The car was too quiet.
Not the same quiet as the embassy. This one moved—pressed in from all sides, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the muted blur of the city passing outside the windows.
Artem sat in the back seat, shoulders tight, hands clasped again like before. Like if he let them go, everything else would come apart, too.
Across from him, Iyan sat angled toward the window, eyes tracking nothing in particular.
Neither of them had spoken since they left.
The city moved around them, indifferent.
Artem swallowed.
His throat still hurt.
"Why did you do that?"
The words came out rough—worn down by everything that had already happened.
Iyan didn't answer right away.
Didn't even look at him.
For a moment, Artem thought he might not answer at all.
Then—
"Because I know what it's like to say goodbye and never look back."
That made Artem turn.
Really look at him.
Iyan's gaze stayed fixed on the glass, but something in his expression had shifted. Not softer—just... farther away.
Like he wasn't in the car anymore.
"I was six," Iyan said.
No buildup. No explanation.
Just the fact.
"It was winter. Cold enough that the air hurt when you breathed."
Artem said nothing.
He didn't interrupt.
Iyan continued, voice even, almost detached—but not empty.
"My parents were already gone. It was just my grandmother and me."
A pause.
"Things were getting worse back then."
His fingers shifted slightly against his knee.
"The power would go out for hours. Sometimes longer. You'd sit in the dark and wait."
Artem's chest tightened.
"She used to stand in line for bread. Every morning. Sometimes she'd come back with nothing."
A beat.
"But she never let me see her worried."
The faintest hint of something—memory, maybe—touched his voice and disappeared just as quickly.
"The apartment was small. Warm, though. She made it feel that way."
He exhaled slowly.
"One day, my aunt came. They talked for a long time in the kitchen. Quiet, like they didn't want me to hear."
He shifted slightly in his seat.
"I understood anyway."
Artem didn't move.
"They packed a small bag. Not much. Just what I could carry."
Another pause.
Then, quieter:
"She dressed me herself. Buttoned my coat. Fixed my scarf three times like it wasn't right the first two."
His eyes flickered, just once.
"When we got to the door, she knelt down."
Now his voice changed—not louder, not softer, but closer to something real.
"She told me to be brave."
The car felt smaller.
Artem didn't move.
Outside, the city kept moving, unaware.
"It was snowing," Iyan said. "Everything was white. Too bright."
He swallowed once.
"I remember turning back once. Just once."
A beat.
"She was still standing there. Watching."
Silence filled the car.
"I left," he said.
Another pause.
"And I never saw her again."
The words settled heavily between them.
No dramatics. No emphasis.
Just a fact.
Iyan finally turned his head slightly, not quite meeting Artem's eyes.
"So yeah," he said quietly. "I know something about this."
The car kept moving.
For a moment, Artem didn't know what to say.
Didn't know if anything could be said.
Then something in him gave way—again, but differently this time.
He leaned forward, closing the space between them.
The hug wasn't desperate like before.
Not breaking.
Just... needed.
Iyan stiffened for half a second—out of habit, maybe.
Then he let it happen.
One hand came up, resting briefly against Artem's back.
Not holding. Not pulling him closer.
Just there.
Present.
They separated without a word.
Outside, the buildings thinned. The road widened.
The airport came into view.
Bright lights. Open space. Movement.
Everything that meant leaving.
The car slowed, then stopped.
A voice from the front:
"We're here."
Neither of them moved immediately.
Then Iyan reached for the door.
Artem followed.
Cold air hit them as they stepped out.
It felt sharper now.
Final.
They were met quickly—no delays, no questions.
Escorted.
Processed.
Moved along.
Everything efficient. Controlled. Inevitable.
The aircraft waiting on the tarmac wasn't large.
Unmarked.
Functional.
A way out.
They boarded without ceremony.
Inside, it was quiet again.
Seats, narrow aisles, low lighting.
Artem sat by the window this time.
Iyan is beside him.
As the plane began to move, Artem looked out.
The runway stretched ahead—long, straight, irreversible.
For a moment, he thought of turning back.
Not physically.
Just... in his mind.
But there was nothing to turn back to anymore.
The engines roared.
The plane surged forward.
Faster.
Faster.
Artem's vision blurred.
He didn't wipe it away.
Not yet.
As the ground rushed beneath them, he reached out—
and took Iyan's hand.
Tight.
Like something was slipping.
"До свидания, мама..."
Farewell, Mama...
The words barely made it out.
Then he folded forward, the breath leaving him all at once.
Iyan didn't hesitate.
"It's okay," he said quietly. "I've got you."
The plane lifted.
The ground fell away.
Lights blurred into the distance.
And just like that—
Moscow disappeared beneath them.
Time passed.
Not measured.
Just... gone.
Eventually, the pilot's voice came over the intercom:
"We've now cleared Russian airspace."
Artem didn't respond.
He just sat there, still holding on.
And that was that.