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Dmitry had the strangest day. 

He was strolling through the market, a daily chore for him, when he acquired the music box, laid out alongside icons and other relics of the past, before religion or sentimental beliefs were considered taboo. It was genuine, the vendor assured him, and the heavy weight of the cold and almost spherical trinket made him believe the words. If it really was from the palace it would be worth trading for an actual ticket out of here before it was too late. 

But maybe his instincts lied to him. He was parked on his favorite bridge in town, the sun setting behind the waters of the Neva, a place that had fallen private after the bolsheviks cracked down on sentimentality, the cold winds biting at his fingertips as he tried to open the music box. 

“It’s genuine,” he muttered mockingly to himself. “Waste of two cans of beans if you ask me.”

“Oh, it was worth the trade.”

The voice made him jump. A man in a raggedy old cloak had appeared at his side noiselessly and Dmitry shoved the music box into his pocket. It was useless, since the stranger had already seen the thing, but there were no unnecessary steps when it came to hiding valuables on the streets of Petersburg. Still… should the stranger attempt a robbery, Dmitry thought he’d have no trouble taking on his withering frame. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t take it from you,” the old man laughed like he could read minds. “Be careful not to let the Reds get ahold of it.” 

A simple enough instruction. The Bolsheviks did tend to confiscate any reminder of the past or a history before Lenin. 

But then the man continued, “They don’t need any more power than they already have.”

All right. Times up. Dmitry didn’t want to waste the rest of his evening listening to the ramblings of a lunatic, so he shrugged his satchel onto a shoulder before stepping away, heavy Russian snow crunching underfoot. 

“I saw you trying to open it,” the man called. “That would be unwise. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dmitry called back in hopes that he would be left alone after that. 

He didn’t get very far. He felt a tug on his coat and then a desperate “If you do succeed, be careful, and look for the clockmaker who will bring you home.” And then he trudged away as quickly as he appeared.

Dmitry scratched his head in complete bafflement. He studied the music box in his palm again. What was so dangerous about the little knickknack? If he could get it to work and prove its value, then he’d be free to finally leave and actually live a life outside of underneath the Bolshevik’s thumb.  

One last time he tried opening it, fiddling with the lid until it popped off the hinges completely. 

“Aha!” He cried in triumph. But he couldn’t get the lid back on. 

That’s when his day got weird. 

The two little ceramic dancers began to glow. He held it closer to his face, bewildered by what was happening, when a beam of light shot up into the heavens, blinding him and making him drop the thing entirely. The force of it threw him back to the ground and the sky and ground spun at a dizzying speed. 

The last thought he remembered before passing out was, yeah, definitely a waste of beans.

Anya had the strangest day. 

Preparing for the upcoming auction took over her morning. She wasn’t sure why the company sent her to oversee the venue’s preparations, but it never hurt to be ready a week early, she guessed. Then before she clocked out of her shift, Lily called her over and said it was her turn to tackle the annual Christmas party for the employees.

“You’re always good at finding reasons to celebrate!” Lily had exclaimed with her usual flamboyance. 

“Is Christmas itself not enough of a reason?” Anya had replied skeptically. 

“Not this year!”

Lily wasn’t wrong about either of her statements. This year was particularly difficult to sift through for any joy, and Anya was typically a pretty optimistic person. She shouldn’t have been surprised she was given the task of planning their party.

That didn’t change the fact that she hated the idea. 

It wasn’t that she was a Scrooge. She loved Christmas and all that it entailed, including the parties and the baking and the gift-giving and the socializing and the music. She even loved the blatantly-capitalistic advertisements plastered all over the TV and radio. She just had trouble swallowing the responsibilities and the expectations to be festive, especially hating the thought of pleasing all of her wealthy, unsatisfied, obnoxious, and boring coworkers. 

After her parents and siblings died all those years ago, the holiday season was… difficult, to say the least. She and her Nanna enjoyed their Christmas morning brunches every year but the ache for her family never really went away. It just got easier to force smiles and sing along to the carols. Although, Lily did have to snap her fingers in front of her face several times a day to get her attention and pull her out of her own head.

She took the long way back to her apartment after work, deciding the walk in the cold would be a good time to think. She liked seeing Paris at night, anyway. The lights glittered off the water and bounced around playfully and that never failed to calm her.

A gentle snow started to fall by the time she reached her bridge. Not many people were out this late— it was rather cold— but Anya didn’t mind the moment of solitude. She tapped her hands on the stone railing of the bridge, studying how the moisture from the snow leaked onto the fingertips of her gloves, so mesmerized she almost missed the weirdest part of her day. 

A healthy distance away the sound of a man stumbling onto the ground with a clumsy clatter reached her ears. She jumped, not realizing there was anyone else on the bridge at all. The figure was only noticeable because of the streetlamps backlighting the silhouette, a slight lump in the pattern of cobblestones and a dark blob on the wet snow. 

When he didn’t get up Anya tiptoed closer. It was rather slippery and she would very much like to avoid the same fate. He was face down in the snow, limbs sprawled, dead to the world. Judging by his worn appearance he was probably homeless, honestly, not to be trusted if he were awake. She poked the mass with the toe of her boot. Nothing. A surge of bravery rushed through her and she knelt down and poked him with a single finger, then her whole hand, but it was no use. “Monsieur,” she said, as if he could hear her through the blackness of unconsciousness. “Ça va?”  

Surprisingly, he groaned, lifted his head and upper body underneath the weight of his coat, and peered up at her through bangs and the tip of his hat.

“Tu as bien?” She asked again. 

“Where am I?” he croaked. “What happened?”

“You fell, you’re on the Pont Alexandre,” she answered before she realized his questions and her response were all in Russian. A language she hadn’t heard or spoken in a long, long time. 

A line between his eyebrows creased before he rose, rubbing his head, staring past her at the city. Then he stood all the way to his feet in a rush, turning around in so many small pivots it made Anya dizzy just watching.

