Kirill Egorov

“I don’t have time for this at all, my father could go to jail,” Kirill turned back to the table, gripping the edge of the tabletop so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

A heavy, sticky silence fell over the room. The only sound was the monotonous patter of autumn rain on the windowsill outside. Lena, standing by the doorway, was in no hurry to leave. She watched his hunched back, his shoulder twitching nervously.

"And your mother? Do you even have one?" she asked. There was no mockery in her voice, only that straightforward, almost rude simplicity for which Kirill had once loved her, and now hated her.

Kirill froze. He slowly turned his head, and Lena saw his face: pale, with deep shadows under his eyes that looked like black pits.

“She… she’s back now,” he breathed out,