When Michael rang the gate bell, he hadn't been entirely sure what he expected.
Time had a way of altering places in the mind. Houses grew smaller. Gardens shrank. Memories exaggerated warmth or softened sharpness.
He stood there for a moment, hands in the pockets of his coat, the cool morning air brushing lightly against his face.
Footsteps approached from inside.
The gate opened just wide enough for a little servant girl to peer through. She couldn't have been older than eight or nine — thin braids tied with pale ribbons, oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder.
She looked up at him without fear.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I'm here to see Anya," he replied.
Her eyes widened almost immediately.
"Oh," she breathed, as if something had clicked into place. "You are him."
"I am?"
She nodded gravely, as though this confirmed some private understanding, then swung the gate open wider.
"You may come in."
He stepped through.
A security guard stationed near the side of the property straightened at once and offered a respectful salute. Michael inclined his head in acknowledgment, the gesture almost automatic.
The pathway curved gently through a garden that had been carefully maintained. Not extravagant — but loved. Honeysuckles climbed the low trellises in fragrant spirals. Pale pink roses leaned over the walkway. Lavender bordered the edges in tidy lines.
And there she was.
Anya stood a few yards ahead, bent slightly over a cluster of honeysuckles, pruning shears in one hand, a basket of trimmings at her feet.
She had once carried herself like a general disguised as a nanny — posture perfectly upright, shoulders squared, eyes sharp enough to notice a misplaced fork across a room. She had corrected his table manners with a single look. Insisted on posture, diction, discipline.
Now, retired and comfortably settled, she looked softer.
A shawl draped over her shoulders. A simple skirt. Sensible shoes dusted with soil.
From a distance, she might have appeared to be any other kindly Russian grandmother tending her flowers.
But when she straightened and turned — those eyes were unchanged.
Quick.
Assessing.
Intelligent in a way that had always made him feel both protected and seen through.
She froze for half a second.
Then her face broke into a smile so wide it erased years.
"Misha!"
The pruning shears clattered unceremoniously into the basket as she hurried toward him, abandoning all dignity in favor of speed.
She wrapped her arms around him without hesitation.
Michael stiffened instinctively.
Physical affection had never been abundant in his adult life. It startled him.
But only for a second.
Then he let his arms come around her.
She was smaller than he remembered. Lighter. But the embrace was firm — wholehearted.
"You have become thin," she scolded immediately against his shoulder. "And tired."
"I'm neither," he replied automatically.
She pulled back and held his face between her hands, inspecting him.
"You think you can lie to me?" she said, eyes narrowing slightly. "I raised you."
He almost smiled.
"I had breakfast."
"I did not ask about breakfast."
The little servant girl hovered nearby, watching the exchange with fascination.
Anya suddenly remembered her presence.
"Ah! Where are my manners?" she said briskly. "Misha, this is Katya. My granddaughter."
Katya bobbed a small curtsy, clearly trying to look formal.
"My grandson is in school," Anya added proudly. "He is clever. Too clever."
Michael crouched slightly so he was level with the girl. He placed a hand gently on her head — not stiffly, but instinctively — the way he used to with his own daughter.
"Very pleased to meet you, Katya," he said.
She beamed.
Anya sniffed.
"Do not stand about in the cold morning like foolish statue," she declared, clapping her hands lightly. "You will come inside. Immediately."
He didn't argue.
The house greeted him with warmth the moment he stepped through the door. Not just temperature — atmosphere.
It was smaller than the estates he was used to, but the air felt… settled.
There was no tension lurking in corners. No sense of strategy woven into the furniture.
A faint scent of baked bread lingered. The ticking of a simple wall clock sounded louder than it should have in the quiet.
It felt peaceful.
More peaceful than his own house.
More peaceful than his mother's ever had been.
Anya removed her shawl and hung it briskly by the door.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing toward a chair near the fireplace. "You look like you have not slept properly in weeks."
"I slept," he said.
"Mm."
She did not believe him.
"Have you eaten breakfast?" she asked over her shoulder as she moved toward the kitchen.
"At the hotel," he replied quickly.
She stopped.
Turned.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Hotel food is for businessmen who do not know better," she said firmly. "You will sit. I will cook."
"Anya—"
"No arguing."
He exhaled quietly and sank into the chair by the fire.
He was already quite full.