“Whoa, slow down,” she continued in Russian. 

“Where am I?” he asked again in panic. 

A beat. “Paris?” He blinked at her, looking more confused than ever. “Maybe you need a trip to the hospital.”

Anya went to the hospital with him. She didn’t have much of a choice— morally speaking— since he said he didn’t have any family and clearly couldn’t get there by himself. 

It was harder than she thought.

First he claimed he was fine and didn’t need a doctor, he just needed to figure out how he got there, which she reasoned that a doctor could help with that and he probably had a concussion, and their argument continued the entire way. There were no medical records, no emergency contacts, no history of his existence here, so she felt obligated to stay and get him home safely. 

“He’s cooperating,” a nurse was telling her in the waiting room. “No severe injuries, but there is one… oddity.”

“Just one?” Anya asked before she thought better of it.

“Well, he has the date right. December fourteenth. But when we asked him the year, he kept insisting it’s 1927.”

“Oh.”

“So perhaps he has a minor concussion and will return back to his senses in time.”

“I see.” 

“Do you know of anyone who can take him home? Or where his home is?”

“No,” Anya fiddled with her gloves in her lap. It was late, she was worn down from the demands of the day and the millions of questions about a stranger, she was ready for this whole thing to be over. She caught a glimpse of him through the small window on the door of the examining room, where he was studying the tubes and wires with almost too much intensity. “But I can get him home, I think.”

With that he was released, more confused and dazed than before he walked in, and he shrugged on his coat and satchel as they stepped out into the cold again. 

“Well,” Anya started, unsure of what would happen next. “Do you need help getting home?”

He looked around and rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Or perhaps a hotel? Where have you been staying?”

“I don’t—” he still seemed disoriented. Maybe a stupid idea was the only solution. 

“You can sleep on my couch if you want,” she started before she could talk herself out of it. “My apartment is a few blocks away. Maybe you’ll remember in the morning.”

He studied her for a minute through sleepy eyes. “Fine.” 

She was too tired to even comment on his impoliteness. But thankfully he seemed tired as well, so the walk home was short and quiet. Only after they made it to the elevator, where he hesitated at the door was studying the glowing buttons with childlike eyes, did she speak up again. “The nurse said you thought it was… 1927?” 

He shrugged. “I guess it’s not.”

“I’m just— that’s so specific.”

“Where are we again?”

The elevator doors opened and he flinched. He followed her out into the hallway. “Paris, 2020.” 

He sighed next to her. “I’ve never been outside of Petersburg before.”

She glanced up at him then. If it weren’t for the… obvious geographical inconsistency, she’d believe him, with his troubled expression and strange attire and Russian tongue. “You’re from Petersburg, too?”

“Yes,” he smiled a little and a dimple poked from his cheek. “As far as I’m aware it’s the only home I’ve known. Wait—“ he looked down at her as she was unlocking the door to her room. “You’re Russian.”

She nodded. 

“But you live in France?”

“It’s a long story.” One she was much too tired to tell tonight. She pushed the door open and flipped on a light. He hesitated in the doorway before slowly following, looking out of place amongst the sleek modern design of the whole apartment, like one of the antiques she collected and auctioned off. “The couch is over here,” she pulled out a couple blankets from the ottoman. He was still studying the lights in confusion. Studying was all he did, apparently. 

He shook off his coat and set it on the side table awkwardly. His outfit underneath didn’t exactly scream homeless as much as it did earlier, per se, but there was still something strange about a man wearing a vest and a button down and a newsboy cap like that. 

She checked her watch. 2:03 am. The light on her wrist caught his eye and he looked newly bewildered. She was so tired she felt like she would fall over if she was awake any longer so she just said, “Can I get you anything else?”

He shook his head and stepped out of his shoes. But before he sat down he said, “thank you…”

“Anya,” she finished for him and held out her hand in a long-overdue greeting. 

“Dmitry,” he muttered. 

That was enough for tonight. Maybe tomorrow she’d wake up and this all would’ve been a dream. Or her apartment would be robbed. 

Either way she was too tired to care. 

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” she said on her way to her room as a goodnight. 

“Goodnight,” he called as an actual goodnight. 

During the first few seconds of the morning Dmitry forgot where he was. 

Then it all came flooding back to him— the music box, the bridge, the girl. His head swirled just with the memory of it. 

Somehow he was in the future. That much he’d figured out. He sat up and pulled the broken pieces of the music box out of his satchel, trying once again to reconnect the lid to the hinges. No glowing, no blinding beams of light, no sign this trinket was out of the ordinary in any way. The dullness of the ceramic dancers’ eyes almost mocked him. 

He sighed and stuffed it back in his bag. That’s a problem to deal with after breakfast. 

The kitchen was something out of a science fiction novel. Chrome sink and appliances he couldn’t identify, spotless white countertops, large windows open to the towering view of the unfamiliar city below. Even though he didn’t know how anything worked, he’d at least try to make breakfast— a courtesy he always gave to whoever was his host for the night. 

It took him a while to find everything but by the time Anya padded into the kitchen he had a hefty pile of scrambled eggs finished. 

“This is so weird,” she mumbled when he handed her a plate. Her gaze lingered a little too long on his bare arms before sitting down, and maybe he was a little too smug about it, but knowing his good looks were timeless was pretty nice. 

“Did your memory come back?” she asked in between bites after she sat down at the bar. He’d never seen a bar in an apartment before. He’d never seen a kitchen like this before, period. 

“Never lost it,” he said as he rinsed his plate. 

She raised her eyebrows like she was unimpressed. “So… you were just pretending you don’t know where you live?”

“I live in Petersburg. That wasn’t the problem. Well—” he sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“Too complicated to leave before I have to go to work?”

He laughed. She wasn’t afraid of getting what she wanted, he’d give her that. “Believe me or not, I wasn’t lying when I said I’m from 1927.”

“Sure,” she shoveled a final bite of eggs into her mouth. “When you’re done messing with me let me know and we can move on with our lives.”

