They didn’t wait until sunrise.
Not really.
They pretended to.
They sat in the living room, lights dimmed, waiting for the storm to weaken, waiting for the light to rise enough to justify moving into the cemetery’s shadows. But no one truly slept. Not Sasha, who kept jerking awake every time thunder echoed. Not Mila, who sat silently holding her mother’s cold hands. Not Vera, whose eyes darted toward every window as if expecting someone to materialize in the rain.
And not Demetri.
He didn’t sit.
He paced.
He stood like a statue.
He watched the windows.
He waited for the storm to bring him a face he had long since buried.
Nora didn’t sleep either. She monitored the room the way a mother hen watches her nest—hovering over Sasha, guarding Mila, keeping Vera calm, and tracking Demetr
