing between the roses and a marble fountain. The spot offers clear sightlines in all directions while keeping us concealed from the main house. The fountain’s gentle splash will mask our conversation.

Perfect.

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