Alexandra returned home around 7:30 p.m., when the city was finally plunged into autumnal darkness.
She walked more slowly than usual from the bus stop, not out of fatigue, but simply out of tranquility.
What awaited her at home was something she had never gotten used to in the past two months.
Vika was there.
She stopped in front of the entrance and looked up at the dark windows of the third floor.
The light was on in the kitchen.
So there was someone.
Vika had probably prepared something, or, more likely, had eaten the meal that Alexandra had cooked that very morning.
She inhaled the cold air.
Viktoriya Kulikova.
Twenty years.
Anatoly's daughter, from his first marriage.
Until September of that year, only one name appeared in the old papers: that of a man whose existence Alexandra knew, but whom she tried to forget.
Far from everything, in another city, in another life.
Then Anatoly called him from work, in a contrite voice, like a little boy who had broken a window.
— Sasha, there's a problem…
wrote Vika.
He came to our city to submit his application, to file his case.
He says he has nowhere to go.
And I thought to myself…
"No," exclaimed Alexandra immediately, before he could finish.
— Sasha.
— Don't force him.
But Anatoly persuaded her.
He managed to convince her — gently, patiently, with a repentant look.
He spoke to her about blood, about the fact that she couldn't do anything about it, that it was only temporary — until she was accepted and integrated into the home.
He told her that Sasha was a good person, that he would understand that it was the right thing to do.
At first, it wasn't so bad.
The first week passed almost peacefully: Vika was calm, polite, called Sasha by her first and last name, and tidied her things.
Anatoly was beaming.
