Chapter 54 Aftermath
Natalia was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, softer than Anya had heard it.
"Are you sure?"
Anya's eyelids lifted, and her gaze drifted to the fire crackling in the hearth, the flickering flames casting eerie shadows on the walls. Her eyes landed on the mantel, where her father's photograph still held its place.
"I'm sure."
Natalia nodded slowly. She crossed to the door, pulled it open stepping onto the porch. The cold rushed in, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of earth, winter and the faint distant scent of the man who was waiting at the gate.
Anya didn't move from the chair. She watched through the window as Natalia walked down the path, her boots crunching on the gravel, her figure small against the darkening sky. She watched as Natalia reached the gate, as she stopped in front of Dima, saying something Anya couldn't hear.
Dima's hands tightened on the bars, his shoulders rose and fell, then he turned his face toward the house one last time, as if he could see her through the glass and walls she'd built between them.
He backed away from the gate, the gravel crunching under his feet. He slid into the car, the door shutting behind him like a sigh. The engine roared to life, and the headlights slashed through the night, illuminating the trees like skeletal fingers.
The car inched forward, lingering as if hoping for a voice to call out, a hand to wave it back. It crept down the road until it was swallowed by darkness.
Natalia remained at the gate, her figure etched against the fading taillights. The wind whispered through her hair, teasing strands loose from her coat. It rustled the trees, a mournful sigh that seemed to echo her stillness. She stood there, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the blackness, as if waiting for a heartbeat that wouldn't come.
When she finally came back inside, her cheeks were red with cold, her hands tucked into her pockets, her grey eyes steady on Anya's face.
"He'll be back," she said quietly. "He's not the kind of man who gives up, not on the people he loves."
Anya stared at the fire. "I know."
"He wanted to see you, he said he had things to explain and things he should have told you before." She paused, her voice softening. "He said he was sorry that he'd been wrong. That he'd spend the rest of his life making it up to you, if you'd let him."
Anya's throat tightened. "He should have said that when I asked because I gave him a chance to do that."
"He knows." Natalia turned from the mantel, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes sad.
They sat in silence for a long time, the fire crackling, the wind moving through the trees outside. Anya watched the flames, saw Dima's face in them, saw his hands on the gate, saw the way he'd looked toward the house before he left.
She could have gone to him. Could have run down the path, opened the gate, let him hold her. Could have let his explanations wash over her, his apologies, his promises, the words he should have said before.
But she wasn't ready. Not yet. The wound was still too fresh, the silence too loud, the memory of her mother's face too clear.
She would see him again. She knew that. He would come back, and she would have to face him, have to hear what he had to say, and have to decide if she could forgive a man who had let her mother burn to keep her safe.
But tonight, she let him go.
The fire burned low. The house settled around them, old and solid and safe. Anya sat in her father's chair, in her father's house, and watched the embers fade to ash.
Natalia was quiet beside her, a presence, a witness, a woman who had been dead for fifteen years and came back to life to find a girl who didn't know if she could forgive the man she loved.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees. Somewhere on the dark road, a car was driving away, carrying a man who had driven three days to find her, who had stood at her gate and waited, who had turned away when she wasn't ready to let him in.
She would see him again. She would have to.
But tonight, she let him go.
Natalia stood at the window long after Anya had gone upstairs.
She watched the dark road, the empty gate, the place where Dima's car had been. He was gone, but she knew he'd come back. He was his mother's son, and Katya had never known when to leave well enough alone either.
She thought of the look on his face when she'd told him Anya wasn't ready. The way his hands had tightened on the gate, the way his shoulders had dropped, the way he'd looked at the house like it held everything he'd ever wanted and he was watching it slip away.
Thoughts of Anya when she was sitting by the fire, her hands dirty from the garden.
The girl wasn't ready but she would be cause she was her father's daughter, and Alexander Petrova had never been able to stay away from a fight.
Natalia let the curtain fall. She moved to the fire, stirred the embers, and watched the flames leap up gain.