Despite her lack of sympathy for someone who supposedly had a concussion and was suffering from memory loss, he didn’t blame her for not believing him. He wouldn’t believe it either if the tables were turned. And, admittedly, he did feel a little bad for putting her in this position in the first place. Restless as ever, he glanced around for another task to occupy his hands, his eyes landing on a wooden clock hanging on the wall. “Your clock isn’t working.”

“I know, I just haven’t brought it back to get it fixed. It’s really old, you know—“

“How old?” He was already carefully pulling it from the wall to open up the back. 

“It’s from the forties.”

He hesitated, his mind trying to catch up with where he was at. “The nineteen -forties, right?”

“Yeah. There’s a little shop on the other side of town that sells lots of old antiques and stuff like that.” She dropped down from the stool to rinse her plate, eyeing him suspiciously as he tinkered with the gears. “Vlad says the original owner of it was living here in Paris when the war started and this was one of the only belongings he saved.”

Dmitry blinked. “The war?”

“World War Two?” Anya looked at him like he grew two heads when he just stared blankly. “You know, Nazis invading Paris? Hitler?” He just shrugged in response to hide the troubling revelation. She sighed. “Either you hit your head really hard or you must think I’m an idiot.”

“I swear, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He clicked another gear into place and swiveled the hands to the correct time. “You can believe me or not, but I really have no idea how to get home.” 

“Hmm.” He turned the clock around so she could see that the hands moved on their own now, a satisfying ticking filling the silence. Perhaps this was the first time he’d impressed her. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.” Another heavy silence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her brow was knit. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.”

“What are your options so far?”

“Well,” she started, pacing slowly, talking with her hands, “I have to leave soon. There’s an estate sale today that I can’t miss and I have to stop by my office. I could kick you out, which is the logical choice, considering we’re strangers.”

He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t blame you for that.”

“But,” she raised a finger, “that would be rude because you clearly can’t get yourself home. Unless you’re messing with me. I don’t know. And I care too much about what other people think of me and I certainly don’t want to be seen as a cold person.”

“Of course not.”

“Right. Option two would be to leave you here while I run my errands, but I don’t know that I completely trust you yet.”

“Valid.”

“Which leaves option three: dragging you with me.”

“Hmm.” He let himself smile a little. “I can see your predicament.” 

She put her hands on her hips and stilled. “You’re not being helpful.”

“Do you want me to be quiet?”

“That would be nice.”

A pause. “What if—”

“I thought you were gonna be quiet?”

“What if,” he continued without missing a beat. “What if I went to work with you while I try to figure out my problem? That way you know I won’t rob you and it gives me a deadline. And you won’t have to deal with me ever again after today.”

She considered it. “Fine. As long as you don’t say or touch anything.”

“Deal.”

“So… what’s your job, exactly?” Dmitry asked on the sidewalk. He was trying to pay attention but if he thought the future kitchen was overwhelming, he was wildly unprepared for future cars and future roads and future buildings. And taxis, like the one they were climbing into right now.

“I work for a company that auctions off rare antiques. For charities and stuff.” Anya told the driver where they were headed. “My job is to go to estate sales and find things that could be valuable.”

“I see.”

“Do you have a job?”

“What makes you question if I have a job? Doesn’t everybody?” She raised her eyebrows and glanced down at his shabby clothes. Fair enough. “Fine. No I don’t. Not technically.” Before she could look too smug he said, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t find ways to make money.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I…” he hesitated. Why? It’s not like she would tell the Bolsheviks. Were the Bolsheviks still a thing? He’d have to ask later. “I guess I sort of do what you do.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Buy and sell valuable things on the black market, trading for food. Forging travel papers too, but that’s getting harder and harder.”

She narrowed her eyes and then nodded, as if she were talking to a child and trying to follow their train of thought. “Because the commies are in charge of Russia in your time?”

He laughed and shook his head. She still thought this was a game. “Yes. No one is happy about it. Or was.”

They made it to the estate outside the city, a towering columned house with a mile-long driveway and a yard the size of the entire black market back in Petersburg. Once inside Dmitry was newly overwhelmed again but Anya poked him on the shoulder before he fell too deep in his thoughts. “Remember the deal?”

“Look pretty and don’t say anything, got it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Close enough.”

Anya introduced him to a handful of her colleagues with a hesitant “This is my… friend,” before quickly moving on and quite literally dragging him to the next table. She would inquire about a particular object and either shake her head and move on or place her bid while he followed along, quietly studying the items for sale. He wondered if any of this was from his time. How long did it take for something to become an antique? Was he one now too?

His thoughts were interrupted by Anya’s voice. “These are charming,” she said, holding up a porcelain tea cup and saucer. “It’s a high price though.”

“They’re worth it,” he said without thinking about it. 

She looked torn between feeling shocked or annoyed that he failed to remain silent. “How would you know?” Ah. Annoyance must’ve been what she landed on, then.

“I told you this is what I do for a living,” he said. He held out his hand. “May I?” 

She slowly ceded the cup. “Don’t drop it.”

He scoffed but held the cup closer to his face so he could study it. “Yep. Hand painted. Probably custom made. Could be worth a lot.” 

Her expression shifted into a neutral surprise. “Worth the bid?”

He blinked. Was that an actual question of his opinion? “Yeah. Yes, I think so.”

She nodded and immediately scribbled down a number. 

The rest of the sale was fairly uneventful. Anya arranged for whatever she’d purchased to be sent to the venue of their auction and soon they were in another taxi. “What’s next?” He asked, tapping his fingers on his knees. 

“Lunch first,” she answered and pulled out her little glass screen she kept tapping on all day. After some context clues he had figured out it was some sort of telephone. “And then I need to stop by my office. You’ll probably be bored.”

“How could I be bored in this bright new world?”

She sighed, ignoring his game. “Now would be a good time for you to remember where you’re from.”

“Now would be a good time for you to believe me.”

