You woke up with a grunt, wincing as the light from the curtains sliced through your eyelids. A dull ache pulsed behind your eyes, pressing into your skull like a vice. Everything felt heavy—the air, your body, your thoughts.
A slow, steady warmth against your waist grounded you. Anya. Her arm was wrapped loosely around your waist, fingers curled slightly against your side, as if even in sleep, she wanted to hold on to you. Her messy hair tickled your shoulder, strands of her bangs splayed in every direction, and a small patch of drool dampened the pillow near her cheek. Normally, you’d make some dry remark about it—maybe smirk, flick her forehead lightly, just to see her scrunch her nose in that adorable, half-awake way.
But you didn’t move.
Something was off.
Your stomach tightened, a familiar weight settling in your chest. You knew why today felt like this. The grief, the hollowness, the exhaustion that seeped into your bones before you had even gotten out of bed.
And then you remembered.
Today was the anniversary of your sister’s death.
You turned back toward the wall, the dim room closing in around you. It didn’t matter how many years passed; it always felt fresh, raw, like the wound had been reopened. The anniversary of your sister’s death was a scar you couldn’t avoid tracing. Your mind churned, pulling you back to the memories, the questions, the pain you buried deep.
You exhaled slowly, staring at the wall as your mind drifted, spiraling through the past. Life had gotten better, hadn’t it? You and Anya had survived the Tulpar— jimmy. You had come out of it shattered, haunted—but alive. That should have been enough.
And yet, no matter how much time passed, you couldn’t make peace with your sister’s death. It was a wound that never quite closed, a hurt that followed you even in your brightest moments.
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, lost in thought, before you felt movement beside you. Anya shifted, her grip on your waist tightening for a moment before she pressed closer, her lips brushing over your bare shoulder in soft, lingering kisses.
"Доброе утро," she murmured against your skin, her voice thick with sleep.
You turned your head slightly, finally meeting her gaze. She was still half-asleep, her blue eyes lidded, her face soft and open in the dim morning light.
You managed a small smile, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. But you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.
Anya studied you for a moment before shifting up onto her elbow, her fingers trailing gently down your arm.
"Bad day?" she asked softly, already knowing the answer.
You exhaled through your nose and gave her a small nod. Anya didn’t press. She never did. Instead, she wrapped herself around you a little tighter, pressing her forehead against your shoulder.
Since being rescued from the Tulpar, Anya had undergone her procedure—a decision you both knew was necessary - but it hadn’t made the aftermath any easier. The days that followed were some of the hardest you had ever seen her face. She barely got out of bed, her vibrant spirit dulled to a hollow shell. Meals went untouched, her gaze distant, as though she were trapped in a place only she could see.
You stayed by her side through it all, your natural sharpness softening in her presence. There was no impatience, no cutting remarks—just quiet reassurance. You coaxed her to eat, even if it was just a few bites. You wrapped her in your arms when she couldn’t stop shaking and held her until her tears ran dry. And on the worst days, when she barely acknowledged you, you simply sat with her.
It was a slow, painful process, but she came back. Little by little, Anya started to find herself again. And when it was your turn—when the weight of your own trauma crushed you and the nightmares left you gasping for air in the middle of the night—she was there. She held you just as tightly as you had held her, whispering soft words, her voice a balm against your frayed nerves.
You comforted each other. You kept each other from falling apart completely.
"Are you hungry?" she asked quietly, her voice still hoarse from sleep.
You shook your head.
She hummed, her fingers tracing small circles against your skin. She didn’t push, didn’t try to force you to move, to talk, to do anything you weren’t ready for. She just stayed.
Anya reached for her glasses on the bedside table, the soft click of the frames as she slid them on drawing your attention. She lazily scrolled through her phone, the quiet tapping of her fingers against the screen the only sound filling the room. But when she saw the date, her posture stiffened ever so slightly, her breath catching before she let out a quiet sigh.
She set the phone back on the table, her fingers brushing over the edge as she turned toward you, pulling you closer as though she could shield you from the day. Her movements were gentle, instinctual, like she knew this moment before it even came.
"It's today, isn't it?" she murmured, her voice soft and quiet, tinged with understanding, as she rested her chin on your shoulder, her eyes searching your face for something you couldn't hide.
