She was his son’s wife. But then, right at the beginning, Gleb Gromov didn’t know that. First there was… No! Not even the word. The voice… Deep, captivating, drawn out—like honey that they had harvested in their faraway, misted-with-time childhood from nests of wild bees, tearing their knees until they bled and risking falling out of the tree. It felt as if he had fallen into a pit the moment he heard her. Without understanding the words, seeing nothing in front of him. Getting lost in the intonations… Damn! She was his son’s wife…