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The Snap of a Dry Twig Under Ivan’s Foot Went Unheard—Suddenly His World Flipped and Blurred into a Kaleidoscope of Colours, Then Burst into a Million Bright Stars That All Converged in His Left Arm Just Above the Elbow. ‘Ow…’ Ivan Grabbed His Injured Arm and Howled in Pain. ‘Vanya!’ His friend Sasha Rushed Over, Kneeling Before Him—’Does it Hurt?’ ‘No, it Feels Lovely, Obviously!’ he Groaned Sarcastically Through Gritted Teeth. Sasha Reached Out and Gently Touched Ivan’s Shoulder. ‘Get off!’ he Suddenly Snapped with Flashing Eyes—’It Hurts! Don’t Touch Me!’ Ivan Felt Twice as Bad: First, He’d Clearly Broken His Arm and Knew He’d Spend the Next Month Enduring His Friends’ Jokes About the Obvious Plaster Cast; Second, He’d Climbed That Tree Himself, Wanting to Show Off His Strength and Daring to Sasha. Accepting the First Reason Was Possible, but the Second Just Infuriated Him All the More. Not Only Had He Embarrassed Himself in Front of That Girl, but Now She Was Trying to Pity Him! No Chance… Jumping Up and Clutching His Lifeless Arm, Ivan Strode Determinedly Towards the Hospital. ‘Don’t Worry, Vanya, It’ll Be Fine!’ Sasha Trotted Along Beside Him, Desperately Trying to Cheer Him Up—’Everything Will Be Okay, Vanya! Everything Will Be Okay!’ ‘Just Leave Me Alone,’ He Stopped, Shot Her a Disdainful Look, and Spat on the Pavement—’How Will It Be Okay? I’ve Broken My Arm, Don’t You Get That? Are You Thick? Go Home, You’re Annoying Me!’ With That, He Walked Away Without Looking Back, Leaving His Friend to Blink Her Large Blue-Green Eyes and Whisper the Same Words: ‘Everything Will Be Okay, Vanya… Everything Will Be Okay…’ *** ‘Ivan Victor, If We Don’t Receive the Funds Transfer Within Twenty-Four Hours, We’ll Be Very Disappointed. Oh, and One More Thing. They’re Forecasting Black Ice on the Roads Tomorrow, So Drive Carefully. You Know, Cars Can Skid and… Accidents Happen, No One is Safe from Those. All the Best to You.’ The Voice on the Phone Fell Silent, and There Was Only Quiet. Ivan Threw the Phone Aside, Gripped His Hair, and Sank Deep into His Office Chair. ‘Where on Earth Am I Supposed to Get That Money? The Next Transfer Isn’t Until Next Month…’ Exhaling, He Grabbed the Phone Again, Dailed a Number, and Pressed It to His Ear. ‘Olga Vasilyevna, Can We Transfer Funds Today to Our Holding Partners for the Equipment Delivery?’ ‘But… Ivan Victor—’ ‘Can We or Not?’ ‘Yes, but Then the Rota—’ ‘To Hell with That! We’ll Sort It Later! Transfer the Funds to the Holding Today.’ ‘Alright, But… There’ll Be Trouble With—’ Ivan Hung Up Before She’d Finished and Slammed His Fist Against the Armrest. ‘Bloody Parasites…’ Something Soft Unexpectedly Touched His Shoulder, Making Him Jump in His Chair. ‘Sasha, Did I Not Ask You Not to Disturb Me While I’m Working? Didn’t I?’ His Wife Alexandra Leaned in and Gently Kissed His Ear, Running Her Hand Through His Hair. ‘Vanya, Please Don’t Stress, Alright? Everything Will Be Okay.’ ‘Oh, Enough Already With Your “Everything Will Be Okay”! You’re Driving Me Crazy, You Know That? They’ll Kill Me Tomorrow—Will It Still Be Okay, Then?’ Ivan Leaped Up, Grabbed Sasha’s Hands, and Pushed Her Away. ‘What Were You Doing? Making a Roast? Then Go and Cook! Don’t Wind Me Up, It’s Bad Enough Without You!’ She Sighed and Headed for the Door. At the Threshold, She Paused, Glanced Back, and Whispered Three Words. *** ‘You Know… I’m Lying Here, Thinking Back Over Our Whole Life…’ The Old Man Opened His Eyes and Looked Mistedly at His Aged Wife. The Once Beautiful Face Was Now Webbed With Wrinkles, Her Shoulders Had Drooped, and Her Posture Was No Longer Straight and Graceful. She Never Let Go of His Hand, Gently Adjusted the Drip Needle, and Smiled Silently. ‘Whenever I Got into Trouble, Was on the Brink of Death, All the Terrible Things Happening… You’d Always Come Along and Say That Same Phrase. You Can’t Imagine How That Drove Me Up the Wall. I Wanted to Choke You Sometimes, For Your Naïveté and Repetition,’ the Old Man Tried to Smile but Lapsed into a Fit of Coughing. Once It Passed, He Continued—’I Broke Bones, Got Threatened a Hundred Times, Lost Everything, Fell into Holes Few Came Out Of—And All My Life, You Kept Saying Just One Thing: “Everything Will Be Alright.” And You Never Lied—That’s the Amazing Bit. How Did You Always Know in Advance?’ ‘I Didn’t Know Anything, Vanya,’ the Old Lady Sighed. ‘Do You Think I Was Telling You? I Was Just Trying to Soothe Myself. I’ve Loved You Like Crazy All My Life, You Silly Man. You’re My Whole World. When Something Bad Happened to You, My Heart Turned Inside Out. I Cried So Many Tears, Spent so Many Sleepless Nights… And Just Kept Repeating to Myself—“Even If the Sky Falls, If He’s Alive, Everything Will Be Alright.”’ The Old Man Closed His Eyes for a Moment and Squeezed Her Hand Weakly. It Was Clear Every Word Came with Effort. ‘So That’s It… And I Got So Angry At You. Forgive Me, Sashenka. I Never Knew… Lived My Whole Life and Never Really Thought About You. Idiot, Aren’t I?’ Unseen, the Old Woman Wiped Away a Tear and Bent Over Her Husband’s Face. ‘Vanya, Don’t Worry…’ For a Moment She Hesitated, Then, Looking Closely Into His Eyes, She Laid Her Head On His Still Chest and Gently Stroked His Cooling Hand. ‘Everything Was Alright, Vanya… Everything Was Alright.’

