Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
After everything we’ve been through, after everything we’ve done, this key feels like the beginning of understanding my husband. Even now, a tiny part of me wonders if I’ll find something that will make me want to turn away.
But the second that question surfaces, I know the answer.
There is nothing—nothing—that could ever keep me away from him.
No demon he could unearth. No secret he could confess. Nothing that could keep me away from the man I love. The man I’ve given my life to. The man I’ve vowed to.
He owns every piece of my heart. And no matter what I find beyond that door, nothing is going to change.
Not now. Not ever.
Warmth floods my chest with that certainty, and I clutch the key tighter, smiling to myself in the darkness.
Really, this is it.
This is the moment.
This is what I’ve been waiting for.
I take a deep breath, slide the key into the lock, and turn.
At first, it seems like nothing. An office?
He kept an office for me? There’s a desk and a few things in the corner of the room.
Did I really build this all up in my mind just to find…
Oh. Wait.
I walk over to the desk—it’s flimsy. This chair wouldn’t hold Seamus’s weight for anything.
Is this a prop?
I move the chair aside gingerly, waiting. Behind the desk, there’s a wall. A wall that isn’t just a wall. I tap it gently, and it gives way.
I cover my mouth when dust rises, revealing a hidden sanctuary.
If you opened the door and glanced in, all you’d see is an old, unused desk and nothing else.
But here…
Oh, God.
My knees give out and I sink into a chair.
There are boxes upon boxes, all labeled with dates.
With trembling hands, I open the first one.
A pair of pearl earrings. Dated over a year ago.
You said you loved pearls but never bought them because you feared only old ladies wore them. No. Pearls are classy—like you. I bought these after the first day I met you. They’re freshwater, gold setting—perfect for classy women like you, my sweet angel.
They’re the most gorgeous, luminescent pearls I’ve ever seen.
Oh, God. Seamus.
I put them back carefully and reach for another box—dated the following week.
A French press? I laugh.
You said you wanted to try coffee made in a French press, so here you go, lass. I’m not sure when you’ll get this, so give it a good wash first, eh?
Another box, heavier. I nearly drop it. Inside: three hardcover books.
You said your brothers read these to you when you were little. That they made you feel safe and calm. I look forward to the day I can read them to you.
Tears sting my eyes. He didn’t. He did.
I finger the pages, transported back to my childhood bedtimes.
I put them down and pick up another.
Every item is curated. Thoughtful. Precise.
Some wrapped in paper, some bare. Everything labeled.
“Thursday the 23rd. The first time she wore that blue scarf.”
“One-year anniversary of her showing up again.”
There are notes.
One velvet ribbon I once wore in my braid—pressed between tissue.
She smiled today. I remembered how to breathe.
My knees nearly buckle.
There’s a pastry tin from a Moscow bakery I once said I missed. Empty, but inside: a gift card.
Jewelry—delicate, symbolic.
Photographs.
Polaroids. Letters.
They’re all addressed to me.
Letters I’ll read and savor.
One shelf at eye level. I open it. My breath catches.
Two children’s books.
One in Russian. One in Gaelic.
As if he already thought of children.
I swipe at my eyes. God, Seamus.
Unlocking this room really did feel like unlocking his heart. And I was not wrong.
Seamus McCarthy loves me with everything he has.
I think I’ve cried enough—until I find the last box.
I pull it down. Open it. Sniff hard, trying to stay composed.
But I can’t.
I bury my face in my arms and weep.
When I finally lift my head, I wipe my eyes and look again.
It’s a framed photo of my parents’ wedding day.
He found them.
He forgave my family.
We’re forging ahead.
I stare at the picture—at my father, whose looks like Rafail, with a touch of Semyon and Rodion.
At my mother. My god, my mother.
Now I understand why Rafail protected me so fiercely.
Because this is the first time I’ve ever seen her like this—young, glowing.
She looks just like me.
I’m a miniature version of her.
I’ve only ever seen pictures taken after Rafail’s birth, when they already looked older. But this was before the heartbreak, before the war.
They had years of infertility before they had Rafail. They were practically children when they married. I’ve never seen them so vibrant. So alive.
My God, how did he find this?
There’s a soft click behind me. I don’t turn.
“You found them,” he says. His voice proud but hesitant.
I feel him behind me, a man who’s never lost a fight, now worried about my reaction.
I hold the photo.
“Where did you get this?” I ask. “Oh, Seamus.”
“Your aunt and uncle worked for us. You know that, right?”