Part 1: A Crack in the Smalti
“You do realize this isn’t some random whim. It’s biology,” the man said evenly, in the same cool, professional tone he usually used when scolding suppliers over spoiled milk. “A man is supposed to have a branch of the family tree. A future. And all we have is a dead end—and your little pieces of colored glass.”
Agata kept her eyes on the soldering iron as she carefully laid a bead of solder along the copper foil. A sharp ribbon of rosin smoke rose and twisted under the glow of the desk lamp. She pretended to be fully absorbed in joining two fragments of shimmering blue glass, but inside, everything had drawn tight into a hard, pulsing knot.
“Ruslan, we’ve had this conversation a hundred times,” she said quietly at last, setting the tool aside. “The doctors said there’s still hope. We just need time and patience.”
“Time is exactly what we’ve run out of, Agata. I have none left. And no patience either.”
Ruslan sliced off a piece of hard cheese, turned it on the knife as if judging its texture, and popped it into his mouth. As chief technologist at a cheese factory, he had gotten used to measuring everything in life by maturity, consistency, and defects. In his mind, their marriage was simply a failed batch.
Agata removed her safety glasses, leaving red marks across the bridge of her nose, and looked at him. Tall, polished, dressed in a sand-colored linen suit. Once, he had seemed to her like the perfect symbol of stability, as solid as an oak frame around stained glass. Now she saw only a man who discarded people as easily as old gloves.
“There’s another woman,” he said casually, brushing crumbs from his lapel. “Her name is Bella. She doesn’t waste time soldering bits of glass together. She does something useful. And she’s pregnant.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath Agata’s feet, even though the parquet in their large apartment on Rubinstein Street felt as immovable as bedrock.
“Congratulations,” she said, her voice muffled, as though wrapped in cotton. “So you finally found a worthy vessel for your priceless bloodline.”
“Don’t be spiteful. It doesn’t suit you,” her husband said with a grimace. “And this isn’t only about the baby. I need room for my new family. This place is in the center—good infrastructure, parks, clinics. Bella will be comfortable here.”
“Room? Space?” Agata repeated, feeling anger slowly elbow the shock aside. “You want to bring her here?”
“I want you to move out. Today. Right now. You can collect the rest of your things later, after we’ve set up the nursery.”
“Where?” was all she could force out.
“To Nalichnaya. My one-bedroom place. It’s empty at the moment—I checked. The neighborhood isn’t exactly prestigious, and the gulf winds are brutal, but for one person it’s more than enough. You can put your workshop on the balcony.”
Agata stared silently at the man she had lived beside for seven years. She remembered how they had chosen the wallpaper in this very living room, argued over curtain colors, dreamed up the life they would build. She had poured her soul into this home, along with every ruble she earned from her commissions. And now he spoke as if he were merely rearranging furniture.
“You’re throwing me out of a home where every tile was chosen by me?”
“Legally, we’re married, so the property is shared. But let’s be honest—I need this apartment more. I have an heir. You have a hobby and a bunch of empty hopes. Start packing. Bella will be here in two hours.”
Ruslan glanced at his watch, an expensive chronometer Agata had given him for his anniversary.
“I don’t want drama, Agata. Take the essentials and leave. The keys to Nalichnaya are on the side table.”
Agata rose slowly. Her fingers, so used to handling delicate material, wanted in that moment to curl around something heavy. But she stopped herself. In her craft, one wrong move could ruin months of work. Right now, she had to preserve what little remained intact—at least outwardly. But the truth was simple: she hated him in that moment and could not bear to stay near a man who had betrayed her so casually.
“All right,” she said, looking straight through him. “I’ll go.”
She went into the bedroom and pulled out a travel bag. Her hands moved automatically: underwear, two dresses, her favorite sweater. Then her eyes landed on a framed photograph on the dresser. The two of them stood by the Gulf of Finland, smiling, wind in their hair. Agata turned the frame face down.
“Two hours,” Ruslan called from the living room. “Don’t take too long.”
When she left the apartment, she didn’t look back. She heard the lock click behind her, sealing off her past life. Rubinstein Street was alive with crowds and music spilling out of bars, but for Agata the world had already gone black and white, drained of every trace of color.
Part 2: Wind Off the Bay
“So where to, madam? Straight to hell, or just to Vasilyevsky Island?” Agata muttered to herself as she slipped into her old but dependable Volvo.