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I barely noticed the dry twig snap under my shoe; everything just spun upside down in a crazy swirl of colours before exploding into a thousand bright sparks that somehow all ended up blinding pain in my left arm, just above the elbow.

Ow… I gasped, clutching my injured arm, and then I couldnt help but let out a howl.

Harry! Emily, my best mate, dashed over and skidded to her knees in front of me, Does it hurt?

No, it feels wonderful, I groaned, wincing and trying not to cry.

She reached her hand out and gently touched my shoulder.

Get off! I snapped, more harshly than I meant to, glaring at her, It hurts! Dont touch me!

Embarrassment stung almost as much as the pain. First, Id most likely broken my arm and would be forced to trudge around for weeks, a laughing stock with a glaringly obvious cast. But worse, I had only climbed that tree to show off to prove to Emily how strong and clever I was. I could forgive myself the accident, but having to watch her trying to pity me just made me angry. Like I needed her sympathy. Suddenly finding the resolve, I bit my lip, cradled my limp arm, and marched towards the nearest hospital.

Dont worry, Harry! Emily scrambled to her feet and hurried beside me, desperate to cheer me up, Its all going to be alright, I promise!

Oh, just leave it out, I stopped, turned and shot her an angry look, spitting onto the pavement in frustration, How will it? Ive broken my arm, cant you see? Stop following me and go home, will you?

I walked off, refusing to look back, leaving her frozen with her big hazel eyes wide, whispering the same thing again and again.

Its all going to be alright, Harry… Its all going to be alright…

***

Mr Ivan Bennett, if we dont see a bank transfer in the next twenty-four hours, well be deeply disappointed. Oh, and by the way, theres been a weather warning for icy roads tomorrow, so do be careful. You never know with these sudden car accidents, such an unfortunate businesscould happen to anyone. All the best.

The line went dead. I tossed my mobile aside and sank back in my chair, gripping my hair.

