Her gaze fell on the corner of the armchair where her pillow had been disdainfully tossed at the beginning of the evening. It lay there—crumpled, humiliated, forgotten. Kira stood up, walked over, and picked it up. The silk was cool and smooth. She straightened it, fluffed it, restoring its shape and volume. Just as beautiful, the color of baked milk, a promise of a future calm life. She went to the sofa and placed the pillow in that very spot—the center of the composition—where Larisa Andreevna’s bag had first stood, and then where she herself had sat. The pillow lay in its rightful place. Order had been restored.
Kira didn’t sleep all night. She just sat in the armchair, staring into the large dark window, which reflected her and her quiet, empty room. She didn’t cry; there were no tears. There was only a strange feeling of emptiness, as after a long, exhausting illness.
When dawn broke and the city outside began to wake, turning from gray to shades of pink, she got up, took a shower, and went to work. The day passed in a fog. Numbers, reports, calls. She did everything on autopilot, her brain working clearly and flawlessly, as always.
At lunch, her phone vibrated. Roman. She stared at the screen for a few seconds until the call was dropped. Five minutes later, he called again. She pressed the reject button. Then a message arrived: “Kira, we need to talk. Please pick up. I’m worried.” She read it and, without replying, deleted it.
In the evening, she returned to her quiet apartment. For the first time, she felt that it wasn’t just quiet, but lonely. She went into the kitchen. In the jar, already beginning to wilt, were the chrysanthemums. She silently took the jar, pulled out the flowers along with the cellophane, carried them to the hallway, and threw them in the trash. The phone rang three more times that evening. She didn’t answer.
Before bed, she stood by the window for a long time, looking at the scattering of lights from other people’s lives. She had won. She had defended her boundaries, her dignity, her apartment.
But the price of this victory was high. To defeat the dragon, she had to grow claws and scales herself. She felt how something warm, soft—something that allowed her to forgive, to hope, and to love—had died in her that evening. It had frozen.
The next day there were no calls. A week passed. It was evening again. The sunset again flooded the room with golden light.
Kira sat on her sofa, her legs tucked under her, drinking tea from her favorite white cup. On her lap lay that same silk pillow.
She stroked its cool, smooth surface and looked at the empty armchair opposite her.
The apartment was impeccably clean, filled with silence and peace. This was her fortress—impregnable, quiet, and absolutely empty.
She had gotten her way. She had gotten what she wanted so badly: the right to her own, undisturbed silence.
And now, sitting in this perfect silence, she looked at her reflection in the darkening window and, with a cold, detached curiosity, asked herself: was this victory truly a victory? And was it worth it to be left here completely alone?
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