Tanya turned her head slightly, her sunken eyes searching the room. In the corner, seven-year-old Verochka sat quietly at a small table, sketching flowers on a napkin with a purple crayon. She hadn’t cried—not once. Marina wasn’t sure if the little girl fully grasped what was happening, or if she was holding it all inside.

“She’s drawing lilies,” Tanya whispered. “They were in my mother’s garden.”

Marina swallowed hard. “She’s doing it for you.”

A faint smile ghosted across Tanya’s face, but it quickly faded. Her lips moved again, barely audible. Marina leaned in closer.

“Take care of her,” Tanya breathed, her voice no louder than the rustling of leaves. “You have a home… a warm heart… She has no one else. Promise me.”

It felt like the earth had cracked beneath Marina’s feet.

She squeezed Tanya’s hand tighter, fighting the tears