Where am I supposed to get the money? That transfer wasnt meant to go out until next month

With a heavy sigh, I grabbed the handset again, dialled quickly, and pressed it to my ear.

Mrs Oliver, can we send payment today to our partners for the equipment delivery?

But, Mr Bennett

Can we, or cant we?

We can, sir but then our payment schedule

Never mind the bloody schedule. Well sort it out later. Make the transfer today, please.

Alright, butthere will be problems with

I ended the call before she could finish, slamming my fist into the armrest.

Bloody leeches

Something soft and unexpected rested on my shoulder. Startled, I nearly leapt from my chair.

Sasha, how many times have I said to leave me be when Im working?

My wife, Alexandra, kissed my ear gently and ran her fingers through my hair.

Harry, darling, just try not to worry, alright? Its all going to be alright.

I shook her off, frustration boiling over. Oh, for heavens sake, will you stop with the Its all going to be alright bit? Cant you see whats happening? If they get to me, will you still tell me its all going to be alright?

I jumped up and, grabbing her gently but firmly by the arms, pushed her away. Werent you cooking? Go back to your stew. Dont wind me up, please.

With a tired sigh she walked out, pausing in the doorway to glance back and quietly repeat those same words, as always.

***

You know… Im lying here and all I can do is remember our whole life together

The old man forced his tired eyes open and gazed up at his wifeher once-beautiful face now lined and pale, her small frame hunched but still gentle. She clung tightly to his hand, quietly adjusting the drip in his arm and giving him a wan smile.

Every time I landed myself in some mess, on the verge of disasterwhenever everything seemed lostyoud come along and say that same line. It used to drive me mad, your blind optimism. I sometimes wanted to shake you, honestly, he chuckled weakly, then coughed, struggling to catch his breath, Broken arms, broken legs, almost getting myself killed, losing everything, tumbling down holes few ever crawl out ofand you just kept telling me, Its all going to be alright. But, astonishingly, you never once lied. How did you always know?

Oh, I never knew, Harry, Alexandra sighed, You think I was talking to you? I was really talking to myself. I loved you so much, you silly man. You are my world. Everything that ever hurt youtore my heart inside out. So many nights I couldnt sleep, so many tears But I just kept telling myself, So long as hes alive, everythings alright, no matter what the world throws at us.

He squeezed her hand as his eyes closed briefly, the words heavy.

I see now and I was so angry with you sometimes. Im sorry, Alex, I never realised I got so caught up in myself, didnt I? What a fool Ive been.

She wiped away a tear she hoped he couldnt see, and leaned down close to him.

Dont worry, Harry

She hesitated, searching his face for a long moment, and thensoftly, with her head on his chest, stroking his cooling handshe whispered,

Everything WAS alright, Harry. Everything WAS alrightA breeze slipped through the hospital window and stirred Alexandras white hair, gentle as a secret. Outside, gold dusk spilled across the citys rooftops. She listened to Harrys breath, slow and whiskery, and felt his pulse echo fragile but steady under her palm. The world beyond their quiet roomthe creditors, the storms, the mess and mayhemseemed impossibly far away.

She pressed her lips to his temple. The machines beeped soft intervals. He smiled, and the lines in his face seemed to smooth at last, as if freed from burdens carried too long.

They stayed like that even after the sun disappearedher head tucked close, his hand enfolding hersand somewhere between the beeps and silence, the old hurts slipped away. In that hush she realized: the words shed clung to all her life had finally, truly come true.

Because sometimes alright doesnt mean unbroken, or easy, or safe. Sometimes it just means together, and loved, and at peace with the world at last.

When Alexandra finally stood and gathered her things, she lingered at the door. Shadows stretched long down the corridor. She turned back with a small, teary smile.

Thank you, Harry, she whispered to the room, for making everything alright.

And stepping into the quiet dusk, she carried the warmth of his hand in hers, a promise fulfilled and a comfort that would lastalways, alwaysno matter what the world might throw.