The car started instantly, like a loyal animal ready to carry its owner away from disaster. She turned onto Nevsky Prospekt. The city pulsed with its usual chaos: tourists photographing the bronze horses on Anichkov Bridge, taxi drivers cutting each other off, glowing billboards promising eternal happiness at half price.
The tears she had held back in front of her husband came flooding down now. She didn’t even wipe them away, letting the salty drops fall onto her blouse.
“Why?” she whispered, gripping the steering wheel. “I loved him. I tried.”
Images from the past rose in her mind. They had just gotten married and were living in that same little apartment on Nalichnaya Street. Back then Ruslan wasn’t some important factory executive yet, and she was only beginning her life as a stained-glass artist. They were always short on money, but they were happy. They dreamed about a big family, a dog, and traveling together.
Then the doctors began. Endless tests, procedures, hope, disappointment, and more hope. At first Ruslan had supported her, held her hand, reassured her. But with every failed result, his hand grew colder and his gaze more distant. He started staying late at work, taking “business trips” to European cheese plants. Agata was left alone, and the only place she could still breathe was in her work with glass. She cut, polished, and soldered, turning broken shards into beauty, trying to mend her own soul the way she joined fragments of smalti.
“Bella…” Agata said the name under her breath, tasting it. Bitter. “So it means ‘beauty.’ Of course it does.”
She crossed Palace Bridge. The Neva, heavy and lead-gray, rolled toward the gulf, indifferent to human sorrow. The wind picked up, making the wires sway.
As she neared the building on Nalichnaya Street, a familiar heaviness settled over her. The neighborhood had always felt too exposed, too windswept, too bleak. The standard gray high-rise stood there like a concrete cliff.
Agata parked, grabbed her bag, and made her way to the entrance. The intercom wasn’t working—typical for that place. The elevator groaned and rattled as it carried her up to the eighth floor.
She took out the keys Ruslan had carelessly tossed on the table. Her hand shook as the metal touched the lock.
“Well,” she exhaled, “hello again, old new life.”
She turned the key.
The door didn’t open. Agata frowned and tried again. The lock worked, but something was holding the door from inside—or…
Then she heard footsteps on the other side. Someone peered through the peephole. A second later, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
A young woman stood there, hair tousled, wearing an oversized T-shirt with the band Kino printed on it and paint-stained jeans. She held a brush in one hand, and a pencil was tucked behind her ear.
“Good evening,” the girl said, blinking in surprise. “Are you from building management? I’m pretty sure we already paid the water bill.”
“Who are you?” Agata asked, stunned, lowering her bag onto the dirty stairwell floor.
“I’m Polina. I live here. Who are you?”
“I… I’m the wife of the owner. Ruslan.”
Polina’s eyes widened.
“Wow. That’s an interesting development. Ruslan told me he was single and leaving on a long expedition to the Alps to study mountain herbs.”
“To the Alps?” Agata let out a bitter laugh. “More like paternity leave.”
“Come in,” Polina said. “I think we need to talk. Just be careful—there are books drying everywhere.”
Part 3: Restorer of Other People’s Secrets
The apartment Agata remembered as sparse and impersonal now looked like a library after a storm. Stacks of antique books were everywhere. Jars of glue stood on every surface. Leatherworking tools lay among scattered papers. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and, oddly enough, lavender.
“Sorry about the mess,” Polina said, brushing a pile of sketches off a stool. “I restore old books. I work from home.”
Agata sat down carefully, trying not to disturb the prints and engravings spread across the table.
“How long have you been living here?” she asked.
“Four months. We signed a one-year lease right away. I paid the whole year in advance. Your husband gave me a discount for it. Said he urgently needed the money for expansion…”
“For expansion,” Agata murmured. “More like presents for Bella.”
Polina dug into a cupboard and pulled out a folder of papers.
“Here. Look. Everything’s official. The lease, the payment receipt.”
Agata took the documents. Ruslan’s signature was bold and certain. The amount written out in full was substantial. He had taken a year’s rent up front—and then sent his wife here, knowing perfectly well the place was occupied.
“He knew,” she whispered. “He knew someone lived here. He wanted to humiliate me. To make me run all over the city. Or maybe he thought I’d be too embarrassed to throw you out.”
“Wait—he sent you here to live? Right now?” Polina frowned, and her face, which had seemed almost naïve before, suddenly hardened with disbelief.
“Yes. He told me, ‘It’s empty. Go stay there.’”
