The memory surfaces like a coin falling through murky water.
A small, creased photograph. Wallet-sized.
My father used to pull it out every time he came back from a dive—two photos, side by side in the leather fold. One of the family. One of a man built like a fortress, grinning with the kind of reckless confidence that only people who have cheated death together can share.
How could I forget? Every time I heard the name, it scratched at something behind my memory like a nail on glass.
Boris. My father's best friend. The man in the second photograph, side-hugging him.
And now he's standing in front of me in a city that shouldn't exist, looking at me like I'm a ghost he's been praying to see.
"There's so much I need to tell you!" Boris says, his voice like thunder rolling through the stone hall—deep, rough, the kind of bass that vibrates in your chest before it reaches your ears.
