Marina pulled off the wet scarf, still carrying the damp March air. The hallway smelled of wet concrete, garbage, and the unfamiliar scent of frying meatballs—everything as usual. Only inside her, everything was in turmoil.— I did it because you and Mom turned my apartment into a thoroughfare.
I was tired of coming home and guessing what would be missing today.Igor rubbed his face, eyes half-closed.— Marina… you’re imagining things. Nobody is stealing from you.— Really? And my grandmother’s earrings? The ring? The car? — Her voice was low, almost gentle, yet it vibrated with steel.
— Those also “just disappeared”?He turned away, as always when he was speechless. Marina knew: he would say nothing. No truth, no apology, no explanation.And that—his refusal to stand up for her while covering for others’ “actions”—was the last straw.
She had waited all these years for Igor to finally be on her side. But he hadn’t chosen her.Marina went to the kitchen, threw her bag onto a chair, and turned on the kettle. She needed something to do with her hands, or she would either cry or throw the cup against the wall.
Quietly, Igor followed:— Marina… let’s talk calmly. Mom only wanted to help. She’s worried because you cling to this inheritance like…— Like what’s left of my father? — Marina looked at him sharply. — Are you serious?He opened his mouth, then closed it again. A shrug.
Suddenly she realized: they lived in different worlds. For her, the apartment was memory, home, a piece of childhood. For him, it was just an object to “design,” “sell,” or “share.”He sat across from her, hands clasped.— Marina, think about it. Old construction, moisture from the river,
neighbors—the place is still half stuck in the nineties. And it’s far away. Mom is right: better sell it, build new, start with a clean slate.Marina laughed quietly, bitterly:— What clean slate? The one where your mother walks freely through my apartment like now? Or the one where she pawns my things again to “help us”?
— You’re exaggerating…— And you don’t see the obvious.The silence stretched like a string about to snap.She knew: if they continued now, words would fly like knives. And Marina realized for the first time: she didn’t want to fix anything anymore. She wanted her life back.
— I’m moving to Frunze, — she said calmly. — Alone. I’ll change the locks. Igor, I’m done defending my property from your family.He jerked his head up abruptly:— So you’re kicking me out?— I’m not your landlord. You decide where and with whom you want to live.
His face contorted—not in anger, but in fear. Finally, he understood: she meant it.Marina stood, took the bag of documents from the cupboard, and packed it slowly, carefully. Every movement gave her strength.Igor jumped up:
— Wait… let’s not act so suddenly. You know Mom’s hot-headed. We can sort this out. I’ll talk to her.— You already “talked.” — Marina closed the bag. — And what came of it? A new lock. Empty shelves.He tried to stop her, fingers trembling, eyes darting between the door and the bag.
But he didn’t step closer. Had he hoped she would back down?But Marina no longer wanted to be comfortable.She grabbed her coat. Igor whispered behind her:— Don’t… Marina, don’t go now…But she opened the door.The stairwell was colder than outside, the wind pressed through the gap beneath the door.
Marina descended, suddenly aware that Igor was following.— Marina… — his voice cracked — I don’t want to lose you.She stopped, half-turned.— Then tell your mother “no.” Tell her that my apartment is my home. That she cannot enter without my permission. That she may not touch my things again.
He was silent. His shoulders slumped. Everything was clear.Marina nodded—not to him, but to herself.— That’s why I’m leaving.With each step down the stairs, the weight fell from her shoulders like wet March snow.Outside, she paused, inhaled the damp air.
The city pulsed frenetically: cars splashing through puddles, people rushing, street sweepers cursing the weather. Everything ordinary. Only inside her, something irreversible was stirring.She called a taxi. Frunze. The apartment greeted her with damp air, creaking floorboards, silence.
But this silence was hers. Real. Honest.She switched on the light, noticed the missing chairs, the shifted books. Not the most valuable, but the ones her father left on the table when darkness fell early outside.Marina closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
“Old junk,” her stepmother would have said.But for her—walls that remembered her. And no one would ever intrude again.She wandered through the rooms, touching the untouched things. Opened the window, let in the cold air. She stared long at the street:
scattered people, gray cars, black, springless branches.And suddenly she felt it: a storm is coming. Still unnamed, still distant, but perceptible, like the vibration of a motor before a car appears on the street.Because Igor wouldn’t give up. Natalia Sergejevna even less.
They were not used to being confronted with faits accomplis.Marina approached her father’s desk, ran her hand over the smooth surface. The study was now empty—and therefore all the more meaningful.— Dad, — she whispered — I can do this.
With those words, she drew the curtains, switched off the light, and felt, for the first time in weeks, true peace.But in the morning……a phone call tore her from the silence and shook everything once again.
