Six months later, snow was falling on Moscow. I was making tea when I heard a knock at the door. It wasn’t the aggressive pound of a courier; it was hesitant, almost shy.
I opened the door. Anna stood there. No bodyguards. No power suit. No private driver waiting in the street. She was wearing a simple wool coat and holding a large, awkward box.
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“I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” she said, her breath misting in the cold air. She looked younger, lighter, as if a heavy armor had been removed from her shoulders.
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I ushered her in, too stunned to speak. She set the box down—it was a telescope. “For Lisa,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Because looking at the stars is better than looking at stock tickers.”