“What a bastard,” the restorer said with genuine outrage. “Listen, I could squeeze over for a couple of days if I had to, but I can’t move out. I’ve got commissions, deadlines, and no spare money. I gave it all to him.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Agata said, lifting a hand. “I’m not throwing you out. You have a lease. Legally, you’re protected. Besides, if I forced you out early, I’d owe compensation, and right now my finances are… not exactly abundant.”
For the first time, Agata felt the anger she had needed earlier finally begin to boil inside her. Ruslan had done more than betray her. He had planned it. He had secured himself a financial cushion, rented out his so-called backup option, and tossed her into the street like a stray cat.
“You know, Polina,” Agata said, standing and pacing the tiny kitchen, brushing against piles of heavy books with her hip, “he’s probably convinced I’m crying somewhere right now, begging to come back. Or driving to my mother’s in Saratov.”
“And are you?” Polina asked, handing her a mug of herbal tea.
“No. I’m going to Tamara’s. And we’re going to come up with a plan.”
“Thyme tea,” Polina said. “It calms the nerves. And if you need help, call me. I’m good at restoring more than book spines. My brother’s a lawyer, too, just in case.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that. For now, live here in peace. No one’s touching you.”
When Agata walked out of the building, she felt different. The wind from the bay no longer seemed cold—it felt bracing. She pulled out her phone and dialed.
“Tamara? Are you home? Put the kettle on. And get out that prop box from the play The Queen’s Revenge.”
Part 4: The Entomologist and Her Little Army
The apartment door on Mokhovaya Street was opened by a woman with a short haircut and enormous scarab-beetle earrings.
“Agata! My God, you look awful. Come in quickly before my Madagascar cockroaches start panicking from the draft.”
Tamara was an entomologist, but not the kind who spent her life in a dusty institute. She designed elaborate insect displays for private collectors and museums. Her apartment looked like a jungle: terrariums lined the walls, vines hung from shelves, and jars all around the room rustled and stirred with tiny lives inside.
“Auntie Agata!” cried Varya, Tamara’s five-year-old daughter, running toward her in a ladybug costume. “Look, I’m a beetle!”
“Hello, little bug,” Agata said, hugging the girl and breathing in the scent of children’s shampoo and cookies. For a second, the familiar ache pierced her chest, but she pushed it away. This was not the moment to drown in self-pity.
“Talk,” Tamara ordered, settling her friend onto the couch between two terrariums filled with stick insects.
Agata told her everything. Bella. The pregnancy. The apartment on Rubinstein Street. The vile trick with the one-bedroom place on Nalichnaya.
“What a dung beetle,” Tamara hissed, using the sharpest insult from her professional vocabulary. “So what are you going to do?”
“He said the apartment belongs to both of us, but he needs it more. What he forgot is one small detail.”
“What detail?”
“My father gave me the apartment on Rubinstein Street as a gift. A month before the wedding. Ruslan was away on a business trip then and barely looked at the paperwork. We moved in right after the registry office, and he always assumed it was joint marital property bought with my father’s money during the marriage. But the deed of gift is in my name. Mine alone.”
Tamara let out such a loud whistle that the stick insects in the terrarium froze.
“Well, that changes everything. Gifts aren’t divided in a divorce. That place is yours. Entirely.”
“Exactly. But he’s there now with his mistress, and getting him out won’t be easy. He’s stubborn.”
“Oh, we won’t just get him out. We’ll fumigate the place,” Tamara said, her eyes flashing. “I’ve got an idea. You need moral support. And a witness. Varya, come here!”
The little girl trotted over, her ladybug wings rustling.
“Want to play spies with Auntie Agata?” her mother asked.
“Yes!” Varya squealed.
“Take Varya with you,” Tamara said. “She’ll be your shield. Ruslan won’t dare start shouting obscenities or get aggressive in front of a child. He’s always loved pretending he’s some noble father figure. And I’ll come by in half an hour with a couple of strong movers. Just in case.”
“Do you really think it’s safe?”
“With Varya? Completely. That child can talk anyone into submission. She’ll explain the butterfly life cycle to him until he wraps himself into a cocoon and disappears somewhere far away. Let’s go.”
Part 5: A Crystal Ending
By the time Agata turned the key in the lock of her apartment, it was close to ten at night. Behind the door she could hear laughter and the clink of glasses.
She pushed it open. Varya, still holding her hand, stepped inside beside her and looked around the hallway with bright curiosity.
The living room was arranged like a scene from an advertisement. Candles glowed on the table. Expensive cheeses sat neatly plated—naturally, products from Ruslan’s own factory—alongside a bottle of wine. Bella, a pretty blonde with a visible baby bump, lounged in Agata’s chair with her feet up on the ottoman. Ruslan was pouring wine.
