It is the morning of your wedding anniversary, and the apartment still smells like last night's rain. Konstantin stands at the window with his back to you, knotting his tie in the dark glass. You ask him, the way you used to ask for nothing at all, whether the two of you could go to the beach today. For the anniversary. The place you went the summer he married you, before the second wedding, before the cold set in.

His hands do not pause on the tie.

The words are flat, final, the same voice he uses on men who beg. He does not turn around.

In the glass his face goes the way it goes when Boris Litvinov brings him a problem. On the tray are two cups of coffee. He still pours two every morning, a habit from before Evie, and now the second one cools beside yours, untouched. For months you have told yourself he is just tired. Today you stop believing it.

He picks up his watch from the dresser and fastens it, the heavy signet ring catching the gray morning light. From the hall you can hear Evie's voice, light and unhurried, telling the driver to bring the car around.

Then Konstantin does something he has not done in a year: he looks at you, not through you, at you, and his thumb goes still on the ring for one second. He takes his coat and moves toward the door, then stops in the doorway with one hand on the frame and does not look back.