We walked along the wide road between the square plots, making our way from the oldest graves to the newer ones. The snow had been well cleared here, but ice proved to be a bigger problem, causing our feet to slip every now and then. Tired of balancing on my own, I took Stas by the arm, and together we continued in small steps, glancing around as we went.
And there was a lot to see. Some graves looked neat and well-kept: on some fences, fresh paint gleamed under the weak winter sun, and at the base of the gravestones lay artificial flowers. Though I wasn't a fan of plastic, dead flowers seemed the most appropriate. Fearless against decay, they continued to adorn the modest resting places of the deceased, giving the illusion that someone came to honor their memory regularly, unlike the neighbors overgrown with grass. Tall, dry weeds covered some plots so thoroughly that even peering through them, it was impossible to tell whose grave it was. I felt sadness for those people, imagining scenarios for why no one came to visit them anymore. Perhaps the entire family had long since died, leaving no one to remember them fondly? Or maybe the relatives had simply moved away in search of a better life and hadn't yet returned?
A separate, more pungent ache in my chest came from the thought that the person buried here might not have been so worthy of others keeping bright memories of them or tending to the grave. Out of sight — out of mind, and in ten years, no one would remember their name. Complete oblivion. A mark of Death, erasing a person not only from the world of the living but from history entirely.
"Here," Stas said, carefully guiding me to the right at the intersection. After passing six more plots, we stood in front of a fenced area with a neat, simple marble slab at its center, on which was engraved in even lettering:
Evdokieva Alina Sergeevna
1967–1999
Below the name and dates, in smaller, seemingly newer letters—perhaps because of the shade—read:
Nothing is forgotten. And it never will be.
Stas carefully began removing the protective film from the bouquet and intended to place the forget-me-nots, but seeing someone else's offering, he recoiled, muttering quietly.
"And why does he keep coming," he said with disdain, squatting down.
With two fingers, he lifted the stem of another donor's bouquet sticking out of its wrapping and moved it aside, freeing space for his own. I looked around for a recent visitor, but instead noticed the familiar silhouette of Kaandor. Today he was unusually silent. It seemed as if we and Stas didn't interest him at all: the spirit leaned against a slab several plots away from Stas's mother's grave, staring into the depth of the forest.
"Whose is that?" I asked, noticing Stas grimace as he rubbed his palm against the edge of his jacket, as if the bouquet were dirty, though it appeared clean.
"Probably from my real father," Stas said with engineering precision as he placed the forget-me-nots at the center at the foot of the gravestone.
"The one who never showed up after Vladimir's letter?"
Stas nodded briefly, as if he didn't want to raise the topic.
"Always those nasty white lilies. They stink to high heaven. I smelled them from a few rows away and still hoped I wouldn't find a bouquet from him here. Every year, he beats me to it, no matter when I arrive. If only he had once gathered courage and waited," Stas spoke through clenched teeth, and I saw his hands tighten into fists. The skin stretched, making his knuckles sharp.
I placed my hand on Stas's shoulder to support him, and he didn't brush it off. We stood like that for a while in silence. He was probably forming a birthday greeting for his mother in his mind, one that would remain just between them. I was only a guest here, trying not to interfere, wondering if I would ever find the strength to visit my grandmother's grave myself — the idea of speaking to the dead, who could never respond, seemed strange to me. Yet, watching Stas, I saw nothing more natural than his silent conversation with a mother he never got to know. From what I had heard, Alina died giving birth to her son, hoping only to see her beloved once more. But he never came to say goodbye, nor did he later raise the child.
At that moment, I realized I could easily have ended up in Stas's place if Kostya hadn't found where Maria had run off to. Knowing neither my father nor the real reasons for my parents' split, I would most likely have hated the person who, for some reason, chose to abandon me without even trying to see me. Though I could not feel the flood of emotions that had haunted Stas for years, placing myself in his position was not difficult. People always reach for their roots, seeking a sense of connection with others. To reduce loneliness by finding similar shades of emotion in other lives and discovering new hues to illuminate the path ahead.
"Why didn't you take her last name?" I broke the silence, feeling my fingers stiffen in the winter wind.
"Vladimir put his own on my birth certificate when he decided to take me in, and she managed to stick to it. You know, it was easier for me to think of myself as part of his family, as if the last name alone brought me closer to Diana and Arthur. If I had decided to change it after turning eighteen, that connection would have been cut off."
"You did the right thing leaving the name."
"Asya — the expert on how to live right," he said sarcastically, in a tone like an advertising slogan, like a born marketer. I squeezed his shoulder firmly before I could think, and he yelped.
"Watch your strength," he muttered, rubbing the sore spot. "You're not human anymore."
"Neither are you a sugar cube. Won't melt."
"By the way, speaking of sugar," he began, standing and brushing snow off his knees, brought there by the wind. "It would be nice to have something hot to drink. Maybe some cocoa?"
Stas shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and held out his elbow invitingly, offering me support, and I couldn't help but smile.
"Sounds perfect."