Chapter Text
The massive door of the amphitheater creaked open with a heavy groan right at the start of class. The murmurs of the hundreds of students inside cut off like a knife the moment the Professor stepped inside. He exuded such seriousness as he walked to the podium that even the student in the back row felt compelled to put their phone away.
The professor buttoned his gray jacket as usual. The deep lines on his face seemed to hide a different story behind each one. When he reached his desk, he took out an old notebook from his bag, its edges worn and its leather almost blackened.
He held the notebook up in the air. The light in the amphitheater played on the dried stains and worn texture of the notebook.
“Has anyone seen this book before?” he asked. His voice was deep, but it carried an echo from far away.
“Or knows the dark story inside?”
There was no sound from the class. A few students looked at each other. No one knew what this nameless, dusty notebook was.
The professor smiled slightly; it was a smile that was a little sad, a little triumphant. “Good,” he said in a low voice. "Well then... Since no one knows, that means you're ready to hear this story firsthand."
He took off his glasses, slowly opened the notebook's cover, and continued as if he had completely left the classroom and been transported to the snowy mountains of 1940s Canada,
“It all began in a small town under the shadow of war.”
Canada, 1948.
In the most secluded corner of the university library, at that table where even daylight struggled to reach, Shane was alone again. The thick books and complex notes in front of him were the wall he had built between himself and the outside world. He was the smartest in his class, but he never participated in the discussions in the lecture halls, communicating only through the flawless answers he left on his exam papers.
People described him as “cold” or “stupid”; yet Shane was just a young man trying to silence the noise in his own mind.
When he returned home after class, the air behind the mansion's massive oak door felt even harsher and heavier than the freezing winter air outside. The clinking of silver forks against porcelain plates in the dining room echoed with a cold rhythm, like the ticking of a clock.
Mr. Hollander sat at the head of the table. He was a man who knew the trade routes of Asia like the back of his hand, a man who had built his fortune with ships full of ambition and hard work. He had brought Yuna, whom he had met on a business trip to Japan's port cities and whose grace had captured his soul, to the cold lands of Canada like a spring flower.
Shane's life had been shaped at the intersection of these two different worlds. His father, though a tough businessman to the outside world, was fiercely loyal to his family. He had built a palace for his son's future, but he had left the discipline, etiquette, and aesthetics within that palace entirely in Yuna's elegant hands.
Yuna had shaped Shane with the skill of a master, teaching him how to be the man he should be.
They were a happy couple; their son's well-being came before everything else. But since the dark shadow of war began to cross the border, that peace had given way to a constant, watchful anxiety.
“That secluded cottage in Alberta?” said Mr. Hollander, setting his wine glass on the table.
“Shane, with the border so volatile, it's not wise for you to be alone deep in the woods. You can write your article here, in your library. Your safety is paramount.”
Yuna pulled her silk shawl around her shoulders and looked at her son with a gentle but serious gaze.
“Your father is right, dear. The newspapers talk about smugglers and soldiers. That silence may be as peaceful as you think, but safety...”
Shane stood up with the impeccable politeness his mother had taught him.
“Just a few hours,” he said, the determination in his voice rivalling his family's stubbornness.
“The only way I can finish my writing is to take refuge in the solitude of that house. I promise, I'll be back here as soon as possible.”
After a long silence, Mr. Hollander's approval came like a blessing. When his father set his glass on the table and sank back into silence, it was Yuna's soft voice that broke the tension in the room.
Yuna was not just a wife or a mother; she was the secret force that maintained the peace of this house. The sleeves of her silk robe traced an elegant curve across the table as she fixed her gaze on Shane.
“Shane,” said Yuna, her voice as clear as a wind chime but cautionary.
“Don't let our concern upset you. Everything in this house is under control, everything is predictable. But those mountains... There, nothing but silence is guaranteed.”