“Funny.”

“I can help pay,” Dmitry was saying after he finished his croissant. They were in Anya’s favorite cafe nestled on a quiet street corner away from all the hubbub of the city. In the summer she liked sitting outside to watch the traffic, but in December the atmosphere was still quaint and charming inside.

Anya sighed. “That’s not necessary.”

“No, it is. I’m—“ he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I feel bad.”

His sincerity shocked her. “How much do you have?”

“Let’s see,” he pulled out a pitiful wallet. “One, two three… seven rubles in my pocket. Plus change.” He stuck his chin out and for some reason the act of pride made her laugh. He dropped his shoulders in embarrassment. “Look, where I’m from, I usually just trade for food. Easier than carrying cash.”

“It’s really not a problem,” she insisted. “The French probably don’t take rubles anyway.”

He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck and ducked his head. “Probably not.”

The lunch crowd was starting to dissipate and now that there wasn’t much chatter, they could hear the quiet Christmas tunes playing on the speakers of the cafe. She thought at this point he would have at least regained some memory but he was still looking around as if he just dropped from the sky. 

“Can I ask a stupid question?” He said. 

She shrugged. “Sure?”

“Where… where is the music coming from?”

She stifled a giggle. “The speakers? I don’t know.”

“Where?”

“Like—“ she glanced around. “The radio.”

“Oh. I wondered if it was like… a concert or something. But no one is playing instruments here.”

“Don’t you have radios?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t encounter them often. Or music in general.”

“Really?” 

“I don’t… oh! There was one time someone was playing a violin on the street. That was nice. And I guess when I was a boy people still sang Christmas carols. But that’s nothing like… this.” He gestured towards the general direction of the speakers.

She tapped a finger on the table and narrowed her eyes, trying to read him. How could anyone go through life without music? It didn’t seem like something to joke about. “You mean you’ve never heard this song?”

“No.”

“Mariah Carey? You’ve never heard this?”

“What’s a Mariah Carey?”

She was stunned silent. “Can I see your wallet?” His brow furrowed with suspicion and she rolled her eyes. “You know I’m not going to steal it.”

He relented and slid it across the table. She pulled out one of the bills to study it and, sure enough, it was an authentic ruble, printed in 1908, the corners crinkled and worn. She met his eyes again to find not amusement or teasing like she was used to seeing from him by now, but fear, a deeply seated sense of lostness, and a glimmer of hope. “Alright,” she finally said, handing him back the wallet, “I’ll play. If you’re really from… when you say you’re from, how… how did it happen?”

He looked like he was trying to decide how much to reveal. Finally he sighed, grabbed his satchel, and pulled out two pieces of an ornately carved music box to set on the table. “It was an accident.”

It took two more cups of coffee for him to explain the events of the past twenty four hours. “Let me get this straight,” she started, sitting up and tapping the lid of the music box. “You think this is what brought you here?” He nodded. “And it’s what will bring you back?”

“Hopefully? I have a hunch.” He scratched his head with one hand and fiddled with his cap with the other, knee bouncing restlessly. “I think it has something to do with the bridges. And clocks.”

“Hmm.” Anya leaned forward. “Tomorrow I can take you to Vlad’s? He might know something.”

“Who’s Vlad?”

“The guy who owns the antique shop I told you about. Where I got my clock.”

“Oh! Right. That might be where I’m supposed to go.”

“And then you can get back to where you’re supposed to be.”

He studied her for a second. Always studying. “So you believe me?”

She studied him right back. Now was the moment of truth: she had to decide how much she was willing to trust him. “Yeah,” she said, hardly believing her ears at her own words. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Now that Anya had sort of come to terms with the fact that Dmitry was… well. Where he said he’s from, she couldn’t stop staring. He wasn’t necessarily bad to look at but she was more curious than anything. How a man straight from a history book could be walking alongside her. If there were any other visual clues that glared “gatsby era” on his forehead she’d missed. 

Other than the millions of questions piled up inside her chest she was handling it pretty well. She didn’t want to overwhelm him any more than he already was so mostly she just answered whatever he asked. Yes, this was a telephone. No, no Bolsheviks here as far as she was aware. Freud was wrong about a lot of things. So was Lenin. Yes, women can vote and wear pants now. He agreed that was a nice change. 

She shortened her trip to the office and decided to work on the party planning tomorrow. Or the day after. This new development required more attention than her schedule. Other than Lily’s not-so-serious-but-serious-enough-to-raise-concern flirting with Dmitry, the trip was fairly uneventful, and soon they were back in her apartment again, eating takeout on her couch, watching whatever hallmark movie was airing that night. Dmitry was only bewildered by the TV instead of completely baffled, so, progress. 

“Tomorrow is going to be busy,” Anya said between slurps of ramen. 

Dmitry was struggling with his chopsticks but she thought offering help would hurt his pride a little, so she thought it would be better to wait for him to ask. “What’s on the agenda?”

“I need to stop by the office again at some point. This year I’m in charge of the Christmas party and it’s… a lot to plan. On top of the auction we’re hosting on Christmas Eve.” He nodded, his brow furrowed at the utensils in his hands that weren’t cooperating. “And then one more estate sale that doubles as a lunch. It’s a bit formal though, which means we might have to stop and get you a new suit.”

“You mean I’m underdressed?” He teased. “How is that possible?”

She snorted. “Maybe we could get you like a sweatshirt or something to be comfortable in, too. Oh!” She crosses her legs on the couch. “We have to stop by Vlad’s when he opens. I don’t know if he’ll believe—“ she waved her hand at him— “all this but he might be able to fix that music box.”

He finally set his bowl down on the coffee table in defeat and adjusted himself so he was facing her. “Look, I know you’re… doing a lot for me. And I appreciate it, it’s more than I would do for anyone, honestly. But you don’t have to buy me clothes or food or take me everywhere.”

“It’s really not a problem.”

“I can go stay at a hotel, I don’t know how long it’ll take to get back and I don’t want to cause any more trouble.” 

