Chapter 10 - The Price of Freedom
Three weeks later, the spring thaw had begun to arrive in small, tentative breaths. The dirty snowbanks along October Street were shrinking, leaving behind patches of green grass struggling through the gravel.
Olga stood by the window of her new room—a modest, single-room studio in the industrial district, two blocks away from the water laboratory. It was small, smaller even than their old rental, but the air inside was clean. There was no smell of damp boots, no heavy masculine presence waiting to pass judgment, no shadow of an overbearing family lurking behind the doorway.
On the small kitchen table sat a plain white envelope. Inside was her decree of divorce, stamped by the district registry office that morning.
There had been no contested division of property. There was nothing to divide. Igor had signed the papers without a word, his hands shaking so violently that his signature was barely recognizable. He had offered to give her his battered car, to take out a personal loan to repay her half of the stolen savings, but Olga had refused every single kopeck. She wanted nothing that carried the weight of his guilt.
Her phone buzzed against the formica tabletop. It was a text message from a local bank branch.
*“Incoming transfer: 235,000 rubles. Source: State Confiscation and Restitution Fund (Case: Semyon V. / Nina P.).”*
Olga stared at the glowing screen for a long time.
The police had caught Semyon at a border checkpoint in Pskov. A portion of the liquid cash had been recovered from his vehicle, and the court had ordered an immediate restitution to the registered primary victim: Olga Mikhailovna Petrova.
It was half the fortune. Exactly her half. The half she had earned through four years of twelve-hour night shifts, chemical burns, and skipping winter coats.
She didn't cry. She didn't jump with joy. She simply felt a quiet, immovable weight settle into her chest. Justice in this world was rare, cold, and often arrived far too late to save what you loved—but it had arrived nonetheless.
She picked up her bag and walked out of the apartment building into the afternoon sunlight. The air smelled of wet earth and melting river ice.
As she walked down the boulevard, she passed the grand glass facade of *L’Hiver Royale*. In the window, behind the gleaming plate glass, a mannequin wore a heavy, sweeping coat of imported Scandinavian mink—identical to the one that had shattered her life three weeks ago.
A pair of wealthy tourists stood outside, admiring the fur, laughing softly as they discussed the price.
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Olga looked at the coat for only a second. She felt no desire, no anger, not even a trace of bitter memory. It was just dead animal skin sewn together with golden thread, designed to keep people warm who had forgotten how to generate heat from within their own souls.
She pulled her cheap polyester puffer jacket tighter around her shoulders, breathed in the sharp, thawing air of the coming spring, and walked straight toward the bank to open an account that would bear only one name: her own.
