Mishka

The rain began before dawn. Not the gentle kind that whispered against rooftops and lulled children back to sleep. This rain arrived like a punishment from heaven, cold and relentless, turning the earth into mud and the sky into a sheet of endless gray. Mishka stood alone beside a freshly dug grave. His shoes were soaked. His clothes clung to his skin. But he felt nothing. The world around him had become distant, muffled beneath the sound of falling rain and the weight crushing his chest. The wooden coffin rested beneath the earth. His mother was gone. Gone. The word refused to make sense. Just three days ago she had been alive. Three days ago she had brushed his hair back from his forehead and told him that no matter how cruel the world became, he must never let it steal the kindness from his heart. Now she was dead. And kindness felt like the cruelest joke of all. The villagers had already left. No one wanted to remain in the storm. No one wanted to stand beside the grave of a poor widow and her son. No one except Mishka. He stared at the muddy mound. Waiting. Praying. Begging for something. A sign. A voice. A miracle. Anything. But nothing came. Only rain. Only silence. Only the growing certainty that he was completely alone. A hand landed on his shoulder. Mishka turned. An elderly priest stood behind him. His weathered face carried an expression that was equal parts pity and sadness. "You should go home, son." Mishka laughed. The sound surprised even him. It didn't sound human. It sounded broken. "I don't have a home anymore." The priest's expression darkened. Because they both knew it was true. The small cottage where Mishka had lived with his mother wasn't theirs. The land belonged to a wealthy merchant who had allowed them to stay only because Mishka's mother worked herself nearly to death cleaning houses and sewing clothes. Now that she was gone, no one would allow him to remain. The priest looked away. A silent admission that he could offer no solution. No help. No hope. Only sympathy. And sympathy didn't fill empty stomachs. It didn't stop winter. It didn't save lives. Mishka swallowed hard. "I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter. The priest nodded anyway. People always accepted lies when the truth was too uncomfortable. After a moment, the old man walked away. Leaving Mishka alone once more. The rain continued. Hours passed. By evening, the graveyard had become almost completely deserted. The clouds darkened further. Thunder rolled across the horizon. Finally, Mishka turned away from the grave. His legs felt heavy. Every step seemed harder than the last. As if part of him had been buried beneath the earth alongside his mother. Maybe it had. The cottage was exactly as he remembered. Small. Cold. Empty. Yet somehow it already felt unfamiliar. Like a place that no longer belonged to him. He pushed open the wooden door. The silence inside was unbearable. No humming from the kitchen. No warm smile. No voice asking whether he had eaten. Nothing. Just shadows. Mishka sat on the edge of his bed. His mother's shawl still hung from a nearby chair. For a moment he considered throwing himself into it. Wrapping it around his shoulders. Pretending she was still here. Instead he buried his face in his hands. And cried. Not the quiet tears he had shed at the funeral. These were ugly. Violent. Heartbreaking. The kind that left scars. When exhaustion finally dragged him into sleep, he dreamed of her. She stood in a field of flowers. Smiling. Calling his name. He tried to run toward her. But something invisible held him back. The harder he fought, the farther away she became. "Mama!" She smiled sadly. Then disappeared. Mishka woke with tears on his face. And the sound of pounding on the door. His heart raced. The knocking came again. Harder this time. He stumbled to his feet and opened the door. Three men stood outside. Large. Well-dressed. Armed. The sight immediately made his stomach tighten. The man in front unfolded a piece of paper. "Mishka?" "Yes." "You have until sunset to leave this property." The words struck like a slap. "What?" "The owner has reclaimed the land." Mishka stared. "You can't do that." "We can." The man folded the paper. "You have no legal claim here." Mishka's hands clenched into fists. "My mother was buried yesterday." The guard's expression remained cold. "I suggest you begin packing." Then they left. Just like that. As if they had merely discussed the weather. Mishka stood frozen in the doorway. Watching them disappear. His chest burned. His throat ached. Anger mixed with grief until he could barely breathe. For a wild moment he wanted to chase after them. To scream. To fight. To make them understand. But what would be the point? The world had already chosen. And it had chosen against him. Again. By sunset, everything he owned fit into a single worn bag. A few clothes. A blanket. A photograph of his mother. Nothing else. The cottage looked strangely hollow. As if he had already become a ghost. He closed the door behind him. Never expecting to see it again. He was right. Because before sunrise, the cottage would belong to someone else. Just another forgotten place in a forgotten village. And Mishka would become something far worse. A boy with nowhere to go. The following days blurred together. Hunger. Cold. Fear. Mishka traveled from town to town searching for work. Most people ignored him. Others laughed. A few promised help before changing their minds. Each rejection chipped away at something inside him. Until survival became his only goal. Nothing else mattered. Not dreams. Not happiness. Not the future. Just another day. Then another. Then another. One evening he found himself standing near the docks of a coastal city. Ships filled the harbor. Massive vessels disappearing into distant horizons. The sight stirred something unfamiliar inside him. Possibility. Maybe somewhere beyond the sea there was a place for him. A place where nobody knew his name. Where grief couldn't follow. Where loneliness couldn't find him. The thought lasted less than a minute. A cloth covered his mouth from behind. A powerful arm wrapped around his chest. Panic exploded through him. He struggled. Kicked. Tried to scream. But darkness arrived faster. The world vanished. When Mishka opened his eyes again, chains surrounded him. The smell hit first. Salt. Sweat. Blood. Fear. Dozens of people crowded the dark wooden hold. Men. Women. Children. All chained. All terrified. The realization arrived slowly. Then all at once. He had been taken. Sold. His pulse thundered. "No." The word escaped as a whisper. "No." A woman nearby looked at him with hollow eyes. The kind of eyes that had already surrendered. Mishka shook his head desperately. "No." But reality didn't care. The ship rocked gently beneath them. Carrying them farther from home with every passing second. Farther from his mother's grave. Farther from everything he had ever known. The darkness seemed to close around him. His chest tightened. His vision blurred. And for the first time since the funeral, he understood something terrifying. The day he buried his mother had not been the end of his suffering. It had only been the beginning. Above them, the ship continued its journey across the sea. Toward a future waiting with open jaws. Toward a country he had never seen. Toward a man named Adrian Volkov. Though neither of them knew it yet, fate had already begun weaving their lives together. And destiny was not known for mercy.