She stood up, walked slowly to her son's side, and placed her hand on Shane's shoulder. Leaning down, she whispered in a tone only he could hear,
“You say you want to rest your mind, but sometimes the loudest noise begins in the very solitude we try to escape. Don't forget that.”
When she stepped back, there was a sad smile on her face.
“If you're going to stay longer, let us know. If I don't hear your voice, the cold of those snows will fall on my heart too.”
Shane was shaken by his mother's unusual emotional outburst, but he didn't back down.
“I will, Mom,” he said, bidding farewell to both parents and leaving the dining room.
As he put on his heavy coat in the entryway, he breathed in the scent of this warm home. The moment he stepped outside, the freezing Canadian air slapped him in the face.
When Shane stepped out of the mansion's heavy door, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon. It was afternoon; the sky was a pleasant mix of orange and pink. He chose to walk. As he entered the forest path, the long shadows of the trees stretched across the road.
The air was cool but not freezing, and the sharp scent of earth filling his lungs always brought him peace.
As he ventured deeper into the forest, the feeling of being followed began like a tingling sensation at the back of his neck. The sounds coming from among the dark pine trees were terrifying.
Shane quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest like the keys of a typewriter. When he reached the front of the house and rushed towards the door, he heard a sound on the snow besides his own breathing—the sound of boots crunching through the snow.
Before he had time to turn around, he felt the icy, deadly pressure of metal against the back of his neck.
“What are you doing?” said a voice with a broken accent, thick with danger.
“If you think about screaming, your voice won't even come out before the bullet enters your neck, just so you know.”
Shane was dragged to the middle of the living room by the man behind him. The man turned him to face him. Sunlight streamed through the window, vaguely illuminating the face of the man opposite him.
The man wore a tattered military coat, his face covered in grime, but those blue eyes gleamed like a hungry wolf. It was none other than the deserter Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya looked at Shane's trembling shadow and grinned mockingly.
“Got any cigarettes, stranger?” he asked. His English was broken; anyone who heard him would immediately know he wasn't from around here.
Shane tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “I-I don't smoke,” he said, his voice trembling. “I don't have any on me.”
The twisted smile on Ilya's face vanished instantly. His gaze turned savage in seconds. He pressed the barrel of the gun in his hand hard against Shane's chin, against his soft skin. Shane groaned in pain, forced to rise up on his toes as the barrel pushed him upward. His head tilted back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Look at me, sweet boy,” Ilya growled, pressing the barrel a little harder.
“If you report me, I'll scatter that brain of yours, which you value so much, all over this ceiling. Do you understand?”
A tear rolled from Shane's eye; he couldn't breathe. The barrel was pressing against his throat. Ilya saw the pure terror in the young man's eyes, that unadulterated innocence.
The smell of the blood on his own hands clashed with the fresh scent of innocence on Shane.
Ilya suddenly cursed and pulled the gun back. As he moved the barrel away from Shane's throat, he roughly locked the safety and threw the gun onto the seat next to him.
“Damn it,” he muttered in Russian. “You're all the same. Boring, healthy, and useless.”
He went and collapsed into the chair, as if all his strength had drained away in that moment. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Stop looking at me like that. Go... get me something to drink. Water, whiskey, poison... whatever the hell you've got. And don't try to run away!”
Instead of going to the kitchen, Shane remained frozen where he stood. The mark on his throat still hurt. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked at Ilya, who was lying on the couch like a wreck.
His gaze now held not just horror, but a seriousness born of a violation of his property.
“This is my family's house,” Shane said, his voice harsher than he expected.
“I came here because I have a piece of writing I need to finish.”
Ilya smiled slightly without opening his eyes. “Writing, huh...” he murmured.
“Your future is about writing and money. My future is just about surviving until the next sunrise.”
Shane took a step closer. “What are you doing here? Are you a soldier?”
Ilya suddenly opened his eyes. The savagery in those blue eyes, combined with the last glow of the evening sun in the room, froze Shane's blood.
