In the complete silence of the room, the phone emitted a short signal, illuminating the ceiling with a cold blue light.
It was two in the morning. Larisa carefully reached toward the bedside table, trying not to disturb her husband, but Viktor had already propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes wide open.
“Who writes at this hour?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, as if listening to his own question.
His voice was steady, yet something in his intonation made Larisa freeze—as if he were afraid to hear the answer.
Silently, she rotated the phone’s screen so that her husband could see the photograph. In the picture was a boy of about ten—blond-haired, with freckles on his nose and a smile that was painfully familiar.
Viktor paled. In the dim light of the night lamp, his face appeared like a mask, devoid of expression.
“Where did…?” he faltered, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Where did you get this from?”