“Well,” Agata said loudly, “you two look comfortable.”
Ruslan jumped and splashed wine across the tablecloth—a handmade linen one Agata had brought back from Suzdal.
“You?!” He went pale. “What are you doing here? I told you to go to Nalichnaya!”
“Auntie Agata, who is that?” Varya asked loudly, pointing at him. “An evil wizard?”
Bella nearly choked on a grape.
“Who is this child?” she shrieked. “Ruslan, you said she didn’t have children!”
“This is Varya. My… family,” Agata said firmly. “And what exactly are you doing in my apartment?”
“In our apartment,” Ruslan corrected, recovering enough to slip back into his usual arrogant expression. “Agata, don’t make a circus out of this. Why did you drag someone else’s child here? And why aren’t you on Vasilyevsky?”
“Because on Vasilyevsky lives Polina, the woman you signed a year-long lease with and took money from in advance,” Agata said, tossing a copy of the lease onto the table. “You lied to me. You sent me to an occupied apartment.”
Bella looked from Agata to Ruslan.
“You rented it out? But you told me we’d live here and sell the other one to buy a cottage!”
“Bella, be quiet. This is business,” Ruslan snapped. Then he turned back to Agata. “This is just a misunderstanding. I’ll return the tenant’s money.”
“No, darling, you won’t. Because according to the contract, the penalty for early termination is three months’ rent. Do you have that kind of money right now? Or did you invest everything in your so-called expansion?”
Ruslan’s face turned red. Angry blotches crept up his neck.
“Get out,” he hissed. “And take the girl with you.”
“No, Ruslan. You’re the one leaving,” Agata said, pulling a folder from her bag. “Here’s the deed of gift. The apartment on Rubinstein Street belongs to me, and only to me. You are nothing here but a registered occupant, and tomorrow I’ll start the legal process to have you removed. But for tonight, get out.”
“You’re lying.” He snatched the papers and scanned the text. His hands began to shake. A man so used to precise formulas and controlled outcomes had overlooked the single ingredient that mattered most—ownership.
“You have fifteen minutes,” Agata said calmly, glancing at the watch she had once given him. “After that, my friend will arrive with movers. They’re simple men, fond of entomology, and they may decide you look a lot like a pest.”
“Ruslan, is this true?” Bella’s voice trembled. “Are we really going out into the street?”
“We’ll go to a hotel!” he barked.
“With what money?” Agata asked sweetly. “Didn’t you spend it all on your alpine herbs—that is, on your grand performance? And I’m sure the rent money already went toward a ring for your ‘heir.’”
Ruslan shot her a look filled with raw, unfiltered hatred.
“You… empty, lonely woman.”
“Mister, you’re as rude as a stag beetle, only your antlers are tiny!” Varya announced brightly.
Agata laughed. The sound came out light and clean, as if something inside her had finally broken free.
“Pack up, Ruslan. And take your cheese with you. It’s already starting to dry out.”
Twenty minutes later, the apartment was empty. The smell of Bella’s perfume and Ruslan’s pretentious cologne was already fading through the open window.
The doorbell rang. Tamara stood there with two broad-shouldered men.
“So,” she asked briskly, “are we removing bodies?”
“They left on their own,” Agata said with a smile. “Evolved into upright creatures and found the door.”
“Excellent. Men, stand down. We’re having tea instead. Varya, go wash your hands.”
Agata locked the door—every lock this time. Then she walked over to her worktable, where her unfinished stained-glass piece still lay waiting. Now she knew exactly what it needed to become: vivid, strong, made of hundreds of different fragments fused firmly together.
“Auntie Agata, are we going to paint on glass?” Varya tugged at her sleeve.
“We are, sweetheart. Absolutely.”
Agata looked into the child’s wide, clear eyes. Somewhere deep inside, in the place where despair had once been a black hollow, a tiny warm light began to flicker. Maybe family was not always about blood. Maybe it was the people who stayed beside you when your whole world shattered.
“You know,” Agata said, pouring tea for her friend, “Polina—the tenant—restores books. We actually have a lot in common. I should stop by and check on her sometime… and maybe the walls too.”
“Do it,” Tamara nodded. “Who knows, maybe you two will end up starting an art workshop together—Glass and Paper.”
Outside, Rubinstein Street kept humming. The city went on breathing, loving, separating, and beginning again. But inside Agata’s apartment, there was peace at last. And for the first time in a long while, she truly felt at home.