Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 148949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 745(@200wpm)___ 596(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 745(@200wpm)___ 596(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
I glanced at Blue. “And your thoughts?”
She nodded. “I agree.”
I kneeled in front of the chest and ran my fingers along the edges. It was beautifully crafted and made of sturdy oak. A subtle, earthy scent emanated from the wood.
The polished surface easily slipped beneath my fingertips. “This is amazing.”
“My grandfather made it for me when I was a little girl.”
I snapped my view to her. “What? Are you sure you want to give this away?”
“To that perfect boy who brightens my days? Yes.”
I put my view back on the chest and took in some of the magnificent carvings. Majestic firebirds soared through the sky, and brave heroes on horseback galloped into war. Each detail had been rendered with exquisite precision.
I lifted the heavy lid.
The hinges creaked softly.
The lid went up, revealing a red velvet lining inside.
Blue gestured to the items she brought in. “Do you want me to start putting everything in there?”
I checked the items by the box and felt overwhelmed by the amount of memories. There was much more than Pavel had told me—photo albums, old letters, old toys, letters, books, a watch, and other jewelry.
Blue sat down on the ground and one by one began putting things into the trunk.
I carefully picked up the largest photo album. Its dark green leather cover was worn and faded with time. As I opened the album, I could see that it was filled with images of a young boy, captured in moments of joy, wonder, and discovery.
I began to flip through it. The pages were creased and yellowed from years of love and use. Tons of photos greeted my eyes. In the beginning, the photographs were black and white, with a grainy quality. Handwritten notes in Russian with captions and dates filled some of the pages. Interestingly, a lot of the writing seemed more feminine than how I guessed a man like Pavel would write.
As I continued to look through the album, the photos shifted to colorful ones. There, I began to recognize Valentina as a little girl. She couldn’t have been more than five years old. Two pigtails flanked her head. In the image, she played in the mud with a young Pavel who had wet dirt smudged on his forehead and dripping from his hands.
Oh my God. Paolo looks just like Pavel.
Now I understood even more why Kaz and Valentina had difficulty gazing at Paolo sometimes.
I turned to the next picture and parted my lips.
A group of children were gathered around a small birthday cake. A few holes decorated many of their clothes. Some even wore ripped, dirty jeans. It was clear that their parents had been struggling to keep them clothed.
Still, the kids’ faces were lit up with excitement and anticipation.
The birthday boy surely Pavel, couldn’t have been more than seven. The photo caught him blowing out the candles.
Oh my. Look at my baby.
A seven-year-old Kaz stood next to Pavel and was reaching his hands out to the cake as if trying to sneak a taste of the icing.
I studied Kaz’s young face. There was so much sweet innocence in those big blue eyes. No cold violence or death. Just an adorable boy hoping to get a quick taste of something sweet.
Gazing at this picture, I could see the resemblance between Kaz and Emilio even more.
Oh my God. This is amazing.
I slowly flipped through other pages and stopped on another image.
Wow.
This photo showed Kaz, Valentina, and Pavel wearing jeans and heavy jackets. This time they were much older.
Teenagers. . .maybe.
Valentina stood in between them. In the image, they laughed at some inside joke. The sun was shining down on them, casting a warm glow on their faces while a snowy landscape of tattered houses showed behind them.
For some reason, my eyes watered.
Looking through Pavel’s album was like taking a journey through time, filled with precious memories. While I may not have experienced those heartwarming moments, I still felt a sense of nostalgia.
Each photo served as a window into a different time and place.
Blue placed the last item into the trunk. “I am done.”
“Cool.” Sadness hit me as I closed the album and carefully set it on top of everything else in the trunk.
Then, I spotted an old stuffed animal in the corner of the chest.
What is this?
I picked it up.
Is this Paolo’s?
I lifted the stuffed animal out of the chest.
Baba’s voice held sadness. “A Siberian tiger.”
The tiger’s fur was a deep shade of orange and black. The stripes had once been vibrant and bold, but had since faded with time. I felt the weight of the tiger’s plush body in my hands. Its well-worn fur that was matted and tangled in some places, told me that someone had years of play and love for him. There had been countless hugs.
No. this isn’t Paolo’s. This was Pavel’s.
I ran my fingers along the tiger’s soft fur and then placed it next to the album.