Whispers of the past

It started as a good day. The kind of day Irina Petrova wanted her daughter to remember forever. “Mama, wake up! Wake up! It’s my birthday!” Nadya’s little voice cut through the quiet of the room. Then came the weight of her daughter clambering onto the bed, knees pressing into Irina’s side. Irina groaned but reached for her, pulling her close until Nadya dissolved into a fit of giggles. “You’re too heavy,” Irina teased, kissing her messy curls. “You can’t be my little dove anymore.” “I’m six now,” Nadya declared proudly, wiggling in her mother’s arms. “Papa said.” “Six? Already? No, no, you must be mistaken. You were five just yesterday.” Irina pretended to count her daughter’s fingers one by one, feigning shock. Nadya rolled her eyes and laughed, that bubbling, innocent laugh that could chase away any darkness. From the doorway, her husband leaned against the frame, tired but smiling. “She’s six, Irina. I advise you to stop teasing her or she’ll remind you of her age all day.” There was warmth in his voice, but his eyes… they didn’t match. Irina caught it for only a moment, the heaviness, the worry, but she forced herself not to look too long. Not today. “Come on my little dove,” she said, setting Nadya down. “Let’s get you ready for your special day.” The morning unfolded in small rituals that Irina cherished. She brushed her daughter’s face with a damp cloth, combed out her wild curls while Nadya hummed tunelessly, and slipped her into the little white dress she’d sewn herself. The blue ribbons were uneven, but Nadya didn't seem to notice that detail and just twirled in front of the mirror like a princess. “See, Mama? Six looks different. I’m taller now.” Irina smiled. “You are…. I can see it.” Nadya looked at her mother and gave her a big grin despite missing one of her teeth. They had breakfast together: boiled eggs, fresh bread, and a little honey. Nadya’s legs swung under the table while she chatted about her doll party later, about candles and wishes. Irina laughed, though her husband was quiet, his jaw tight as he listened. He barely touched his food. When Nadya wasn’t looking, Irina reached for his hand. He squeezed it once and let go. By afternoon, the house smelled of sugar and flour. Nadya helped stir the batter, sneaking tastes with her sticky fingers. The cake came out lopsided, frosting smeared where little hands had poked, but Nadya beamed at it like it was the grandest cake in Moscow. Irina wiped flour from her cheek and kissed her forehead. “Perfect,” she whispered. And for a brief, fragile moment, it was. The sound of engines ruined everything. Several cars, heavy, rolling over the gravel outside. Irina’s head snapped up. Her husband went still, the knife in his hand dropping to the table. Then came the gunfire. Shouts. A short, ugly burst of shots. Silence. Irina’s heart turned to ice. “Take Nadya,” her husband barked, his voice low but urgent. “Now.” She didn’t ask. She grabbed her daughter’s hand, half-dragging her down the hall as the girl cried, confused. “Mama, what’s happening? Where are we going? I am scared.” “To play hide and seek my little one. You need not fear mama is here” Irina whispered, her voice breaking. “Quickly.” The closet. She pulled open the door, shoved coats aside, and crouched in front of her daughter. Her hands trembled as she cupped Nadya’s face. “Listen to me, my dove. Stay here and don't make a sound no matter what you hear or see. Not a sound. Do you understand me baby?” Tears welled in Nadya’s eyes. “But, Mama” Irina kissed her cheeks, her curls, her forehead, desperate to leave her with warmth. “Promise me Nadya.” Irina whispered sharply with unshed tears in her eyes “I promise,” Nadya whispered. “You're such a good girl my dove” Irina kissed her forehead before closing the doors. Her hand lingered against the wood for a second, then she forced herself to let go. The front door burst open. Boots thundered. Voices, cold and certain, filled the house. They found her husband first. Dragged him in, blood already on his mouth, and threw him to his knees. Six men. Guns. Hard faces. “You thought you were clever right,” the leader said flatly. “Feeding the police scraps. Playing both sides. You betrayed us.” Irina’s stomach twisted. The police. Of course. Her husband spat blood on the floor. “Do what you came for but leave my family out of it.” The leader looked at her, then at the swell of her belly. He smirked. The hands were on her before she could run. Rough, merciless. She screamed, she fought, but they pinned her down, tore at her clothes. Her husband roared, his voice breaking as he struggled against the men who held him. His cries were worse than her own because she knew he was breaking not from the pain, but from watching. When they were done, she could hardly breathe. Her body shook. Her baby kicked inside her. Her husband’s eyes met hers across the room, full of love and rage and helplessness. Then they tied him to a chair. They didn’t shoot him right away. They cut him. Burned him. Beat him until he bled from every corner of his body. He never begged. Not once. He cursed them, spat blood in their faces, even as they tore him apart. Irina begged enough for both of them. Her voice cracked, pleading for mercy, for them to stop. It only made them laugh, but a noise broke through it all. A faint creak. Wood shifting. One of the men turned his head sharply toward the closet. “What was that?” he muttered, already stepping closer. Irina’s blood went cold. Nadya. “No!” she whispered so low,she launched herself forward, slamming into the man with all the strength left in her. Her nails clawed his face, her teeth snapping, her voice ragged with fury. “Leave us alone, you bastards!” The others pulled her off him, laughing at her wildness, but the moment was gone. The man cursed, wiping blood from his cheek, and turned back to her. Whatever he thought he’d heard near the closet was forgotten. Irina sagged in their grip, shaking with relief. Nadya was safe. But that relief ended as soon as it came, with ringing ears from the gunshot. Her husband’s head jerked, blood sprayed, and he slumped in the chair. The sound of it cracked something inside her that could never be repaired. Her scream tore through the house, raw and animal. They turned on her next. “Where is your little brat?” One of the men with a scar on his left eyebrow asked. Irina, still shaken up by the death of her husband, was not quick to answer and this was met with consequences as she received a deafening slap that made her ears ring.” He sent her away, I don't know where she is.” At this point all Irina could think of was her children so she made sure to provoke the men so at least they will be done and her baby girl in the closet wont have to witness anymore unsettling things. The knife traced lines across her skin, shallow but burning, just to hear her cry. She fought even then. Begged for her children’s lives. Her voice was hoarse, her body wrecked, but she clung to one thing: if Nadya survived, if the baby survived, maybe it wouldn’t all be for nothing. But she knew there was no way her and the baby were going to make it out alive. The leader finally grew tired. He pressed the gun to her chest before whispering “I will find your girl and she will meet you soon” Irina closed her eyes, stopping the flow of tears pouring from her eyes. Her last thought was Nadya’s giggles that morning, her small fingers sticky with honey, her proud twirl in that crooked little dress. Live, my dove. Please, live. The shot rang out. Her body dropped, blood spilling across the floorboards, seeping into the cracks. The men left as quickly as they came. Boots, laughter, engines roaring back to life. Silence after. In the closet, Nadya shook so hard the coats trembled around her. Her hands were clamped over her mouth, her cheeks wet with tears and her white dress not so white anymore. She had heard everything. Every scream. Every gunshot. It was her birthday. And in a single night, Nadya Petrova lost her parents, her home, and the little piece of innocence she had left.