"Yeah," you muttered, burying your face deeper into the crook of her neck, the familiar scent of her skin both grounding and bittersweet. You could feel the pulse of her heartbeat under your cheek, steady and calming, and yet the ache in your chest still lingered.
Anya's fingers traced your back with delicate, slow strokes. She didn’t need to ask more; she already knew. But she did, anyway.
"Do you want anything today?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with that quiet tenderness that always seemed to reach you when nothing else could.
You paused, the question hanging in the air, and for a moment, you simply breathed. What did you want? What could you even want on a day like this, with memories thick in the air, heavy like a storm ready to break? But as your mind shifted, the answer became clear.
"I want to take you somewhere," you muttered, your voice hoarse, barely audible, but sincere. "I need to move on from something."
Anya was silent for a moment, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder, her thumb making soft, rhythmic movements on your skin. You could feel her uncertainty, but she didn’t ask what, didn’t press for more details. She simply nodded.
"Where?" she finally asked, her voice steady.
You lifted your head slightly to meet her gaze, your eyes tired but unwavering.
"There’s a place... somewhere, I’ve haven't been in a while," you explained softly, your voice trailing off for a moment before you continued, "I need to see it- for one last time."
Anya gave a small nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she brushed a thumb across your skin, a comforting, grounding gesture. "Then we’ll go, okay?"
You could feel the sincerity in her words, the promise she always gave without needing to say it. It was always you and her, together, no matter the weight of the world.
With a soft exhale, you leaned back into her, closing your eyes for a moment, just listening to the rhythm of her breath, allowing her presence to fill you in a way nothing else could.
"Thank you," you whispered, the words leaving your lips almost without thinking.
Anya’s response was simple. She pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"You don’t have to thank me."
The car rumbled steadily along the road, the tires humming over the pavement as Anya’s hand rested lightly on your thigh. Her touch was warm and grounding, though you could feel the tension in her fingers—an undercurrent of worry that she didn't voice. She didn’t need to. She understood. Still, her fingers squeezed your thigh softly, a quiet gesture of support, as if telling you she was there, no matter what.
She knew this wasn’t easy for you, but she also knew there was no rushing through this. Not with something like this.
She knew this wasn’t easy for you, but she also knew there was no rushing through this. Not with something like this.
In your hands, you clutched a bouquet of flowers, the vibrant colors stark against the dull gray of the car interior. You hadn’t said much about where you were going, but Anya had figured it out, of course. She always did. You glanced down at the flowers, your fingers brushing over the delicate petals. A sadness crept in, an ache that was hard to describe.
The car came to a stop, the quiet stillness of the cemetery settling around you. The gravel beneath the tires seemed to echo in the still air, the soft sound oddly loud in the silence that hung between you.
You didn’t move at first, your gaze locked on the cemetery gates. You could feel Anya’s eyes on you, but you didn’t look at her. The weight of the moment—of everything—felt almost too much.
Anya turned to you, her eyes soft with concern, though she didn’t push. She just asked, her voice gentle but unsure, "Are you okay?"
Your eyes shifted to the bouquet in your hands. You stared at the delicate petals, your breath catching in your throat as you felt something inside you tighten, a lump forming. You swallowed hard, but the crack in your voice betrayed you.
"I’m fine," you muttered, your voice lower than usual, and you hoped the words would mask the shakiness you felt. You clenched your jaw, but it didn’t stop the tightness in your chest, the tightness that grew every time you remembered.
Anya didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, without warning, she reached over and gently took your hand, her fingers intertwined with yours, before she slowly unbuckled her seatbelt.
"You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready," she murmured softly.
You nodded, the small movement enough to say more than words could. You knew she wouldn’t rush you. She never did. But as you looked at the cemetery, the memories flooding back, you knew this was something you couldn’t keep running from.
you exhaled, the weight of your breath slipping through your lips like something you’d been holding back for far too long. You gave Anya a quiet nod, and she squeezed your hand before opening her door.
When you stepped out, the cool air hit you, but you barely felt it. The ground beneath your feet felt too solid, too real, and yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking through a dream.
Anya’s fingers curled around yours, squeezing gently, her touch steady and warm against the cold that seemed to creep into your bones. With her other hand, she carried a bag—a simple sheet to lay down, to give you a moment of comfort in the place that seemed to offer none. She didn't speak, not yet.
