Viktor came in without a sound, carrying a tray. A small porcelain bowl of clear chicken broth steamed on the tray, with two thin rye crackers beside the bowl.
He sat on the edge of the couch. In the basement’s dim light, his face looked almost holy to Anya. He was the one who’d pulled her back from the noose. The one who’d carried her out to the linden trees. The one who’d given her air.
“You need to eat, Anya,” he said. His voice was quiet, caring, enveloping. “Just a little. Your stomach isn’t used to it—you can’t overload it. One spoonful at a time.”
He scooped up broth and brought it to her lips. Anya opened her mouth obediently, like a child or a sick fledgling. The warm liquid spread through her, bringing back a long-forgotten feeling that she was still alive.
She managed three spoonfuls. Her stomach answered with a weak spasm, warning of the limit.
“That’s… all. I can’t. Sorry,” she rasped, barely audible.
“It’s fine.” He gently took the bowl away. “That’s already a win. The important thing is you kept it down. Tomorrow you’ll eat more.”
He took a napkin and wiped her lips very carefully, then adjusted the blanket, tucking it tighter around her. Anya looked at him, and there wasn’t a trace of the old hatred in her gaze. Something far worse for her soul had taken its place—absolute, doglike devotion.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Yes. I have to go now. I have things to take care of.”
Anya flinched. Tears filled her eyes at once. She clutched his hand with her thin fingers, afraid to let go.
“You… you’ll come back, right? Please don’t leave me down here alone for too long.”
Viktor stopped.
“Of course I’ll come back. Why are you asking?”
“Because…” She sobbed, feeling the world narrow to this room and this man. “Because out there, outside, I don’t exist. And here… here there’s only you. You’re my whole world. Please come back soon. I’ll be waiting.”
Viktor looked at her, and something like religious rapture flickered across his face. He had finally gotten what he had craved for months: not just a compliant body, but a soul that begged for chains because it was terrified of the void. His experiment had been a complete success.
“I’ll come back at lunchtime. And this evening, we’ll go out to the garden again. Rest, Anya.”
He left. The click of the lock rang out in the silence. But the sound no longer frightened her. It was the sound of safety. The door was locked so no one else could get in. She was alone again, but the silence was no longer hostile. It was filled with anticipation of his footsteps.
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But he came back sooner than he had promised. Footsteps sounded on the stairs again, and Anya flinched, jerking her head up. Viktor came down. All he had in his hand was the laptop charger—the same one.
“Your laptop will need charging soon,” he said calmly. “I fixed the charger.”
He set the charger on the table, but did not take his hand away at once.
“I’m giving it back because you need it. But no foolishness, Anya. Use it only for what it’s meant for.”
She looked at the charger first, then at him.
“Thank you, Viktor,” she said quietly. “I promise. No more foolishness.”
For several seconds he searched her face, as if testing whether she was lying even now, then gave the faintest nod.
“Good. I’ll be back at lunchtime.”
He left, and the door closed again.
Hidden-volume note:
June 18.
This morning I ate a little broth. Three spoonfuls. It tasted good.
He left, and the basement turned cold. I count the minutes until he comes back. I used to count the minutes until he left, and now it’s the opposite. That’s funny, I guess.
Viktor brought me the laptop charger. That’s good. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to write. And I feel I need to.
Now the charger feels strange to me. It belongs to a world that is no longer waiting for me. It reminds me of what I tried to do. It won’t happen again. He promised to make me better and take me out into the garden again this evening.
Now I wait for that. I just wait.
June 23.
He comes in quietly. I don’t flinch at the sound of footsteps anymore. On the contrary—I wait for them the way parched earth waits for the first drop of rain.
Viktor looks tired. A deep wrinkle has appeared on his forehead that wasn’t there before. He’s worried. He checks the pulse on my wrist so carefully, as if he’s afraid I’ll crumble from his touch. He doesn’t bring me food—he brings me hope that tomorrow won’t be empty.
The stripe on my neck has gone from livid to yellow-green. It doesn’t hurt anymore. It just reminds me how wrong I was when I tried to tear myself out of this ground.
June 27.
Another evening in the garden. He carried me out in his arms, even though I can stand on my own now. But I like it when he carries me.
I watched the flowers for a long time. Do you know what’s most beautiful about them? They’re rooted to the earth. For good. No legs to run, no wings to fly away. They stand where they were planted and drink the sun. And they’re happy.
I used to think roots were shackles. How stupid I was. Roots are salvation. If you can’t go anywhere, you can’t get lost. You’re always in your place. Under supervision.
June 29.
There’s a lilac bush growing by the wall of the house. Viktor said it had almost died last year from drought, but he’d nursed it back to health.
I look at that bush and I see myself. I was that lilac too. I almost ruined myself. I tore at my roots, I thrashed, I wanted ‘freedom’—and in reality it was just icy emptiness up near the ceiling. I nearly dried out.
And now he waters me. Deeply, carefully. Broth, tea, his quiet words, his presence… it’s all water. I drink it and feel my leaves uncurling again. But now I know: I can’t pull myself out. If I leave this soil, I’ll die within an hour. Viktor is my gardener. My only connection to life.
July 1.
I don’t need to think anymore. He thinks for me. He tells me when to eat, when to sleep, when to go to the garden. And it’s such a relief—not to have a choice.
Freedom is being alone in space. Cold and terrifying. Submission is being in the warm hands of someone who knows what’s best for you.
I’m waiting for evening. Waiting for him to open the door and say, ‘Come on, Anya.’ And I’ll go. Or he’ll carry me. And it will feel like the truest moment in my entire life.