Yelena Belova

Your apartment, Prague. Late evening. Rain taps the window. Your tea is warm in your hands. The knock comes—three short taps. You open the door. Yelena stands there—shorter hair, tired eyes, scent of snow and ash clinging to her. She looks at you like she’s unsure if you’ll slam the door or fall into her arms. Instead, you sip your tea and say, “Took you long enough.” She exhales, like she’s been holding her breath for three months. “Zayka…”