ravda realizes, suddenly, that he has not felt this way about a woman in longer than he can remember. There had been others in his long life before Novus—but none of them had mattered, not since Znaniya. They had only been salve to a wound; a warmth; a brief, flickering light that ultimately went out. But none of them had evoked anything beyond fond sentiment; none of them had made him nervous, or quiet, or elated in a way he can scarcely contain.

But her smile does something to him. Her smile challenges what he knows of himself; her smile, and the defiant way she meets his eyes, rattle the walls of his callous heart. 

If I were a god, I would have seen to it that we went on a walk much before this. 

Pravda might have smiled, if he were not such a serious man. It occurs to him that he might have offended her, by taking so long to ask—

Well, even now, he has not asked for her company. It was chance, pure chance, that they discovered one another in the woods. 

And so Pravda says, “Well, Ms. Katerina, I am only a man. But I would like to make walks with you a priority in the future.” 

Too serious, perhaps. He is always too serious. But she smiles, despite her solemn expression. It’s late, Mister Pravda. Goodnight. Pravda wanders if he should ask to walk her home—but decides against it, for the way she presses her nose against him stills his heart and fills his mind with strange familiarities. 

They are nothing alike, Katerina and Znaniya. Znaniya had been sunshine and sharpness; she had been so, so bright she hurt to look at. But there is something in the gesture, something that reminds Pravda intimately of a thousand stolen touches in another life—

“Goodnight, Ms. Katerina. I hope you sleep well.” Pravda’s voice is a whisper, barely audible. He turns, briefly, to follow her departure through the tree. It does not take long for the darkness to swallow her.

Pravda remains a long time after, wondering: 

Why had he felt that touch before?

But eventually, exhaustion settles in, and he walks back to the city.