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The bridge was deserted. It was dusk. All over the city, the streetlights were coming on. The city was glittering. But the darkness was deepest near the light, and Anya was alone. She had run. It was all she knew how to do. Escape. She'd been used, and hunted, and now finally, rejected. A red satin covered hand clutched the railing. Oh, it was low. A low railing. She climbed over and sat down.
There was shine in the blackening water. She'd been here, full of hope, just days before. She had been so stupid, to think that she'd ever find a place. She yanked off a red glove, and cast it into the water below, and the other followed. Drops of red fading away. The finery had gotten her nothing.
“The clothes don't change what's inside.”
Her blood ran cold for a moment. The voice was all too familiar. Familiarity wasn't the worst? Was it? She relaxed slightly, but didn't look. She caught a hint of her own reflection down below. Alone. Yet she felt him there next to her. She looked up at him, “Have you been waiting?”
“Yes, Anya.”
“I hope not too long,” she said quietly.
“Long enough.” He was holding her gloves in his own gloved hands, “Always too long.”
“Are you cold?” She mumbled.
“No.”
“Of course not. This is not nearly as bad as our Russian winters.” She broke eye contact, “Why am I so cold?” The shadows of the streetlights deepened and grew longer. She bowed her head. Sitting regally was worthless. Regality was worthless. But at least she wasn't alone. She kicked off a fancy shoe into the water, “Something satisfying about the splash.” She smiled wryly. She remembered Dmitry picking out the shoe. She'd complained it was uncomfortable and he said that was why it was perfect. Discomfort could be weathered if it meant she would gain something.
“Stop being so smug.” She took the gloves and tossed them again.
“I am however I will always be.”
“We both know that isn't true anymore. I won't argue with you ‘Gleb’. You've tired me out. It all has. I wish I had never woken up.” She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. She wished it had been warm, but it was all that was left to her. The light of the streetlights burned and she didn't want to burn. She squeezed his hand. She let go.
There had never been a “Gleb Vaganov”, and Anastasia had died long ago. Anya just caught up to herself. No more running.