“No, I want to help you.” 

“You do?” 

She shook her head. “I know how it feels to spend Christmas away from family. If I can help keep that from happening, I’ll help.”

He blinked at her, seemingly unfamiliar with the feeling of gratitude. Then he shrugged and made another attempt at his dinner, a line between his eyebrows. “Trust me, I’m not missing out on much.”

“Aren’t you worried about the people you left back home? They’re probably worried about you.” 

“Nah. No one will notice I’m gone.” 

“Sounds lonely.” 

“This apartment is lonely.”

He got her there. They studied each other for a moment before Dmitry spoke again, soft, like he didn’t want to startle her. “You said… the story of how you got here is a long one. Is it too long for tonight?”

She sighed. “Maybe we start with smaller questions?”

“That’s okay, I have lots of alternative questions for you.”

“I have some for you, too,” she laughed.

“Should we take turns?”

“Deal. You first.”

“Oh dear, that’s a lot of pressure.” She laughed and he grinned. After a pause he said, “How do I use… chopsticks.”

She giggled. “That’s an easy one to start with.”

After Dmitry mastered the chopsticks they moved into a game of Twenty Questions. At first she would ask more general questions of his time, and he would do the same for her. There was a lot she wanted to know about his era as someone who worked with historians and objects from his time, and frankly as someone who was always curious about life before her, always longing to know the people whose valuables she collected and sold, to know what they were like, to know if they could’ve been friends. And obviously he wanted to know about the future. Not too much, though, he insisted, afraid that he could cause some kind of time warp or mess up the space-time continuum. So instead of asking about wars or anything like that he was more curious about technology. 

But then the questions shifted into something a little more personal. She was chatting with a real man from the past, afterall, not an old photograph. What shocked her most was his curiosity about her life. Why did she choose Paris, what made her want this job, did she have any previous plans for the weekend he ruined. In return she’d ask about his “job,” what life was like under the Soviets, were Russian winters as bad as she remembered. 

“Worse.”

She laughed. “At least you have Christmas to look forward to.”

“Nope,” he shook his head and set his empty bowl on the coffee table. “No holidays.”

She sat up. “Wait— no Christmas? Why?”

“Good old Bolsheviks don’t like anything religious. Including holidays.”

“You mean you don’t have any special traditions? No tree to decorate?”

“I told you,” he was laughing as he rose from the couch, gathering their dishes, “life is pretty gloomy.”

“I just…” she stood and followed him into the kitchen. Even though he was nearly a century ahead of his own time and in a stranger’s apartment, he navigated the space like he belonged there. “I just can’t imagine life without Christmas to look forward to.”

“You get used to it.” 

His smile was sad, hiding something deeper behind those words. Used to having nothing to look forward to. Used to a life not shared with anyone else. A life of loss. Perhaps they were more similar than she realized. 

Vlad’s store was on their way to Anya’s office. If they had any luck, Dmitry would be back home before dinner and she could move on with her life.

Dmitry followed her into the shop and a small bell announced their entrance. Piles and isles of old trinkets, ticking clocks, wooden toys, ornamental china sets, and anything else he could think of tightened the already small space, smelling of dust and polish and wood shavings and leather and old paper. A place as old as him. 

It was terrifying.

“Vlad?” Anya called, seemingly unbothered by the mess, navigating around the fragile belongings easily. He attempted to follow but was slowed by the fear that he would knock something over. 

A voice responded from somewhere deep within the piles. It was French so Dmitry didn’t catch it. 

“Did you hear where that came from?” Anya asked, thankfully in Russian. The voice called again and she grinned. “There.” 

After finally stumbling through to the back of the store, they discovered a man with a wiry beard and round spectacles hunched over a cuckoo clock on his desk buried underneath gears and parts. He looked up and a smile lit his face. “Ah, Anya, my best customer!” His exclamation was in Russian now to Dmitry’s relief. The man rose, knocking over a stack of papers, and embraced Anya in a friendly hug. “How are you, darling? Is Lily giving you a hard time?”

Anya laughed. “No, she’s as wonderful as ever.” 

Vlad’s eyes flitted to Dmitry. “And who’s this?”

“This is Dmitry. He’s—” she paused. “A new friend.”

“I see.”

“We actually had a question for you.”

“‘We’?”

She nudged Dmitry in the arm. “Show it to him.” He pulled the pieces of the music box from his satchel and held them out lamely to Vlad.

The older man took the biggest piece of the music box from his hand and held it to the light. Then, after taking one long look at Dmitry and his attire, he chuckled. “You’re not from around here, are you, son?”

Dmitry blinked. “How did—”

But Vlad had already looked down at Anya. “Where did you find this one?”

“On the bridge,” she answered, brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Interesting.”

“Wait, you think he’s—”

“Oh, I know he’s from the past!”

“Just like that?”

“Oh, Anya,” Vlad was laughing. “You’re much more practical than you think.” She crossed her arms and Vlad laughed even more. 

Dmitry decided to like him. “It took her a full day to believe me,” he said.

“Don’t you two team up against me!” she pushed him in the shoulder and he laughed.

“We’re not! It’s just nice to be taken seriously first try.”

She huffed. “Whatever. Vlad, we were wondering if you could fix this,” she pointed to the music box.

Vlad sobered quickly. “No.”

“What?” Dmitry swallowed. For the first time the thought that he may never get home settled into his mind, and the idea was worse than spending the afternoon with a Bolshevik. “Why?”

Vlad sighed. “You best sit down.”

They did. For a while. Vlad brought them tea while Dmitry explained what happened— where and when he was from, how he acquired the music box, the cryptic man who met him on the bridge. Surprisingly Vlad believed every word. 

“Is there really no way you can help?” Dmitry asked again. 

“No,” Vlad repeated and leaned forward. “But you can.”

“What do you mean?”

“You broke it, you fix it.”

“I broke it on accident.”