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On the bedside table sat a photo. Zina picked it up to pack and froze. Ilya, young—mid-twenties—and beside him, a smiling blonde: not Regina. She flipped the photo. “Ilya & Lara. 1998,” faded ink read. Strange. Why would Regina keep a photo of her husband with another woman by her bed? Zina pocketed the photo and continued. Kneeling by the bed, her fingers brushed something wooden—a box. Not locked. Inside, neat stacks of letters, all in the same feminine hand, all carefully opened and resealed. She picked up the top envelope: Ilya A. White, from L.V. Melnikova, Manchester. Dated November 2024—just last month. She sorted through them—the oldest dated 2004. Twenty years. For twenty years, someone had written to Ilya—letters Regina intercepted. She kept them. Didn’t throw them out—kept them. For what? Zina brought the envelope to her nose—the scent was lilies. Regina held them, read and re-read them, their creases worn thin. Zina placed the box on the bed and sat. Her hands trembled. This changed everything. “Ilya.” She found him as before, sitting at the kitchen table, untouched mug of tea before him. “All done?” “No.” She set an envelope in front of him. “Who is Larissa Melnikova?” His face changed—not pale, but hardening. His hand in his pocket clenched. “Where did you find this?” “Box under the bed. Hundreds, spanning twenty years. All opened and resealed. All hidden by your wife.” He was silent for a long time. Then, turning to the window, he replied in a low voice, “Three days ago, after her funeral, I found the box. I thought I could handle her things alone.” “And you still say nothing?” “What can I say? For twenty years my wife stole my mail. Read letters from the woman I loved before her. Kept them—for trophies, for punishment, who knows? Am I to tell Christina, who idolised her mother?” Zina stood. “Your daughter blames me for killing your wife. I’ve lost my job. The internet is tearing my name apart. And you stay silent—afraid of the truth?” He moved towards her. His eyes were tired, dark. “I stay silent because I don’t know how to live with this. Twenty years, Zina. Larissa wrote—but I thought she’d forgotten me, moved on, had a family. And all along…” He trailed off. Zina lifted another envelope. “Manchester—a return address. I’ll go.” “Why?” “Someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then I will.” …Larissa Melnikova lived in a small Manchester flat, geraniums on the windowsill, a cat stretched in the sun. Zina knocked, unsure what to say. A woman about Ilya’s age answered, light hair knotted loosely, wrinkles by her eyes, wary but not unkind. “You’re Larissa Valerie Melnikova?” “That’s me. And you?” “I found your letters. Every one—opened, read, hidden.” Larissa stared at the envelope as if it might bite. Then looked up. “Come in.” At her tiny kitchen table, the two women sipped at cold tea. “For twenty years I wrote to him.” Larissa faltered. “Monthly, sometimes more. Never a reply. I thought he hated me for…letting him go.” “Letting him go?” She gripped her mug. “We dated three years, since uni. He wanted to marry. I panicked—I was twenty-two, thought I had all the time in the world.” “I said wait. He waited six months. Then Regina appeared—beautiful, certain. I lost.” “When they married, I moved to England, to my aunt. Tried to forget. But after five years, I started writing. Not to win him back—just so he’d know I still cared.” “He never replied, not once.” “Not once.” Larissa’s smile was bitter. “Now I see why.” Zina drew out the photo. “I found this by Regina’s bed. ‘Ilya & Lara. 1998.’” Larissa’s fingers shook as she took the photograph. “She kept it—by her bed?” “Yes.” A long silence. “You know,” Larissa said at last, “I hated her all my life—the woman who stole my love. But now…I pity her.” “Twenty-five years with a man, living in fear he might remember someone else. Reading my letters every day—hiding them. That’s hell. Her own, self-made hell.” Zina stood to leave. “Thank you for your honesty.” “Wait,” said Larissa, rising. “Why does this matter to you? You’re not family, not a friend.” Zina hesitated. “They’re accusing me of her death. Christina