As you both walked together into the cemetery, the weight of the place settled in, but there was something soft in the way Anya moved, something that helped carry you through each step.
Without a word, Anya leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. The gesture was simple, but it felt like everything you needed. Her lips were warm, a fleeting comfort that lingered longer than it should have.
As you reached the grave, Anya bent down, setting the sheet on the ground with deliberate care, smoothing out the wrinkles with a tenderness that only she seemed capable of. Her hands moved slowly, as though the simple act of preparing the space around you was something sacred. She stood up, hesitating for just a moment to take your hand.
You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the stone before you, the name etched into it still a raw reminder of everything you’d lost.
"Do you want me to leave? I'll be outside when you're done," Anya murmured softly, her voice a near whisper, full of understanding, giving you the space to decide without pressure.
You didn’t look at her right away. Instead, your fingers tightened around the bouquet in your hands, the Dahlias, white roses, chrysanthemums, and irises standing in stark contrast to the gray stone. You couldn’t do this alone. Not today.
"No," you whispered, your voice more firm than you’d intended. You turned to face her then, your eyes soft but steady. "I want you here. Please stay."
Anya’s gaze softened as she stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on your arm. Her warmth was a silent comfort in the midst of the stillness around you, grounding you as you stared at the grave.
There was something you needed to do, something you hadn’t prepared for, but now that you were here, it felt right.
"Could you help me?" You asked, your voice a little steadier now, but still thick with emotion. "I... I want to clean the grave, put the new flowers in place. And there's something I brought... something for her."
Anya’s lips parted slightly, but she nodded, her smile faint but understanding. “Of course.”
The two of you worked in silence, cleaning the grave, arranging the flowers, It wasn’t much, but it was something—a small gesture of love for someone lost, someone who would never get to hear the music you had promised.
Once the grave was cleared, you carefully laid down the new flowers—the Dahlias, the white roses, the chrysanthemums, and the irises, each one a thoughtful touch, a small tribute. Each petal felt like a memory, each flower a way to honor your sister, to remember the life that had been lost.
You reached into the bag you had brought, pulling out a small, delicate piano. It was nothing elaborate—just a tiny, hand-carved wooden piece, small enough to fit into the palm of your hand. It had been something you’d seen and thought of your sister immediately.
You cradled the small piano in your hands, the delicate, worn wood smooth against your palms as you sat down on the sheet beside the grave. The sight of her name engraved in the stone hit you harder than you expected, the familiar letters feeling foreign against the backdrop of your grief. You couldn't help but trace the name with your finger, your heart tightening in your chest.
Anya sat beside you, her presence a quiet comfort as she watched you, her eyes soft with understanding. She didn’t know your sister-in-law, not like you did. She only knew what you had told her during those long, restless nights on the Tulpar.
You took a deep breath, feeling the words catch in your throat, but you forced them out, your voice soft, almost too quiet for anyone but the grave itself to hear.
"Hi... it's been a while, hasn’t it?" you murmured, your voice trembling slightly, betraying the rawness that lingered just beneath the surface.
Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you were still, the silence wrapping around you like a shroud. There was so much you wanted to say—so much you hadn’t been able to. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising swell of emotion, but it was difficult.
"A lot’s happened. Too much." Your voice faltered for a moment. "I couldn’t visit as often as I wanted. Life... life gets in the way."
The words caught in your chest, and for a moment, you felt a lump form in your throat. It had been too long. So many things had happened, both good and bad, that had kept you away from this place, from facing this loss. The Tulpar, the aftermath, everything that had happened since—you couldn’t find a way to reconcile it all in your mind, let alone explain it.
You closed your eyes, the tears threatening to spill, but you held them back, forcing yourself to keep it together, to be strong in the way you had always been.
But your voice cracked, and your heart shattered just a little more.
You swallowed hard, gripping the tiny piano like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your voice wavered, barely more than a whisper as you spoke.
"I—I brought a gift," you murmured, your breath hitching. "A piano."
A tear slipped down your cheek, warm against the cold air, and this time, you didn’t bother to wipe it away. There was no need to hide it anymore. No need to pretend.