Vlad shrugged. “Things break for a reason. Now you’re meant to fix it. And fix your priorities, too.”

“Does that really make much of a difference?”

“Don’t you see? This,” Vlad held up the music box to emphasize his point, “is an object of value. Not because of the money it’s worth, but because it once meant a lot to someone. Things like this have power, my boy, and your fiddling with it is what sent you here. That’s why you have to be the one to fix it.”

Dmitry looked down at the little trinket for a moment. “So you’re saying it has to have meaning… for me… for it to work.”

“Sentimental meaning, correct.”

“But it didn’t before! Why did it work three days ago?”

“Like I said, you broke it for the wrong reasons.”

“It was an accident—”

“No accidents! Haven’t you been listening? You’re not here by accident.” Vlad sighed and rubbed his temple. “Now you have to fix it for the right reasons.”

“What are the right reasons?”

“That’s your job to figure out,” Vlad answered with a poke to Dmitry’s chest. “I can supply you with whatever tools or parts you need, but you need to do all the gritty work yourself. Only once this little music box works correctly and is precious to you, and once you understand why you have to go back, will it work. Better move quickly, though, or you might miss your window.”

Anya, who had been quiet up until this point, spoke up. “What do you mean, ‘window’? Is there a chance he can’t go back?”

The idea made his stomach plummet. It wasn’t like he had much of a life either way, but the thought of never seeing his home again, or being uprooted forever… 

“It’s a little tricky to explain,” Vlad answered. “Time is fluid, you know. It doesn’t exist in one straight line, it’s… round, like—” he pointed to the cuckoo clock he had been working on— “like a clock! It’s cyclical. Everything in our lifetimes we experience as a cycle. Weekly routines, yearly holidays, stuff like that. Even though you’re nearly a century apart, I’m sure you’ve encountered some common ground, yes?” 

Dmitry and Anya shared a glance, feeling not too different from school children answering rhetorical questions from a teacher. That was enough confirmation for Vlad to continue. “There are indeed some things that remain timeless. This month is full of some of those important dates. You arrived on the fourteenth, a full moon. Christmas exists in your time, Dmitry, and that’s your next best bet you’ll be able to hop back the way you came. The longer you wait, the less likely it’ll work.”

A pause as he let it all sink in. Then Anya’s voice broke the silence. “That only gives him ten days to fix it.”

Vlad’s smile was mischievous. “Then I suggest you start working.”

The next thing Dmitry knew they were giving Vlad a goodbye and they were out on the sidewalk again. The ringing in his ears stopped when he snapped back to the present and he could hear Anya’s voice.

“... come with me or go back?” She was saying. When he didn’t respond she shook his arm. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah— yes!” he blinked down at her troubled expression. 

“Well? Do you want to go back and start working, or do you want to go to the estate sale with me tonight?”

“You still want me to come?”

“I mean… It's nice to have company. Especially when it’s someone who doesn’t care.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’ll go with you. I can start working on the music box tomorrow. Now I need to… think.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced down, too afraid of meeting her eyes and her seeing the weight of terror crashing onto his shoulders.

His lack of eye contact didn’t stop her from reading him. “You can fix it, right?”

“Of course,” he answered a little too sharply. His hands kept squeezing in and out of fist shapes in his pockets, his nerves frayed. Her expression said caution, like she was approaching a wounded, dangerous animal. It disgusted him. “You won’t have to deal with me much longer.”

“I like this one,” Dmitry said in the mirror. 

Anya had brought him to one of the several hundred tailors in the city. He felt guilty for putting her in the position where she had to spend money on him, and for snapping at her earlier, but honestly, it was fun to play dress up for a bit. 

“I agree,” she said. He adjusted the cuffs of the sweater while they talked. “The blue suits you.”

“Men’s fashion hasn’t changed much, has it?”

“Not really, no.”

But the longer they shopped the more confused he got. Apparently men’s fashion had changed a little, now including garments like “hoodies” and athletic shorts and denim jeans (his butt looked good in those according to the sales clerk's eyes). But they were comfortable so he didn’t mind collecting a few more things to wear during his time here. 

However long that would be.

He was still pretty rattled from this morning. Anya was pretty distant, too, but he didn’t mind because he was too busy trying to dig his way out of his own head to worry about it. 

He snapped back to reality when Anya shoved a hanger into his chest. “Put this on.”

“Don’t I get to choose what I want to wear?” His neck already felt itchy and constricted just looking at the turtleneck. 

“Not when I’m buying.”

He winced. Despite his impatience to get back home, he had to be careful not to step on her toes more than he already had, since he was completely at her mercy. “Fine.”

This went on until the dinner for her work. Following her instructions, he just stood next to her with his plate of appetizers in his hand while she mingled with the other guests and displayed the items for sale at their annual holiday auction in a few days. Thankfully he still must’ve looked unimportant because no one addressed him, leaving him free to study the merchandise and the decorations and the tablesettings. So much fuss for just a dinner. No one was even buying anything tonight, why go through all of the expenses?

When he refocused he caught a snippet of her conversation with a crusty gentleman. They were speaking French so of course he couldn’t understand any of it, but he looked at the starting bid for the vase they were discussing and shook his head. “This isn’t high enough,” he muttered.

“What?” Anya whispered.

“Qui est-ce?” The man asked with a look to Dmitry.

Anya shot him a glare, angry that he broke her rule again, before smiling with tight teeth at the man. “C’est mon collègue, Dmitry, de Russie.”

“Ah!” The man shook his hand and said in a rough accent, but in Russian, “Welcome.”

They continued a brief conversation in French while Dmitry ate his pâté lorrain and tried not to feel guilty for doing nothing wrong. Finally the man walked away and Anya whirled around to glare at him some more. “What?” he said with a full mouth. “It’s true, this is worth a lot more than what you’re selling for.”

“It’s an auction, you’re supposed to under price things! That’s the point!”

“Not if you actually want to make money from this!”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job!”

“You’re letting them off too easy!”

