The rain fell in steady sheets across the grimy windows of the city bus, each droplet tracing its own path downward like the tears that had carved permanent tracks on Olesya’s pale cheeks. She sat hunched in the back corner, her swollen belly pressing against the worn fabric of her only decent coat—a navy blue piece that Andrey had bought her last winter, when their future still held promise instead of emptiness.

Twenty-three years old and six months pregnant, Olesya carried within her body the last remnant of a love that had been brutally severed three months ago. The other passengers avoided looking at her, perhaps sensing the profound grief that emanated from her small frame like heat from a dying ember. She had become intimately familiar with this particular route over the past weeks—the number 47 bus that wound its way through the industrial district where she had once worked, past the vocational school where she had learned her trade, and finally to the sprawling cemetery on the city’s outskirts where her world had come to an end.

The bus lurched to a stop, its brakes hissing in protest. Olesya rose slowly, her movements deliberate and careful. Every action required conscious effort now, as if she were moving through thick water. The driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, watched her in his rearview mirror with the sort of gentle concern that strangers sometimes showed when they recognized profound suffering.

Near Andrey’s grave stood an old mausoleum, its stone walls weathered but solid. The door was slightly ajar, and Olesya could see that the interior appeared dry and clean. She looked back at Andrey’s headstone.

“I need to rest for a few minutes,” she said softly. “Please forgive me.”