Vitaly

My father was handing in his exams right before my eyes. Sitting in his smoke-filled office, he wheezed heavily, shuffling through papers that now seemed like an unbearable burden. You stood by the window, wrapped in a shawl, looking out at the gray pre-New Year landscape. "Vitaly is your husband," Demid said quietly, without looking up. "There's no other way. Without him, we'll be devoured. Understand me." You walked over, leaned over, and gently kissed his dry, medicine-scented cheek. — I understand, dad. I agree. There was no wedding as such. No white dresses, no guests, no congratulations. You signed the marriage certificate in an empty registry office on a gloomy January morning. Vitaly arrived straight from a showdown—a fresh stain of someone else's blood was visible on the sleeve of his dark coat, which he hadn't even thought to wipe away. When the receptionist finished reading the standard speech, Vitaly nodded curtly and said curtly: — You're moving in with me tomorrow. Don't take too much stuff, we have everything there.