She huffed. “Go wait by the door. We’re leaving soon.”

“Are you benching me?”

“No, I’m putting you in timeout because you decided to act like a toddler.”

“You’re the one who invited me here!”

“I didn’t invite you into my life!”

He tugged at the collar of his turtleneck for the millionth time. Fine. He shook his head and didn’t wait for another lecture before turning away as she directed. He couldn’t understand any of the quiet conversations around him but he didn’t have to. The hunger in the eyes of the poor and the hunger in the eyes of the rich were all the same. All he had to do was remind himself that Anya was just like them. 

They were quiet when they got back to the apartment. Perhaps Anya was being a little… unfair, since he had nowhere else to go, but she didn’t really care at the moment. He could’ve been a tad more grateful for her hospitality. She set her purse on the counter in the kitchen, the heels of her shoes clicking loudly in the silence. 

“Perhaps,” Dmitry muttered behind her, kicking off his boots, “it would be best if I just focused on fixing the music box.”

Well that was one thing they could agree on. “Then we can both move on with our lives.”

“Agreed.”

“Fine.”

“Good night then.”

By the time Anya was up early the next morning Dmitry was already awake and hunched over the table covered in various gears and whatever else went into a music box. He was back in his sleeveless pajamas, apparently unaccustomed to the sweaters he tried on yesterday. There was an empty plate next to him and on the stove there was a skillet half full of scrambled eggs left. Okay. That was thoughtful. But she was still irritated. 

“Isn’t this stuff supposed to go inside the thing?” she quipped by way of greeting.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Do you know anything about fixing antiques?” He must’ve felt the glare aimed at the back of his head because he just sighed. “The best way to fix something is to take it apart and put it back together again.”

“I see.” 

“But the mess won’t last long, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

It was too early to deal with this. After finishing getting ready for the day she stopped on her way out the door, “Are you going to be alright here alone? Should I order takeout?”

He smiled a humorless smile. “I’m used to fending for myself.”

For a second she felt bad for him again, but then she straightened her back and her resolve to stay annoyed with him and marched out the door.

The stress of the work day was a little lighter without worrying about her recent shadow trailing behind her, but still predictably stressful, considering she’d made no progress on this stupid staff Christmas party nor the Christmas Eve auction. And, admittedly, it was a little lonelier. She finished her to-do list earlier than she expected, though, and decided to take a detour to her favorite library after lunch. Luc, one of the curators in the historical archives, had a soft spot for pastries, and with a little harmless bribing he let her snap some pictures of what she needed.

Anya wasn’t sure why she was digging deeper into Dmitry’s life. She could’ve just asked, but honestly, she thought maybe if she did a little research on her own, she could be more helpful. For the sake of getting him out of her apartment, of course.

Another errand later she was back home. Dmitry was still hunched over the table, fingers digging into his hair, his eyes sleepy, before he realized she was in the doorway and his arrogant facade was standing up again. 

“Did you eat?” she asked, unsure of how to approach him.

He shrugged. “Nah. Didn’t need to.”

She was hanging her coat up in the closet. “I’ve been gone for hours, how have you not eaten?”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

“Here,” on the table she set a styrofoam box from lunch. “Leftovers. And we’ll eat dinner soon too.”

He sighed but at least he didn’t shove the box away. He must’ve gotten up at some point because he was wearing his button up from wherever he came from, but untucked and unbuttoned. Loose, soft, young. The sight of him looking so sad and lost made her give in. “I got something for you.”

“What?”

She handed him a shopping bag from her second errand. “It’s another sweater,” she explained as he pulled it out and gave her a confused glance. “But it’s not as itchy as the one you wore last night.”

His smile looked like he was on the cusp of laughter. “That wasn’t necessary, but thank you.”

“No, it was. I was being… a little controlling.”

“I don’t blame you for that, I’d be the same way, honestly.” he rubbed his face in his hands. “I was just… really stressed.”

She let her eyes wander the table. It was less messy than this morning but still overwhelming to look at. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s not— it’s stupid. I won’t let it bother me anymore.”

“Come on,” she pushed a couple of parts aside and hopped onto the table. “It’s not like I can judge you for getting sappy. If all goes well, we won’t see each other ever again in like a week. Who am I going to tell, anyway?”

He sighed, the sleepiness in his eyes making his sharp corners soften a little. “Honestly, I don’t know if I can do what Vlad said to do. And I don’t know what will happen if I can’t get back. It’s not like I have much of a life to return to but… it’s still my life, you know? And Petersburg is the only home I’ve ever known, I can’t imagine belonging anywhere else…” he trailed off, his gaze somewhere far away.

She swallowed. She knew a thing or two about leaving home. “On that happy note,” she pulled her phone out of her pocket and a notebook out of her bag, “I did some research this afternoon. To help.”

“What? You didn’t have to—”

“And I found something especially interesting.” His brows knit while he waited for her to show what she was looking for on her phone. “I took some notes, too, on Soviet Russia and life in the 1920s in general, but that’s not as exciting as this.”

She set the phone on the table and Dmitry immediately burst into a fit of laughter. Delightful, guttural, sunny laughter. Because Anya had found a picture of his mugshot. 

“Where did you find—” he tried to ask.

“I went to the library archives today. I didn’t expect to find anything when I searched for your name, but there you were.” Smug and arrogant as ever, staring at the photographer like he was modeling for a Chanel ad, like he was daring them to do their worst, not like he had just been arrested. “What were you in for?”

“Stealing,” he couldn’t quit staring at the phone. “And messing with the deputy commissioner.”

She laughed. “Fitting.”

“It wasn’t too severe, though. I know a lot of people are in a lot longer. And that officer hates me so he’d do anything to get me locked up. Are you comfortable with a criminal in your residence?”

She shrugged. “I think I could take you if you tried anything.”

He laughed again. “I don’t doubt that.”

