Page 48 of The Devil's Thorn
I’m trained to notice everything.
But this part of my routine?
It’s not about surveillance. It’s abouther.
Anna doesn’t ask for much. Never has. But I’ve made it a point to visit at least every other day. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we just sit in silence, sipping tea like the past doesn’t haunt either of us.
But I know it does.
In different ways.
She thinks I’m just a kind girl with a troubled past who brings food and company. And maybe that’s what I am.
To her.
I slip into the small market on the corner of the block—local, quiet, the owner always nodding with tired eyes and barely a smile. I don’t need directions. I know what she likes.
Roasted chicken. Olives. Soft bread rolls. Sliced cucumber with a drizzle of oil and lemon. The simplest comforts.
I grab a small box of pastries too—she’ll pretend she doesn’t want them and then eat two before I even sit down.
The warmth of the store fades fast once I step outside again, plastic bags dangling lightly from one hand, the wind curling around my ankles.
The sun’s already beginning to set, casting a burnt orange hue across the buildings like the city’s holding its breath.
Same as me.
By the time I reach her apartment building, my steps slow. Old bricks. Ivy curling around rusted bars. A chipped buzzer that never worked properly.
I press the door open with my shoulder and start up the stairs. My pulse evens out as I climb, because for the next few minutes…
I don’t have to think about Rafael Romanov.
I don’t have to be anything butme.
The noises outside fade—the horns, the chatter, the chaos of the city. In here, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that feels lived-in, like secrets have settled in the walls and no one bothers to chase them out.
I climb the three flights without thinking, the bag swinging lightly at my side. My footsteps echo faintly up the narrow staircase. The familiar peeling wallpaper with rose patterns greets me on the landing.
Apartment 3B.
I raise my hand and knock once.
Then again—three soft taps.
The lock clicks after a pause.
And when the door opens, Anna is already smiling, soft and warm, wrapped in a long knitted cardigan that falls to her knees, her silver-streaked hair tied loosely at the back of her neck.
“There’s my girl,” she says, voice always touched with that faint Russian lilt. “You’re late.”
I smile. “By six minutes.”
“Still late.” She steps back and waves me in. “Come, it’s cold. You’ll freeze.”
I step into the apartment, and the scent hits first—lavender, lemon, and something deeper… like old books and dust and memories.
I shut the door behind me as she walks back toward the small kitchen, the floor creaking under her bare feet.
