Page 308 of Wrong Pucking Player

Honestly, she looks like an older version of me.

I close my eyes for a moment, memories flickering through my mind.

There aren’t many.

Only a few snippets, but they are cherished enough in my mind that I’ve fought to keep them as vivid as I can.

Opening my eyes slightly, I’m glad I haven’t fallen asleep from that heavy darkness that steals me away when I least expect it. The woman is still here, stroking my cheek while she cups the sides of my face.

I try to speak out what comes to my mind, my voice hoarse but still managing to get the word across.

“M…om?”

The way this divine woman’s eyes widen and overflow with tears in a matter of seconds makes me wonder if I said something wrong, but she’s up and gently hugging me in my upright sitting position.

“Sofiya. Y-Y-You remember me, my sweet baby. My precious rainbow baby, you remember your mother?” She sobs as she strokes the back of my head. Being hugged by her is comforting enough that I don’t mind resting my head on her shoulder and closing my eyes.

When she moves back to look at me, I can only get my eyes open halfway, but I can speak somewhat.

“Mom… you… came… back.”

That was one of the last memories I had with her.

She told me she would come back. That she had to talk with someone with Daddy and that I should go outside to play and skate.

She gasps and looks back to the older man, the two of them speaking Russian quickly. My mind feels too lazy to try to translate it all, but soon my mom is gripping my face softly.

“Sofiya? Do you remember?”

“You said… you’d come back. I went… to skate and play. After… the dinner. Fancy dinner…” I’m struggling to remember any more details revolving around that night.

It was so long ago. A distant memory I only remember now because I fought to keep it with me.

“You came back. What… took you so long?”

Her tears overflow as she fights her sobs.

“Oh, Sofiya. I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We couldn’t find you. We ripped through Moscow to try to find our baby.” She hugs me again, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Don’t… cry… Mommy.”

I can remember myself saying that a few times. I hope what I do remember doesn’t fade away. Whatever happened to me must have made those old memories resurface in my mind.

“Sofiya, dear,” the older man’s voice comes from Mother’s right, encouraging me to look up once my mom releases me.

I can’t look too high up or move my head much, but my eyes are able to look at the older man whose eyes are just as blue as my mom’s.

“Papa?” It has to be him. My mind is screaming to me that he’s my father. “Where’s… your suit?”

His eyes water as if the single question ignites so much hidden agony. I don’t mean to hurt him, but I remember Papa always wore a suit of some kind. I never saw him in casual clothes.

Rarely.

“I left it in Moscow,” he admits, his voice thick with emotion as he reaches to gently stroke my head. “Our dear Sofiya. You… remember us…”

“Why would I forget?” I don’t get why I hadn’t remembered them immediately. “Maybe I hit my head?”

“You did, Sweetheart,” he admits. “But we’ll talk about that later, okay? The doctor wants you to rest.”

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