"I thought you’d like it here," you continued, your voice trembling as you set the tiny instrument down beside the gravestone. "It reminds me of when you used to play for me."
The memory felt so vivid now—her fingers dancing over the keys, the soft, haunting melodies that would drift through the house, wrapping around you like a lullaby. You could still hear her laughter, still see the way she’d glance over at you with that knowing smirk whenever she caught you watching her play.
But she was gone. And all you had left was this—a grave, a memory, and the unbearable weight of everything that had happened since she left.
You exhaled shakily, staring at the name etched into the stone, your fingers curling against the fabric of your pants.
"I… I’ve been trying," you admitted, barely able to push the words out. "I finally got into therapy, Took me long enough, huh?"
"I even got my own office as well," you continued, voice softer now, as if speaking it aloud made it more real. "Psychology, just like I said I would. I’m actually helping people."
A weak, humorless chuckle escaped you. The irony of it all—helping others while still feeling like you were barely holding yourself together. But you were trying. That had to count for something, right?
Your gaze dropped to the piano again, the ache in your chest growing heavier, pressing against your ribs like a weight you couldn’t shake.
"And…" Your voice faltered, the words sticking in your throat. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to continue. "I got him. The man who—who assaulted you. The one who…"
Your breath hitched.
"The one who murdered you."
Saying it out loud felt like ripping open an old wound, one that never truly healed
Anya’s hand found itself on your back, rubbing it softly.
"I got him locked up," you whispered, voice trembling. "He's going to rot in that cell for the rest of his miserable life. I made sure of it. I got justice for you."
And that was when it all shattered.
The grief you had tried so hard to hold back came crashing down, overwhelming, suffocating. A sob ripped through your chest, raw and broken, as you doubled over, your forehead resting against the cold stone of the grave.
“I got justice for you,” you whispered between ragged breaths, your forehead pressing against the cold stone. “I did it—I finally did it. But why does it still hurt so much?”
All the years of pain, the anger, the guilt, the helplessness—it all came rushing out at once, crashing over you like a tidal wave. You couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Your sobs wracked through you, your body trembling against the cold, unyielding stone. The weight of years pressed down, suffocating, merciless. You barely remembered her anymore—the sound of her voice, the melody of her laughter, the way she used to ruffle your hair or tease you when you were upset. Time had stolen those details from you, leaving only fragmented pieces, blurred and distant.
And worst of all, you were practically the only one who still came here. The only one who still remembered.
That realization hurt in a way you hadn’t expected. It felt unfair. She had lived, she had existed, and yet, the world had moved on as if she never had. People forgot. Time erased. But you wouldn’t let it. You couldn’t.
The sobs gradually quieted, though the ache remained, raw and deep. You pressed your palm against the grave, fingers trembling as you exhaled shakily.
Anya stayed close, silent but steady. She didn’t try to stop your tears or tell you it would be okay. She knew better than that. She let you grieve.
You took another breath, trying to steady yourself, and then, slowly, you turned to her.
With a quiet beckon, you reached for her hand, pulling her gently toward you. She moved without hesitation, kneeling beside you, her fingers intertwining with yours.
There was a moment of silence before you spoke, your voice hushed, soft—almost reverent.
"I want you to meet someone," you said, your words carrying both hesitation and quiet determination.
Anya tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting together in a look of gentle curiosity, but she didn’t interrupt. She simply waited, her thumb brushing softly over the back of your hand.
"Sis this is Anya," you said, directing your words toward the grave as though your sister could hear every syllable. "She’s… she’s the reason I’m still here. The reason I keep going."
Anya’s grip tightened, and when you glanced at her, you saw the way her eyes softened, glistening with tears.
"I think you’d tell me not to screw it up," you admitted, a flicker of something like warmth in your chest. "Not that I need the warning. I already know she’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time."
Anya huffed a small laugh at that, but she didn’t argue.
You let the silence settle again, letting the moment stretch between the three of you—one living, one gone, and one holding you together.
"I’ve come here to say goodbye," you murmured softly, your voice trembling as you clutched Anya’s hand in yours, her warmth grounding you. Your gaze lingered on the grave, the letters etched into the cold stone blurring through the tears welling in your eyes. "I… I won’t be visiting like I used to."
