Lucas really went overboard this time.
A private aircraft. For four people, one of whom weighed less than a suitcase.
I stared at it for a solid ten seconds before turning to Lucas.
"You're joking."
He wasn't. The grin on his face said he was proud of this madness.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, hands in his coat pockets. "It was the only thing available on short notice."
"Available?" I raised an eyebrow. "You rented a flying mansion, Lucas. For what—three hours of sky?"
He shrugged. "Comfort builds morale."
"I'd rather build savings."
Behind us, Maya was balancing Mona on her hip, wide-eyed at the sight of polished leather seats and champagne coolers.
"Anna," she whispered, "are you sure this isn't illegal?"
"Knowing Lucas?" I sighed. "Eighty percent chance it is. He working in Air Force, don't worry"
Then I glanced at him and added, "He worked in the Air Force. Don't worry."
Lucas shot me a mock glare. "Working , continuous tense. And for the record, this is perfectly legal."
"Uh-huh," I said, crossing my arms. "That's exactly what every criminal says right before takeoff."
Just as I was about to step onto the aircraft stairs, Hugo called out behind me.
"Miss Anna."
I turned. The rain had started again — thin, almost polite. He was standing there, one hand shielding something from the drizzle. A folded note.
"He wanted you to have this," Hugo said quietly. "Your father wrote it last night."
I hesitated, then took it from him. The familiar, deliberate handwriting stopped me cold for a second — sharp strokes, too formal to be tender, too careful to be cold.
Safe trip. Moscow started to cold. K-L.
I hesitated, I hide him, lied to him that I will return to Moscow to continue my career there.
The words blurred for a moment before I caught myself.
"Still signing like a report," I muttered, tucking it into my coat pocket. "Guess some habits die slower than their owners."
Hugo's mouth twitched, as if he wanted to say something but didn't.
"Be well, Miss."
"You too, Hugo," I said, forcing a small smile before turning toward the stairs.
And as the engines roared to life, I pressed my palm against the pocket where the letter was — the ink faintly smudged from my fingers — and whispered, barely audible even to myself.
"I hope…something will change,…"
The hum of the engines was steady, almost soothing — like white noise meant to drown out thoughts I didn't want to hear.
Mona had fallen asleep across two seats, her head tilted against Maya's shoulder, a blanket tucked up to her chin.
For a moment, I just watched the slow rise and fall of her chest — small, fragile, steady.
Lucas was snoring somewhere behind me, probably drooling on the window.
Typical.
I turned back to the window, tracing my reflection in the glass — hair messy, eyes ringed with sleeplessness, the faint outline of my hearing aids catching the cabin light.
Outside, the world was just dark sky and streaks of rain, cutting through the glass like veins of light.
"You think she'll get better there?" I asked, my voice low, almost afraid to disturb the rhythm of the engines.
Maya didn't look at me. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, as if following some thought only she could see.
"She won't," she said finally, her tone flat but trembling at the edges. "But rather than let her go under hospital lights… I'd rather she goes in the sun."
For a second, I couldn't speak. The words hit harder than she probably intended.
The image formed before I could stop it — Mona, her tiny body under sunlight instead of machines, wind on her face instead of oxygen tubes.
Freedom, cruel and beautiful.
I swallowed, blinking hard, pretending to check my hearing aids.
"You sound like someone who's already said goodbye," I muttered.
Maya leaned back in her seat, eyes sharp but calm. "So… tell me about it," she said softly, almost careful. "Your past. Moscow. Everything."
I froze. The words hit harder than I expected. My throat tightened. "You… really want to hear that?" My voice sounded distant, even to me.
"Try me," she said, steady, patient.
I swallowed hard. The memories pressed in like a weight on my chest.
"My father sent me to Moscow—with all his trust that I will make him proud.."
Maya didn't say anything. She just watched.
I snorted, staring at my drink. "Yeah. My father called it a 'training program.' Sounded impressive, right? I thought I'd be learning how to file reports or chase criminals with a pen and some fancy badge."
I paused, let out a quiet laugh. "Turns out it was Force Unit Special Investigator Training. Translation: wake up at four, freeze to death, repeat."
Maya's eyebrows shot up.
"I'm serious," I said. "They threw us in snow so thick you couldn't tell if you were running or hallucinating. I thought I'd die before I learned how to aim properly."
"Did you?"
"Die? No. But I wished to. Every morning at least twice."
She snorted, and I couldn't help laughing too.
"One time, I slipped during a night run. Fell flat on the ice. My instructor looked at me, totally unfazed, and said, 'If you can cry, you can breathe. If you can breathe, you can run.' So I ran. With a frozen face and a bruised ego."
Maya chuckled, shaking her head. "That's insane."
"Yeah, and somehow, I thought that meant I was getting stronger." I swirled what was left of my drink. "Guess in a way, I did. I stopped crying, at least."
She looked at me quietly for a moment.
"You really don't cry anymore?"
"Only when shampoo gets in my eyes," I said, deadpan.
"But one thing…,"
I paused, too evenly, too calm. My chest tightened but I kept my tone flat, almost detached — the way you do when you've told yourself not to feel anything. "After she… after my mother…" My jaw worked once before the words came out. "…I had to identify her body."
I forced a small, humorless smile. "Bright lights. Cold floor. Paperwork. You know… formalities." My voice wavered only slightly. "Everyone else stepped back, but I—" I inhaled sharply, steadying myself. "I just looked at her and said, 'Yes. That's her.'"
It should have ended there. But the silence after felt like punishment.
I ran a thumb along the edge of my cup, eyes fixed on it. "She didn't look like her anymore. Swollen. Pale. But it was still her. Somehow."
I pressed my palms together, forcing my posture straight. Smile. Breathe. Move on. I'd practiced that for years.
Maya was quiet, watching me — too closely.
So I added, a little too briskly, "Anyway. That's all in the past."
I kept talking — I don't even know how long.
The words just kept spilling out, one after another, like they'd been waiting years for someone to listen. About Moscow, about the snow that burned more than it froze, about the nights I slept with my boots on because I was too tired to take them off. About my mother. About the silence afterward.
When I finally turned to look at Maya, she was already asleep — her head tilted to the side, breathing steady, her hand still resting near Mona's.
I went quiet.
Glancing to my right, Lucas had already surrendered to sleep — head tilted back, mouth slightly open, headphones still on, the low hum of static leaking through. His hand dangled loosely over the armrest, still clutching his phone like a soldier refusing to drop his weapon.
For a man who once claimed he could "never sleep on moving things," he looked damn peaceful doing it.
I almost envied that — that kind of oblivion.
I leaned my head back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep hovered close but refused to land. Every time I closed my eyes, faces blurred, voices overlapped, the sound of water, the reflection of my mother's hand in that river…
The vibration against my thigh startled me.
My phone.
I pulled it out lazily, half-expecting some automated flight message — but it wasn't.
A number I did recognize. A mail, from MIU.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The mail had no words — just an address, a mysterious name.
"Alastair Macrae—St. Albyn Elderly Hospital."
A smile flickered on my face.
"…"
"…"
"Found you"