Iskra
The constant travelling never tired me out, not when I was learning so much about eastern culture and seeing historic sites I had only ever read about. I thought for certain I would end up in Thailand or Malaysia, but when the early bouts of morning sickness hit, I ended up in Istanbul.
I got lucky with a studio apartment overlooking the Bosphorus Strait. The water changed colour depending on the light—steel grey at dawn, deep blue by midday, something close to gold in the evenings when the sun dropped behind the minarets.
Then there were the churches. The structure and beauty of them made me reconsider my assumption that only Chernograd had the best-maintained places of worship. Even the mosques’ call to prayer was lyrical and soothing—although the early morning ones required earplugs.
I secured a remote position with a law firm doing the same work I had done in Russia. It was tricky at first—a few words lost in translation, the distinct precision of legal English requiring adjustments I hadn’t anticipated. I made the adjustments.
My travelling was over now. The only thing I could focus on was nourishing the new life resting in my womb.
Not Makari. But a brother or sister for him.
Some of the soil from his grave lay in a heart-shaped pendant of glass and gold that I wore against my skin. I didn’t know why, but it made me glad that his memory and the new baby were close together. Carried in the same body. Kept near the same heartbeat.
In the warm summer nights I lay on the decked balcony beneath a starry sky and touched my belly in the dark.
My stomach.
My baby.
No Pakhan.
No Bratva rule.
Fresh food was abundant in the city and I took care with the supplementary vitamins.
I read pregnancy books from front to back and began again from the beginning.
The initial dread had become something I hadn’t expected — sheer joy.
I understood it was the change of environment, the absence of walls that weren’t mine, the specific freedom of waking in a room where no one held the key.
Here, I was in the height of summer and my skin held a glow unlike anything I had known before.
Every interaction, every taste, every new experience—all of it magnified.
I felt alive.
I knew the baby couldn’t hear me yet, but I talked to it every day. From morning to night, unless I was working or outside. I didn’t want people to think I was going mad.
Then one morning my belly simply appeared. Announced itself without warning, the way the baby would likely announce most things in the future. I cradled that bump as it filled my palm and thought—good. You’re here. I know you’re here.
At the edges of my happiness the darkness tried to creep in and I shut it out.
Slammed the door on it. He came into my dreams every so often—pleasant at first, before it turned dark, the way everything with him eventually did.
Those were the days fear took over, making me restless, making me consider moving deeper into Asia. Making me hesitate to contact Ruslan.
My work would allow me to live anywhere. I hadn’t decided yet if that was a comfort or a warning.
As the air grew crisp and the vibrant colours turned golden, I found out I was having a daughter.
I knew I had to let Ruslan know that I was not only surviving but thriving.
I had neighbours now. I knew many of the staff in the shops nearby.
Everyone was warm and curious—especially when they could tell I wasn’t a native.
Their curiosity turned to delight when they learned I lived here rather than passing through.
That I had chosen to stay in their city.
Avito was the closest Russian equivalent to Craigslist—not a social media account where a pattern of activity could be traced, but a message board where a listing could be found and deleted and leave nothing behind.
Even so, now that the stakes were higher, I became more nervous about making contact.
I would sit at my laptop, hands poised, and change my mind. That was how five months passed—me staring at a screen, drafting messages I didn’t send, calculating risk against the ache of silence.
Today was the day.
Winter was coming and my baby was due in spring. Just in time for Makari’s flowers to bloom. For everything to come full circle.
I found Ruslan’s listing under Chernograd, took a breath, and hit message seller. Before I could change my mind, I began to type.
This time I hit send.
Nothing happened.
Not for days or weeks or months.
And we talked to our hearts' content in that time. Away from the eyes of his Bratva. I was able to tell my brother everything. He knew what was at stake—every message deleted from his end, mine cleared the same way. Careful. Methodical. The way I did everything now.
I began to consider names for my daughter. The one I settled on meant secret lore, or whisper. Exactly the way I needed her to remain.
Runa Kozlova.
My parents should have been more careful with my name.
Spark.
I laughed quietly, thinking of the sparkling microwave full of unstable chemicals, and caressed my daughter through the skin of my belly.
“I hope you don’t end up like me,” I said, lying back on the bed. “Wild.”
That was when she moved. I had noticed that walking seemed to lull her to sleep—the rhythm of it, the motion. But stillness woke her. As long as she was safe, nothing else mattered.
I talked to her until my eyes began to close.
My Runa.