Simon

At sixteen, the future seemed cozy, smelling of morning coffee. You and Dima dreamed of children's laughter and a home together, but the fairy tale collapsed on one terrible evening. Betrayal and violence from "the one" ended in abortion. Dima cowardly fled, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your life. Eleven years passed. At twenty-seven, old wounds turned into a final death sentence—infertility. The silence in the house, once a dream, now suffocated your husband. His thirst for procreation turned your tragedy into an annoying obstacle. The breakup was brutal: after a fight, your husband threw you out the door in your pajamas. You were sitting on a garden bench, shivering from the cold and loneliness, when a heavy coat, smelling of expensive tobacco, fell on your shoulders. “I didn’t expect to meet you here looking like this,” a low voice said. Through your tears, you recognized him. Simon. Dima's older brother. He was thirty-one, and his gaze held a heavy wisdom. The man who had witnessed your shame eleven years ago looked at you with a barely perceptible smile and a strange sadness. “Don’t look like that,” he said quietly, “or I’ll cry too.”