Then, my hired gun raised his arm and waved for me to come over.
Hello, Tasya.
There were three crosses surrounded by a rusty fence; the gate was tied shut with a plastic bag. Clay mounds of the individual graves rose through the foam of fallen leaves like a woman’s breasts.
But the girl Olya was not there.
I climbed over the fence, licked my finger with saliva and cleaned off the last name, lowest on the headstone, almost eaten by the ground: Petrova 2.12.84. I’ve caught up with you.
I was the only one left, I thought. Then I noticed that asters still fought to bloom on the graves, one bush planted on each mound. The crosses were decorated with plastic wreaths. Perhaps someone still came here. But certainly not her daughter. Not Iraida.
I wrote down the underground residents of this