The memory of sausages, eggs, beans, and toast weighed comfortably in his stomach.
This was going to be… difficult.
From the kitchen came the sound of clattering pans, the crack of eggs, the sharp rhythm of a knife on wood.
Katya disappeared upstairs, likely under strict instruction.
Michael leaned back and let the warmth of the fire settle around him.
For the first time in days, there was no calculation required.
No vigilance.
Just the familiar sound of Anya humming an old Russian tune under her breath.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then the smell reached him.
It was not subtle.
It was glorious.
Rich, buttery, impossibly comforting.
Anya returned carrying a tray that looked like it belonged in some enchanted land where weary travelers were fed back into strength.
There were thick slices of golden bread soaked in egg and fried to crisp perfection, dusted lightly with sugar. Sausages glistening with juices. Soft scrambled eggs that looked impossibly fluffy. A bowl of porridge crowned with cream and honey. Small jars of dark berry preserves. Freshly baked rolls split open and steaming. And tea — strong and fragrant.
It was the sort of meal that would revive children who had wandered out of an underground kingdom after day
Michael stared at it.
"Anya," he began cautiously.
"Eat."
He picked up his fork.
The first bite of the bread was absurdly good. Crisp outside. Soft inside. Warm and sweet and rich all at once.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"That is better than hotel," she declared triumphantly.
He nodded.
It was.
He ate.
Slowly at first.
Then more steadily, because Anya was watching.
Every time his pace faltered, she tilted her head.
"You are strong man. Eat."
He tried to calculate how much he could leave without insulting her.
The answer, unfortunately, appeared to be none.
He moved on to the eggs. Then a sausage. Then the porridge — which she insisted he add more cream to.
He began to feel like a soldier completing an endurance test.
At one point he glanced up and found her watching him with deep satisfaction.
"You see?" she said. "Color returning already."
He suspected that was not entirely accurate.
But he finished it.
All of it.
Even the second roll she quietly slid onto his plate when she thought he wasn't looking.
When he finally set down his fork, he leaned back very carefully, aware that any sudden movement might prove unwise.
Anya folded her arms.
"Good."
He placed a hand over his stomach and gave her a faint, resigned smile.
"If I do not survive this," he said dryly, "tell them I died honorably."
She swatted his arm lightly.
"Drama," she scoffed. "You always had little bit of drama."
He laughed — genuinely.
And for a moment, sitting there in the warmth of her small, peaceful house, overly full and faintly amused, Michael felt something he hadn't allowed himself in quite some time.
Lightness.
Just lightness.
Once he finished — heroically, unnecessarily, entirely too full — Anya gave a single satisfied nod and began gathering the plates.
"You sit," she said when he made a faint motion to rise. "You are guest."
He did not argue. In truth, standing felt overly ambitious.
She carried everything into the kitchen with efficient movements that had not dulled with age. Water ran. Porcelain clinked softly. The steady rhythm of washing and drying filled the house, simple and domestic and grounding.
Michael remained by the fire, hands loosely clasped, staring into the low orange glow.
The warmth in the room settled deeper now — no longer just physical. It was the kind of quiet that allowed thoughts to stretch without being chased.
He knew her well enough to anticipate what would come next.
Anya did not pry immediately. She observed first. Assessed. Let silence do its work. But she would ask.
She always did.
Not with idle curiosity — but with intent.
He was certain she had already noted the faint strain around his eyes, the way he moved slightly slower than usual, the distraction that flickered through him when he thought no one was looking.
And he did not intend to hide anything from her.
In fact, he found himself almost… relieved at the thought of telling her.
There were very few people in the world whose advice he would accept without instinctively filtering it for agenda. Anya was one of them. Perhaps the only one who had known him before he learned to guard himself.
Water shut off in the kitchen.
He heard the scrape of a chair as she sat for a moment — likely drying her hands on a towel and gathering her own thoughts.
Michael leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze lowered.
Yes.
She would ask.
And when she did, he would tell her.
Not everything in ruthless detail.
But enough.
Enough to hear what she would say about mothers who tried to control grown sons. About power. About patience. About the difference between strength and stubbornness.
He exhaled quietly, not in irritation this time, but in preparation.
In this comparatively small house, with honeysuckles outside and firelight steady at his back, he allowed himself — briefly — to be someone who could ask for advice instead of always giving orders.