A week later, Anya was discharged from the hospital. A month later, her divorce was finalized. Three months later, Arkady’s trial began, and the testimonies of three women he tried to destroy became the main evidence for the prosecution. Marina, who was brought from the Swiss clinic, turned out to be quite sane after she stopped being poisoned with drugs. Her testimony was particularly terrible. Arkady received fifteen years. His lawyers appealed the sentence, but the appeal was rejected. The connections he was so proud of melted like smoke when it became clear that defending him was dangerous for one’s reputation.
Grekov sold his business and left the city. Before leaving, he met with Viktor and said he finally felt free of the debt. Not because he repaid it, but because he did the right thing, even when it was scary. Zoya got a job in a nursing home where no one had ever heard of her. She wrote Anya letters every month, and Anya replied to each one.
And Viktor learned to be a different father. It was hard, harder than any operation he had ever performed. He learned to listen instead of commanding, to ask instead of deciding, to be there without looming over. Every day was a small victory or a small defeat, but he didn’t give up.
One day, a year after those events, Anya invited him to dinner at her small apartment. She cooked herself, set the table herself, chose the wine herself. When he entered, she hugged him—for the first time in many years hugged him for real, tightly, like people hug those they love.
“Thank you,” she said. “For coming then, for not leaving, for changing.”
Viktor hugged her back and felt something warm spreading in his chest. Not redemption, because some things cannot be redeemed, but something resembling peace. Acceptance. The possibility to move on.
They had dinner and talked late into the night. About the past that cannot be changed. About the present they are building together. About the future that for the first time in a long while didn’t seem frightening.
When Viktor was leaving, Anya walked him to the door. On the threshold, she stopped and said:
“You know what I realized this year? That forgiveness isn’t a moment. It’s a process. Every day I decide anew: to hold on to pain or let it go. And every day it gets a little easier.”
Viktor nodded.
“I realized that too. And I am grateful for every day you give me a chance to be better.”
He walked out into the night and went down the street to his home. The city slept, but individual windows were still lit. And behind each of them was its own story. Its own mistakes and its own victories. Its own monsters and its own heroes.
Viktor didn’t know if he had become a hero. Most likely not. But he knew for sure that he had stopped being a monster. And that was more than he deserved.
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