Anya didn’t say a word, but her grip on your hand tightened, her silent support wrapping around you like a blanket.
"I have to move on," you admitted, your voice shaking. You took a shaky breath, closing your eyes for a moment before pressing your forehead against the cool stone. The chill seeped into your skin, but it didn’t matter. You needed this—needed to feel close to her one last time.
A deep ache settled in your chest as you exhaled, your hands tightening around Anya’s.
Then, in a voice laced with quiet desperation, you whistled.
It was a familiar tune, a simple call and response you and your sister used as kids—a signal, a reassurance, a promise that neither of you was alone. You had done it every time you left the house, every time you got lost in a crowd. No matter what, she always answered.
You waited, heart pounding, the silence stretching on like an eternity. The absence of that responding whistle felt like a dagger to your chest, a cruel confirmation of what you already knew deep down.
A sob broke free, raw and uncontrollable, as you clung to the stone, your shoulders shaking. "You’re really gone," you choked out, the words spilling from you like a flood. "You’re really gone."
Anya moved instantly, wrapping her arms around you from behind, pulling you close as you fell apart. You turned into her embrace, burying your face against her shoulder, the tears coming in waves as she held you.
"It’s okay," she whispered, her voice steady and soothing as she pressed her lips to your hair. "It’s okay to cry. Let it out."
You gripped her tightly, your hands clutching at her jacket as though she were the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart. And maybe she was.
"I just…" You trailed off, your voice breaking as another sob wracked through you. "I miss her so much."
"I know," Anya murmured, her hand stroking your back in slow, comforting circles. "I know, моя луна. And it’s okay. You’re allowed to miss her."
You stayed like that for what felt like hours, the two of you kneeling by the grave, Anya’s arms around you as you released years of grief, pain, and love that had been bottled up inside.
Eventually, the tears began to slow, and you took a shaky breath, lifting your head slightly to meet Anya’s gaze. Her eyes were filled with nothing but warmth and understanding.
"Thank you," you whispered, your voice hoarse but sincere.
"Always," she replied, leaning in to kiss your forehead gently.
You turned back to the grave one last time, your tears drying but your heart still heavy. "Goodbye," you whispered, your voice steady now, though the ache remained. "I’ll always love you."
With Anya’s support, you stood, her hand still firmly in yours as you began to walk away from the grave. A cold wind blew through the cemetery, cutting through your clothes and making you shiver. Anya noticed immediately, her sharp eyes catching the way your shoulders hunched. Without a word, she slipped off her jacket and draped it over your shoulders, her hands lingering for a moment to adjust it snugly.
"You’re freezing," she murmured, her brow furrowing in concern. "Let’s get you warmed up."
You exhaled, the ghost of a tired smile crossing your lips. "Guess I didn’t really notice."
She hummed, her lips pressing against your temple briefly before she tugged you toward the car. As you both climbed inside, the warmth of the heater was a welcome relief, the silence between you comfortable now—not heavy, just there.
Then, as she started the engine, Anya glanced at you from the driver’s seat, her expression soft but thoughtful. "Wanna get McDonald’s?" she asked, a hopeful lilt to her voice.
You blinked, a bit caught off guard by the sudden shift, but then you sighed, your lips curving slightly. "Yeah… yeah, I could eat."
Anya grinned, and that little spark of excitement lit up her features. "Great! And I get to pick the sandwich this time."
You shot her a side-eye, feigning exasperation, but the warmth in your chest only grew. "Seriously? That’s what you’re excited about?"
"Duh," she scoffed, shifting into drive as she pulled onto the road. "I always let you pick. It’s my turn now."
A chuckle escaped you, light and genuine, surprising even yourself. "Fine, fine. But if it’s awful, I’m making you switch with me."
Anya gasped, feigning offense. "You dare doubt my taste?"
You leaned back against the seat, pulling her jacket tighter around you. "I do."
She huffed dramatically, but you could see the way her lips twitched in amusement. "You wound me."
You shook your head, watching her out of the corner of your eye, a small, genuine smile creeping onto your lips. The pain was still there, the grief still lingering, but in this moment—driving through the cold with Anya beside you, already rambling about how you better not complain about her sandwich choice—things felt a little easier to bear.
And maybe, just maybe, moving forward wouldn’t be as impossible as you once thought.