“What a dear little boy.” Tretіakov ruffles my son’s curly crown and doesn’t take his eyes off him. “He reminds me of someone…”
“Sorry, Volodya, we’re in a hurry.” I take Denys’s hand and want to leave, but Tretіakov blocks the way. “How old is he? Is he Igor’s child?” I stay silent. And when I finally manage to answer, a tiny blonde approaches us and clings to Tretіakov’s shoulder. A ring gleams on her nameless finger.
“Darling, who is this girl?” she asks, and then notices Denys. She pales and her face changes.
“He’s the copy of…”
“This is Igor’s fiancée, my late brother,” Tretіakov cuts her off, still looking at me. I thought I’d never meet the past again, but it turns out that for some time my child’s father and I will live in the same city.