thinks I wanted her out of the way—to take her place.” “And you want to prove your innocence?” Zina shook her head. “I just want the truth. The rest will follow.” Zina called Ilya on the way back—“I’m coming home.” He waited out front, the evening sun casting long shadows. “You were right,” said Zina. “She wrote for twenty years. Never married, always waiting.” He said nothing, but his right hand clenched and unclenched. “You’ve something in your safe,” Zina said, nodding to his blazer. “You never let go of the key.” A pause. “This way.” Ilya led her to an old safe in his study. Inside was an envelope, Regina’s handwriting—clumsy, angular. “She left this, two days before she died. I found it while searching for funeral papers.” Zina unfolded the letter. It ran to the margins. “Ilya. If you’re reading this, I’m gone and you’ve found the box. I knew you would, eventually. And still, I couldn’t stop. “I started intercepting her letters in 2004—five years after we married. You’d changed, became distant. I found her first letter, I realised: she never let go. I should have showed you, should have asked. But I was afraid—to lose you, for you to choose her. So I hid it, then the next, and the next… “For twenty years, I stole your mail. Read another’s love, hated myself, but couldn’t stop. “I loved you so much I destroyed everything. Your choice. Her hope. My conscience. “Forgive me, if you can. I don’t deserve it. But I ask anyway. Regina.” Zina lowered the paper. “Does Christina know?” “No.” “She should. You know that?” He turned away. “She idolised her mother. This would break her.” “She’s broken already,” Zina said. “She’s lost her mother, and now fears losing her father—so she lashes out at me. She needs a villain, or she’ll have to face her grief—and you can’t fight grief.” Ilya was silent. “If you tell her the truth, she may hate you for a while. But she’ll understand one day. Hide it, and she’ll never forgive—neither you nor herself.” He finally looked at her, tears in his eyes. “I don’t know how to talk to her. Since Regina fell ill… we stopped speaking.” “Then start learning. Tonight.” Christina arrived an hour later. Zina watched through the window as she stepped from her car, ripped the band from her ponytail, froze at the sight of her father on the porch. Their conversation lasted a long time. At first, Christina shouted; then she sobbed; then came silence. When Christina emerged, holding Regina’s letter, her face was blotchy from crying, and her eyes—no longer wild, but lost. She approached Zina. Zina braced for anger or blame. “I deleted the post,” she said quietly. “Posted a retraction. And… I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Zina nodded. “Grief makes us cruel.” Christina shook her head. “Not grief. Fear. I was terrified of being alone—mum left, then dad became a stranger. And you… You saw mum’s last days, you knew her in a way I didn’t. I thought you wanted to take her place, steal my father.” “I don’t want to steal anyone.” “I know. Now I know.” She offered her hand—awkward, as if she’d forgotten how. Zina shook it. “My mum—she was unhappy, wasn’t she? Her whole life?” Zina thought of the letter, of twenty years of fear and jealousy, of love turned into a cage. “She loved your father. In her way. Not well. But she loved him.” Christina nodded, sat on the steps, and wept quietly. Zina sat beside her, saying nothing, only present. Two weeks passed. The surgery gave Zina her job back—after Christina personally rang, vouching for her. Reputation is fragile, sometimes repairable with effort and truth. Ilya called that evening—his familiar velvet timbre. “Miss Paulson. I called to thank you.” “For what?” “For the truth. For not letting me run from it.” Pause. “I’m going to Manchester tomorrow—to see Larissa. I don’t know what I’ll say, or if she’ll even see me. But… I have to try. Twenty years is too long a silence.” Zina smiled. He couldn’t see, but likely heard. “Good luck, Ilya.” “Ilya. Just Ilya.” A month later, he returned—but not alone. Zina learned of it by accident: spotting them together at the market, Ilya with shopping bags, Larissa choosing tomatoes. An ordinary scene—two people picking out vegetables—but