My son.
Every night in that cave, I’d tortured myself with the same questions.
Was Dmitri alive? Had he survived the warehouse? Had he kept Vanya safe?
My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
I spun, heart slamming.
Before I could answer—before I could prepare—the handle turned.
The door opened.
Two figures stepped inside.
Seraphina.
And Vanya.
The world tilted violently.
Vanya froze first. His small body went rigid, blue eyes widening as they locked onto mine.
For a split second, he looked older—too observant, too serious—nothing like the child I remembered before I was torn from him at five. Twelve months ago. Now he was six.
My heart seized so violently I thought it might simply stop.
Vanga stood beside her.
He was taller now. His legs were longer, his shoulders broader, his dark hair curling softly at the nape of his neck the way Dmitri’s did when he was young.
He looked well-fed, sun-kissed, undeniably healthy. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and navy shorts, expensive but understated, the uniform of a child raised in wealth and safety.
But his eyes—
They weren’t searching for me.
They weren’t lighting up with recognition.
They studied me with polite curiosity. Careful. Distant. The way a child looks at a stranger whose presence has been explained but not felt.
Seraphina’s fingers were wrapped around his hand.
Possessive. Casual. Familiar.
Her other hand rested lightly on his shoulder, as though staking a claim no one could dispute.
She was immaculate—cream silk blouse tucked into tailored trousers, hair glossy and perfectly arranged, makeup subtle enough to suggest effortlessness.
She looked like she belonged here. Like this house had been built around her.
I couldn’t speak.
My throat closed, lungs locking as though the air had turned to glass.
“Vanya,” I finally whispered.