Page 175 of Porcelain Lies

I close my eyes, my body relaxing into his.

For the first time in a long while, I feel no fear of the night.

Chapter Fifty-One

Aleksei

Today is the day.

I tighten my tie with practiced precision, checking that my appearance betrays none of the chaos churning within me. The silk is smooth under my fingers, the crisp white of my shirt unmarred, the tailored lines of my suit sharp as a blade. Each detail is intentional, a façade meticulously crafted. I cannot afford weakness, not today. Not in front of Bobik.

The past few days with Stella and Bobik have felt surreal, like breathing in a bubble of borrowed time. A fragile illusion too beautiful to be real, too fleeting to last. Happiness is a luxury I’m not certain I’ve earned. But today, there’s no time to dwell on such things. Today brings us back to reality like a fist to the jaw. My son’s operation looms ahead like a shadow I cannot outrun.

As I climb the stairs toward his ward, my steps echo against the sterile white walls, louder than they ought to be. With every floor I ascend, I feel the weight in my chest grow heavier, my body betraying the calm I’m trying so desperately to project. When I finally reach the double doors to his wing, I pause, gripping the metal handle. The coolness of it bites into my palm, grounding me for a moment.

I breathe in deeply, eyes closing for just a heartbeat before I step into the space that has been his sanctuary — and his prison. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, sharp but familiar. Bobik’s main carer, Nurse Anna, moves efficiently about the room, packing his essentials. His clothes are neatly folded, his favorite books stacked precisely beside the worn tablet hespends hours on. I note the care she’s taken in arranging everything, and gratitude stirs weakly beneath my anxiety.

“Papa!”My son’s voice cuts through the hum of the medical machines, bright and bursting with an energy that pulls my attention immediately.

I turn toward him, and there he is — my brave little boy, beaming up at me from his wheelchair. His skinny legs are tucked neatly beneath him, his small hands clutching the armrests as if holding himself back from leaping out of the chair through sheer enthusiasm alone. He’s already dressed and ready, wearing the new sweater Stella picked for him, and his excitement practically vibrates off him.

My heart clenches painfully at the sight.

I force a smile, though my face feels stiff and unnatural.“Dobraye utro, malysh,”I say, crossing the room in measured strides. My voice comes out smooth, but inside, my composure is crumbling. I ruffle his dark hair, soft as feathers beneath my hand. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, throwing his arms up as if preparing to take flight. “Dr. Malhotra said I might be able to feel my toes after the first phase! Can you imagine,Papa? Toes!” He wiggles them as best he can, though they remain unresponsive beneath the blanket covering his legs. Despite this, his eyes shine with a fierce, untainted hope that slices straight through me.

I swallow hard and nod. “That would be wonderful,syn.” My words sound steady, but they echo hollowly in my ears. Inside, I feel as though I’m teetering on the edge of breaking.

Please, God.The thought forces its way through the walls of my mind, heavy and desperate.Let this work. Let my son walk.

But if that prayer goes unanswered… I would make any deal — any bargain — to see Bobik run one day. I would surrender my soul to the devil himself if it meant freeing my son from the chair that has bound him for so long.

“We’ll play football together soon!” Bobik chatters on, his voice high and bright, drawing me from my spiraling thoughts. His hands move animatedly as he continues describing the future he can see so clearly — one filled with running, jumping, and all the simple joys he’s been denied. As he dreams aloud, I busy myself checking his bags, ensuring that nothing was forgotten. The mundane task gives my hands something to do, a lifeline to cling to amid my storming thoughts.

“Papa?”His voice slips into a softer tone, pulling my gaze back to him. I turn and find his eyes on me again — steady, serious, far too perceptive for a ten-year-old. It’s a look that sees me far more clearly than I care to be seen. “Are you worried?” he asks, head tilted, his expression open and curious.

The question stills me for a moment. A lie — it would be easy. And yet, looking at him, I know I can’t. He’s endured more truth in his short life than most adults ever will. He deserves better than a false mask.

“Yes,malysh.” I force myself to answer, my voice tight. “A little.”

To my surprise, his small hand reaches for mine, his fingers wrapping around mine with a firmness that belies his delicate frame. “It’s okay to be scared,Papa,” he says, his voice so full of quiet wisdom that my breath catches. “But Dr. Malhotra is the best, right? You made sure of that.”

A sharp, surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it, roughened by the lump in my throat. “When did you become so wise,synok?”

“I learned from you,” he says with a grin so pure it feels like a balm over my fraying edges. His hand squeezes mine. “And soon we’ll play football together! You’ll see!”

Fuck, this kid.

And I do see it — so vividly it hurts. The image of my son kicking a ball, running freely across green grass, laughing with an abandon he has never truly known. I turn away quickly, pretending to busy myself with his things, the weight of that hope pressing down on me too heavily to bear.

“Da,” I whisper tightly. “Soon.”

The drive to the hospital passes in a haze of Bobik’s voice filling the car, a lifeline I cling to. He talks endlessly, explaining the way the neural AI works as though it’s a bedtime story, lacing every word with a passion that soothes and devastates me all at once. My son — a ten-year-old boy — understands technology better than some seasoned engineers, and I marvel at his boundless curiosity even as the thought creeps in, unbidden:Will this curiosity still be here tomorrow if something goes wrong?

Nyet.

It can’t go wrong.

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