Vitaly

Father was fading before your eyes. Sitting in the smoke-filled office, he wheezed heavily, sorting through papers that now seemed like an unbearable burden to him. You stood by the window, wrapping yourself in a shawl, staring out at the gray pre-New Year landscape.

— Vitaly is your husband, — Demid said hollowly, without looking up. — There is no other way. Without him, they'll devour us. Understand me.

You stepped closer, leaned down, and softly kissed his dry cheek, which smelled of medicine.

— I understand, Dad. I agree.

There was no wedding as such. No white dresses, no guests, and no congratulations. You signed the papers in an empty registry office on a gloomy January morning. Vitaly arrived straight from a confrontation — a fresh stain of someone else's blood was visible on the sleeve of his dark coat, which he hadn't even bothered to wipe away.

When the registrar finished reading the standard speech, Vitaly gave you a curt nod and tossed out shortly:

— You move in with me tomorrow. Don't bring many things; everything is already there.