“You ask too many questions, sweet boy. Questions kill a man faster than bullets.”
The room was suddenly plunged into heavy silence. Ilya looked at Shane's high-quality coat, his eyes that didn't flinch despite his trembling, and his freckles.
Shane, meanwhile, looked at Ilya's pale skin, his lips, and his exhaustion.
Among them, that strange attraction that couldn't be put into words but hung in the air first took root there. Ilya saw the suppressed sadness within this young man, while Shane saw the broken part within this man.
Ilya slowly sat up. “Listen,” he said, his voice now more conciliatory.
“There are soldiers outside, there are wolves, and I need to rest. You, on the other hand, want to write your article.”
Shane frowned. “So?”
“You bring me food,” Ilya said, calculating with his fingers. “Clean cloths for my wounds, something strong to drink, and most importantly... silence. If you do that, you can work at your typewriter at that corner table. I won't touch you. If you don't tell anyone I'm here, I won't interfere with your ‘important’ writing.”
Shane hesitated. The idea of sitting at a table under the same roof as a fugitive, perhaps a murderer, was madness. But the dark freedom Ilya offered was more appealing than the suffocating atmosphere of his father's library.
“You won't cause any harm,” Shane said, as if agreeing to a condition. “And you'll let me work whenever I want.”
Ilya offered a crooked smile in response to Shane's bold attitude.
“Deal, stranger. But remember, if you betray me...”
Shane nodded as if surrendering. A short time passed. When Ilya fell into a deep but restless sleep on the couch, pressing his gun in one hand and his wound in the other, Shane made the hardest decision of his life. He quietly took his coat and left the house. As the fresh air filled his lungs, he wondered if what he had just experienced was a nightmare.
His legs still trembled as he walked down the mountain road toward town. He had to report it. He had to go to his father, call the police, and end this chaos. By the time he reached the town center, the afternoon sun had given way to the deep blue darkness of evening.
Street lamps were lit, shop windows glowed with that familiar, reassuring light.
Shane paused when he saw the patrol car parked at the corner of the main street and the two policemen watching the area with their flashlights. His heart was pounding in his throat. If he took just ten steps, it would all be over.
He would continue his normal, boring life, Yuna would greet him with hot tea, and this dangerous stranger would remain just a memory. But at that moment, Ilya's blue eyes appeared in Shane's mind.
“My future is just surviving until the next sunrise,” the man had said.
Shane suddenly pulled back, afraid that the police would turn to him and ask, “Are you okay, sir?” That bright street and the police felt more suffocating to him at that moment than the barrel of Ilya's gun.
When he entered through the mansion's massive garden gate, he was out of breath. His clothes were covered in twigs and leaves, and his coat was dusty. As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the heavy scent of jasmine and oak in the hallway enveloped him.
The lights cast long, blood-red shadows across the marble floor. Shane tried to hide the tremor in his hands under his coat as a dark figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
Yuna descended the steps, the hem of her silk robe trailing lightly behind her, her face bearing that all-seeing, unsettling calm.
She paused and looked at her son's disheveled state, his trembling hands, and the wild fear in his eyes.
“Shane?” said Yuna, fixing her eyes on her son's. “You're home early. Did something happen?”
He cleared his throat, clenching his fists to keep his voice steady.
“It's just...” said Shane, not looking away from his mother's face but trying not to get lost in its depths.
“I felt bad leaving you behind like that, Mom. My longing for you outweighed my desire to write the article. I didn't want to worry you.”
Yuna stopped at the last step. She slowly reached out her hand to Shane's dusty shoulder, lightly stroking the fabric with her fingertips.
“Good... Since you're here, change your clothes. Go to sleep right away, don't be late.”
As Yuna walked past him, Shane clutched his coat tighter. The warmth of the house didn't warm him; instead, he still felt the cold barrel of that wild stranger's gun at his neck, left behind in the country house. He had told a lie, and that lie had left him right in the middle of a path with no turning back.