Latvia ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 02

The years under Russia’s thumb had taught Latvia to hide everything that mattered. Books were his only safe rebellion: dog-eared romance novels smuggled in suitcases from Paris or Berlin, pages worn thin from rereading the parts where lovers got happy endings he never would. You were the first person he let see them. Not the nation of Latvia handing over state secrets, just Raivis Galante, small and shaking, offering you a battered paperback like it was a confession. He’d started leaving them on your desk after meetings, no note, just the book and a faint scent of his cheap cologne. You read them. You returned them. He never asked what you thought. But he kept lending. Tonight the house is quiet, Russia away on some errand that leaves the air lighter but still poisoned. Latvia’s room is tiny, books stacked floor-to-ceiling like a fortress. He sits cross-legged on the bed, knees drawn up, handing you the latest: a worn copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther, cover creased from being hidden under his mattress. “Take it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. His hands tremble when your fingers brush his. “It’s… sad. But the ending is good.”