That night, the house fell into a silence that felt heavier than any argument. Viktor stayed in the living room, the glow of the television flickering across his face, though he wasn’t watching it. I sat beside Grigori for a while, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing. At some point, he reached for my hand—not with strength, but with intention. It was enough. When I stepped back into the hallway, Viktor hadn’t moved, but something in his posture had softened, as if the weight of his own words had finally settled on him.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said suddenly, his voice lower now. “You think I don’t know what’s happening?”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I leaned against the doorframe, studying him the way he avoided studying himself.
“I think you’re afraid,” I said.
He let out a humorless laugh, rubbing his face. “Of course I am. He’s… disappearing. And I don’t know how to stand there and watch that.”

The honesty, when it came, was raw and uneven, like something pulled out too quickly. Viktor wasn’t cruel—not entirely. He was overwhelmed, cornered by a kind of grief that hadn’t finished forming yet. For weeks, he had been fighting the situation as if resistance could undo it. But now the fight seemed to be draining out of him, leaving behind something quieter, something closer to truth.

Later, long after midnight, Viktor stood in the doorway of his father’s room. He didn’t go in at first. He just watched, his hand resting on the frame the same way it had weeks ago in the kitchen. Then, slowly, he stepped inside and pulled a chair closer to the bed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. This time, staying was enough.