their ease together told another story. Ilya saw her and lifted a hand in greeting. The right hand, out of his pocket. Zina waved back and walked on. That evening, she flung open her little window. Outside, May smelled of lilac and diesel—ordinary. Alive. She thought about Regina—her lilies, her locked box of letters, her love turned prison. About Larissa—twenty years of patience, hope against hope. Ilya—his silence, his hidden key, the man who finally chose. And then she let the thoughts drift. She just sat by the window, listening to the city, waiting—though for what, she didn’t know. Her phone rang. “Miss Paulson? Ilya here. Just Ilya. We’re having dinner—Larissa’s making pie. Care to join us?” Zina looked at her flat—twenty-eight square metres of silence. Then at the open window. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She hung up, took her keys, and stepped outside. The door shut softly behind her, and over London’s rooftops, the sunset flared red and warm—promising a gentler tomorrow…
03
“A Good Woman – What Would We Do Without Her? — And You Only Pay Her Two Thousand a Month. — Elena, We’ve Left Her the Flat in Our Will Nicolas slowly rose from bed and shuffled into the next room, his dim eyes falling on his sleeping wife in the glow of the night lamp. He knelt beside her, listening quietly. ‘All seems well.’ He wandered to the kitchen, poured some kefir, popped into the bathroom, then returned to his own room. He lay down but couldn’t sleep: ‘Elena and I are both ninety now. How many years together? Soon we’ll be with God, and no one is left beside us. Our daughters, Natalie—gone before sixty. Maxim too is gone. He went off the rails… There’s a granddaughter, Oksana, but she’s lived in Poland for twenty years. She’s probably got grown-up children of her own by now. Never remembers her grandparents.’ He drifted off without realising. A gentle touch woke him: ‘Nicolas, are you alright?’ came a quiet voice. He opened his eyes. His wife was leaning over him. ‘What is it, Elena?’ ‘You were just lying there, not moving.’ ‘Still alive! Go and sleep!’ Shuffling footsteps sounded. The kitchen light clicked. Elena took a drink, visited the bathroom, then returned to her room, lying down with a sigh: ‘One day I’ll wake up and he’ll be gone. What will I do? Or maybe I’ll go first. Nicolas has even prearranged our memorial. I never thought you could arrange such a thing in advance. But on the other hand, who else would do it for us? Our granddaughter’s forgotten us. Only the neighbour, Jean, comes in. She’s got a key to our flat. Granddad gives her a thousand from our pension—she shops, helps us out. Where else would we spend our money? We can’t even go down the stairs from the fourth floor ourselves anymore.’ Through the window, Nicolas watched the elder tree’s fresh green leaves shimmering in the morning sun. He smiled. ‘We’ve made it to summer!’ He went to see his wife, who was sitting lost in thought. ‘Elena, stop fretting! Come, I want to show you something.’ ‘Oh, I’ve no energy left!’ she groaned, struggling to her feet. ‘What have you got planned?’ ‘Come on, come on!’ He guided her gently onto the balcony. ‘Look, the elder’s green! And you said we wouldn’t make it to summer. We did!’ ‘Oh, so it is! And the sun’s shining.’ They sat on the bench together. ‘Remember when I took you to the pictures? Back at school. The elder turned green that day too.’ ‘You never forget such things, do you? Seventy-five years ago now.’ They reminisced for ages. So much is forgotten in old age—even yesterday’s details—but never your youth. ‘My word, we’ve been nattering! We’ve not even had breakfast.’ ‘Elena, make some good tea—not this herbal business!’ ‘We’re not supposed to.’ ‘Make it weak and pop a spoon of sugar in, if you will.’ Nicolas sipped the weak tea and nibbled a little cheese sandwich, thinking of the days when tea was strong and sweet, with pies or pancakes for breakfast. Their neighbour dropped in, smiling warmly. ‘How are you both?’ ‘Still cracking jokes at ninety,’ grinned Nicolas. ‘If you can joke, you’re doing alright. Need anything from the shops?’ ‘Jean, buy us some meat,’ Nicolas pleaded. ‘You’re not supposed to have it.’ ‘Chicken’s allowed.’ ‘Alright, I’ll get some. I’ll make you noodle soup for lunch!’ She tidied, washed up and left. ‘Elena, let’s get some sun on the balcony.’ ‘Let’s.’ Jean came outside. ‘Missing the sunshine, are you?’ ‘It’s lovely out here, Jean!’ smiled Elena. ‘I’ll bring your breakfast out. And start lunch, too.’ ‘She’s a good woman—what would we do without her?’ ‘And you only give her two grand a month.’ ‘Elena, we’ve left her the flat.’ ‘She doesn’t know that.’ They sat outside until lunch. Chicken noodle soup—rich, with pieces of meat and creamy potatoes: ‘I always made soup like this for Natalie and Max when they were small,’ Elena remembered. ‘And now in old age, strangers cook for us,’ Nicolas sighed. ‘Maybe it’s our destiny, my dear Nicolas. When we’re gone, there’ll be no one to cry for us.’ ‘Enough now, Elena—let’s have a nap!’ ‘Nicolas, they say: “Old men are like children.” Everything’s like childhood—soft soup, nap time, and tea.’ After a doze, Nicolas shuffled to the kitchen. Two glasses of juice were waiting, set out by Jean. He carried them carefully to his wife’s room, where she stared into the window. ‘Why glum, Elena? Here’s some juice!’ She sipped some. ‘Can’t sleep either?’ ‘Must be the weather.’ ‘I’ve not felt right today either,’ Elena admitted quietly. ‘I think my time is nearly up. Please make sure I’m buried properly.’ ‘Don’t say things like that, Elena. How will I live without you?’ ‘One of us has to go first.’ ‘Enough! Come onto the balcony with me.’ They sat until evening. Jean made cheese pancakes. They ate, then watched TV as usual. New films were hard to follow these days, so they stuck to old comedies and cartoons. Tonight, just one cartoon before Elena stood up. ‘I’ll go to bed, feeling tired.’ ‘Me too then.’ ‘Let me have a good look at you!’ she suddenly said. ‘Why?’ ‘Just want to.’ They looked at each other a long while. Remembering, perhaps, when everything was before them. ‘I’ll walk you to your bed.’ Arm in arm, they slowly left the room. He tucked her in carefully before heading to his own bed. Something weighed on his heart. He barely slept. He thought he must not have slept at all but saw it was two am. He went to his wife’s room. She lay with eyes wide open. ‘Elena!’ He took her hand. ‘Elena! Oh, Elena—!’ Suddenly his own breath faltered. He returned to his room, put the prepared documents on the table. Back to his wife. He gazed at her for a long time. Then lay beside her and closed his eyes. He saw his Elena, young and beautiful as seventy-five years ago, walking towards a light. He ran to catch up, taking her hand. In the morning, Jean entered the bedroom. They lay side by side, the same peaceful, happy smile on both faces. At last, she rang for an ambulance. The doctor shook his head in wonder: ‘They went together. Must have truly loved one another…’ They were taken away. Jean sank onto a chair. Then she saw the papers—the will, in her name. She bent her head and cried… Please give a like and share your thoughts in the comments below!”
07
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The Snap of a Dry Twig Under Ivan’s Foot Went Unheard—Suddenly His World Flipped and Blurred into a Kaleidoscope of Colours, Then Burst into a Million Bright Stars That All Converged in His Left Arm Just Above the Elbow. ‘Ow…’ Ivan Grabbed His Injured Arm and Howled in Pain. ‘Vanya!’ His friend Sasha Rushed Over, Kneeling Before Him—’Does it Hurt?’ ‘No, it Feels Lovely, Obviously!’ he Groaned Sarcastically Through Gritted Teeth. Sasha Reached Out and Gently Touched Ivan’s Shoulder. ‘Get off!’ he Suddenly Snapped with Flashing Eyes—’It Hurts! Don’t Touch Me!’ Ivan Felt Twice as Bad: First, He’d Clearly Broken His Arm and Knew He’d Spend the Next Month Enduring His Friends’ Jokes About the Obvious Plaster Cast; Second, He’d Climbed That Tree Himself, Wanting to Show Off His Strength and Daring to Sasha. Accepting the First Reason Was Possible, but the Second Just Infuriated Him All the More. Not Only Had He Embarrassed Himself in Front of That Girl, but Now She Was Trying to Pity Him! No Chance… Jumping Up and Clutching His Lifeless Arm, Ivan Strode Determinedly Towards the Hospital. ‘Don’t Worry, Vanya, It’ll Be Fine!’ Sasha Trotted Along Beside Him, Desperately Trying to Cheer Him Up—’Everything Will Be Okay, Vanya! Everything Will Be Okay!’ ‘Just Leave Me Alone,’ He Stopped, Shot Her a Disdainful Look, and Spat on the Pavement—’How Will It Be Okay? I’ve Broken My Arm, Don’t You Get That? Are You Thick? Go Home, You’re Annoying Me!’ With That, He Walked Away Without Looking Back, Leaving His Friend to Blink Her Large Blue-Green Eyes and Whisper the Same Words: ‘Everything Will Be Okay, Vanya… Everything Will Be Okay…’ *** ‘Ivan Victor, If We Don’t Receive the Funds Transfer Within Twenty-Four Hours, We’ll Be Very Disappointed. Oh, and One More Thing. They’re Forecasting Black Ice on the Roads Tomorrow, So Drive Carefully. You Know, Cars Can Skid and… Accidents Happen, No One is Safe from Those. All the Best to You.’ The Voice on the Phone Fell Silent, and There Was Only Quiet. Ivan Threw the Phone Aside, Gripped His Hair, and Sank Deep into His Office Chair. ‘Where on Earth Am I Supposed to Get That Money? The Next Transfer Isn’t Until Next Month…’ Exhaling, He Grabbed the Phone Again, Dailed a Number, and Pressed It to His Ear. ‘Olga Vasilyevna, Can We Transfer Funds Today to Our Holding Partners for the Equipment Delivery?’ ‘But… Ivan Victor—’ ‘Can We or Not?’ ‘Yes, but Then the Rota—’ ‘To Hell with That! We’ll Sort It Later! Transfer the Funds to the Holding Today.’ ‘Alright, But… There’ll Be Trouble With—’ Ivan Hung Up Before She’d Finished and Slammed His Fist Against the Armrest. ‘Bloody Parasites…’ Something Soft Unexpectedly Touched His Shoulder, Making Him Jump in His Chair. ‘Sasha, Did I Not Ask You Not to Disturb Me While I’m Working? Didn’t I?’ His Wife Alexandra Leaned in and Gently Kissed His Ear, Running Her Hand Through His Hair. ‘Vanya, Please Don’t Stress, Alright? Everything Will Be Okay.’ ‘Oh, Enough Already With Your “Everything Will Be Okay”! You’re Driving Me Crazy, You Know That? They’ll Kill Me Tomorrow—Will It Still Be Okay, Then?’ Ivan Leaped Up, Grabbed Sasha’s Hands, and Pushed Her Away. ‘What Were You Doing? Making a Roast? Then Go and Cook! Don’t Wind Me Up, It’s Bad Enough Without You!’ She Sighed and Headed for the Door. At the Threshold, She Paused, Glanced Back, and Whispered Three Words. *** ‘You Know… I’m Lying Here, Thinking Back Over Our Whole Life…’ The Old Man Opened His Eyes and Looked Mistedly at His Aged Wife. The Once Beautiful Face Was Now Webbed With Wrinkles, Her Shoulders Had Drooped, and Her Posture Was No Longer Straight and Graceful. She Never Let Go of His Hand, Gently Adjusted the Drip Needle, and Smiled Silently. ‘Whenever I Got into Trouble, Was on the Brink of Death, All the Terrible Things Happening… You’d Always Come Along and Say That Same Phrase. You Can’t Imagine How That Drove Me Up the Wall. I Wanted to Choke You Sometimes, For Your Naïveté and Repetition,’ the Old Man Tried to Smile but Lapsed into a Fit of Coughing. Once It Passed, He Continued—’I Broke Bones, Got Threatened a Hundred Times, Lost Everything, Fell into Holes Few Came Out Of—And All My Life, You Kept Saying Just One Thing: “Everything Will Be Alright.” And You Never Lied—That’s the Amazing Bit. How Did You Always Know in Advance?’ ‘I Didn’t Know Anything, Vanya,’ the Old Lady Sighed. ‘Do You Think I Was Telling You? I Was Just Trying to Soothe Myself. I’ve Loved You Like Crazy All My Life, You Silly Man. You’re My Whole World. When Something Bad Happened to You, My Heart Turned Inside Out. I Cried So Many Tears, Spent so Many Sleepless Nights… And Just Kept Repeating to Myself—“Even If the Sky Falls, If He’s Alive, Everything Will Be Alright.”’ The Old Man Closed His Eyes for a Moment and Squeezed Her Hand Weakly. It Was Clear Every Word Came with Effort. ‘So That’s It… And I Got So Angry At You. Forgive Me, Sashenka. I Never Knew… Lived My Whole Life and Never Really Thought About You. Idiot, Aren’t I?’ Unseen, the Old Woman Wiped Away a Tear and Bent Over Her Husband’s Face. ‘Vanya, Don’t Worry…’ For a Moment She Hesitated, Then, Looking Closely Into His Eyes, She Laid Her Head On His Still Chest and Gently Stroked His Cooling Hand. ‘Everything Was Alright, Vanya… Everything Was Alright.’