Chapter 185: Chapter 185

Ivan’s steps thundered against the wooden stairs as he climbed, his heart racing faster than his feet. Every breath he took burned, as though fire filled his chest. His hands shook violently as he pushed open the first door.

It was only a store, filled with bags of flour and tools. He slammed it shut and moved on. His body was weak but the fear in him pushed him forward.

He tried the next door. Empty.

His throat tightened, sweat already wetting his hair. His legs nearly gave way under him, but he did not stop. He forced himself to the last door at the end of the hall.

His hand paused only for a second before he pushed it open.

There, lying on the bed, was Lydia.

His knees almost gave way as he stepped inside. The room was quiet except for her weak breathing. Her face was pale, her eyes swollen and red, the skin on her cheeks streaked with dried tears. Her lips trembled slightly even in sleep, as if she had been crying in her dreams too.

Her body was hot to the touch. A wet towel rested across her forehead, already warm from her fever.

Ivan felt his heart shatter. He went to her slowly, as though afraid she might disappear if he moved too quickly. His legs were weak and trembling under him. He sat at the side of her bed and reached out with a trembling hand, his fingers brushing gently across her cheek.

The moment he touched her, he broke.

His sob came out soft at first, then deeper, heavier. His tears fell onto her skin as he bent over her, his chest heaving with guilt.

"I am so sorry," he whispered through his tears. His voice cracked with pain. "I am sorry, Lydia... forgive me."

His thumb stroked her skin, wiping tears that had long dried. He pressed his lips to her forehead, trembling. "I am here now. I am sorry."

The door opened quietly. Irina walked in, her face grave. She said nothing at first, only watched him with sad eyes.

Ivan turned to her, his face wet with tears, his voice broken. "What happened to him? What happened to my son?"

Irina’s lips trembled. She lowered her gaze before answering. Discover more novels at novel⁂fire.net

"It was an infection," she said softly. Her voice was steady but her eyes glistened. "Because of the weather we could not get a doctor on time. So... he died. Unfortunately."

The words cut Ivan apart. His sobs grew louder, his body shaking as he bent forward, his face pressing against Lydia’s hand.

Irina swallowed hard, her eyes heavy with grief. She continued, her tone breaking.

"She was in so much shock. She would not stop crying. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t let him go. When we said this morning that we had to bury him, she kept screaming that he wasn’t dead. She clutched him to her chest. She begged us not to take him away."

Irina’s own eyes watered as she spoke. "So we had to give her a sleeping tonic. Only then could we take him. We have already prepared everything. We will bury him at the cemetery near the church."

She glanced at Ivan and then at Lydia before whispering, "I will leave you now."

She stepped out quietly, shutting the door behind her.

Ivan turned back to Lydia. He leaned down, his forehead pressed to hers. His hand stroked her face gently, as though she were made of glass and might break.

"I am sorry," he whispered again. His voice trembled. "You had to suffer alone because of me. You carried this pain without me. Forgive me, Lydia."

He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering. "You do not have to worry anymore. I am here now."

For a moment he only sat there, listening to her weak breaths. Then, with tears still streaming, he stood up. He gave her one last look before leaving the room.

Downstairs, Irina and Anastasia were preparing to leave. Anastasia was holding the small bundle in her arms, wrapped carefully in a white shawl with delicate lily embroidery along the edges.

Ivan’s eyes locked on the bundle. His heart squeezed painfully. He walked toward Anastasia, his hands trembling as he reached out.

"Give him to me," he said softly.

Anastasia hesitated but handed the child over. Ivan’s arms closed around the lifeless body, holding it tightly against his chest. His tears soaked into the shawl as he whispered, "My son."

He looked at Irina with determination. His voice was low but firm.

"You cannot bury him here in Mirograd. He is my son. I will bury him. We will bury him in Svetlana. Svetlana would have been his home."

Irina froze, shock flashing in her eyes. Her grief turned quickly into anger.

"And what makes you think you can do that?" she snapped, her voice trembling with emotion. "Did you forget? You were the one who abandoned them. She sent you over a hundred letters, telling you about her pain, begging you to come. But you..." Her voice broke with anger. "You said you wanted nothing to do with them. You said you did not believe you were the father of her son."

Her voice shook harder. "How dare you come now and act like you care?"

Ivan’s eyes widened. Confusion swept over his face. His grip tightened around the baby as he shook his head.

"What are you talking about?" His voice cracked. "What do you mean I said I am not the father? I never said that. Never!"

Anastasia stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. "But you did. In your letter."

Ivan’s face went pale. His tears grew heavier. "What letter? What are you talking about?" His voice was desperate. "I never wrote that. What do you mean she sent letters to me? I never saw anything. What are you talking about?"

His whole body trembled. His voice grew louder, filled with despair. "God, why would I do that to her? Why would I ever deny her? I do not understand... I swear I do not understand!"

The pain in his voice silenced the room. Irina and Anastasia looked at each other, both confused now, both shaken.

Ivan held his son closer, clutching the tiny lifeless body as if he could still protect him. The shawl pressed against his lips as he whispered through sobs.

"My son. My little boy."

His tears fell onto the white cloth, darkening it. His shoulders shook as he cried, his cries raw and deep.

The room was heavy with grief, too heavy for words.

The baby lay silent in his arms, wrapped in the white shawl with lilies embroidered at the edges. So small, so still.

The father’s tears were the only sound that filled the room.

Now, in the present, Lydia sat by her window. Her body was still hot with fever, her face pale. She looked at the sky, her eyes blurred with tears.

Her voice was broken, bitter. "He is so heartless. He never even asked if he was okay. He never came."

The tears rolled freely down her cheeks. Her chest heaved with pain. She whispered again, softer this time.

She never knew. She never knew that he had come. She never knew he had held their son in his arms, crying like a broken man.

And so she sat there, loathing him, her heart filled with grief and anger.