A quiet moment passed. “Tell you what,” she hopped off the table, “you need a break. You can help decorate the apartment tonight and then tomorrow you can work on the music box at Vlad’s, he should have all the tools and stuff you need.”

“Are you sure?”

“Obviously. I wouldn’t be offering this if I wasn’t.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay… what if I helped you with that thing… the thing you need to do for work.”

Her brows knit. “The Christmas party?”

“Yeah, that. In exchange for your hospitality.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Come on, it’s only fair at this point. I don’t know much about… how things work around here, or how Christmas works, but I can do the heavy lifting.”

That should not have made her giggle but unfortunately it did. “Fine.”

“It’s a deal then.”

It was hard not to be amused by Dmitry sometimes.

Anya let him keep the parts on the table in exchange for his promised help decorating the apartment. She kept him busy in the hopes that maybe the mindless tasks of hanging wreaths and setting up the tree would cheer him up a bit. It seemed to work… sort of. Mostly he was just comically confused by the man-made tree he was helping her assemble. 

“So…” he started, slowly, brushing a finger on the plastic needles as they fluffed out all the branches, “people in the future buy all this stuff… to display for just a few weeks?”

“It’s tradition!” Anya, satisfied with her work, bent down to open the box of ornaments and string lights. “It’s all part of the fun.”

“I don’t get it.”

She laughed. Like she said, it was hard not to be amused by him. “You’re probably used to real trees instead.”

He took one end of the string of lights. “Actually, I’m not used to any trees at all.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. This is all just different to me, I guess.”

She was wrapping the strand of lights around the tree, arranging the bulbs in a pleasing way. “So… no tree, no Santa. What do you usually do at this time of year?”

“Hmm. Not many legal ways to celebrate religious holidays.”

“Legality doesn’t seem to matter to you much, though, does it?”

He laughed again. “True. I don’t know, nothing this extravagant. I guess sometimes I’ll have a glass of vodka, if things aren’t too bad.” 

A wave of guilt washed over her. She may be a little lonely at this time of year, but she couldn’t imagine a kind of life like that. “Well,” they finished up the lights and Anya stepped back to make sure every strand was in place, “you’ll celebrate with more than a bottle of vodka this year. You’re in Paris, after all.” She plugged the lights into the wall and his eyes dazzled at the sight. 

The next step was decorating the tree with ornaments. He didn’t ask about the particularly personal ones, just studied them quietly, and she was grateful for that. She didn’t have the energy to dig into how much she missed her family tonight. Instead, they just hung the little bulbs and ornaments on the tree branches in comfortable silence, holiday music playing quietly on the radio, keeping Dmitry occupied enough for her to study his hands a little more than she should. But who could blame her? He looked like he stepped straight from a Dostoyevsky novel. In a way he had, a smudge of sepia against the bright fluorescence of her world. He carried a sadness and angst on his shoulders that made him seem fictitious and purposeless, but then he’d catch her staring and crack a smirk and she’d remember he was very much alive and not a moving picture from an old newspaper clipping.

They reached the bottom of the box and all that was left was the star. Anya usually decorated the tree alone nowadays, so her routine was to grab a chair from the kitchen and set the star atop, but Dmitry must’ve seen her holding the star and staring at the mountainous height because he said, “Does that… go up there?”

“Finishing touch.”

“Here, let me—”

“No, I’ve got it.”

He pursed his lips, trying and failing to hide a smile. “You’re not tall enough.”

“I have my methods.” She crossed her arms, letting her annoyance return, even if it was a little playful.

“I’m sure you do. Give it here.”

“No.”

He swiped it from her hand and she yelped in protest. He only laughed and held it above her head, the insult landing hard when he stopped suppressing his smirk.

“Too proud, Romanov?”

“Give it back!” She hit his arm and he only laughed. “I’m not short! You’re just… tall.”

“Will you grant me permission to finish decorating this tree?”

She huffed. “Fine.”

His grin widened. “Good.” Then he stretched up to the top of the tree, insultingly effortless, and glanced down at her again as if to ask if his work was sufficient. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She sighed. “Wait, it’s a little crooked.”

“It doesn’t look crooked to me.”

“No, from here it does! Look.” She tried reaching up to tilt the star but failed miserably to even come close. Catching onto what she was trying to do he reached and straightened the star, their hands brushing, his body warmth like a space heater in the chilly apartment. When Anya realized how close they were she dropped back down to her heels and stepped back, pretending to study their work. “That’s better.”

He rested his hands on his hips. “Why the star? What’s it mean?”

A beat. “I have no idea.” They shared a giggle and a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time bloomed in her chest.

It didn’t take much longer to finish decorating. Anya yawned and declared it was time for bed, but when she asked him if he wanted in the bathroom first, he gave a baffling answer.

“Wait,” she started, “you mean you don’t… know how the tub works?”

He had the decency to look a little sheepish and rub the back of his neck. “I’ve never seen a real one before.”

“How have you been— all these days and— you don’t smell.”

“It’s what I do back home, I…” the blush on his neck deepened. “I’ve been heating up some water in the mornings and scrubbing myself down.”

That was the hardest Anya had laughed in a terribly long time. It wasn’t even that funny. But the thought of Dmitry being too shy to ask if he could use the bathtub was too much. “Come on,” she said when she calmed down and grabbed his wrist to guide him into the bathroom. “You deserve the luxury of taking a lavender bubble bath.”

His grin when she showed him the tub and soaps was priceless. He was like a giddy little boy in a candy shop, delighted in the small joys she often took for granted. But when she shut the door behind her, alone in the hallway, her smile fell. Saying goodbye in a few days would be harder than she bargained for. 

The pressure to finish the music box in time was a little lighter on Dmitry’s shoulders.

First, getting out of the apartment and hanging out in Vlad’s shop was an immediate relief. He hated being cooped up. Every morning he and Anya would leave together and they’d stop by the shop on her way to her office, then she’d come by again around lunch time, bringing him a sack from wherever she’d eaten, and he’d gather up his belongings into a box in the back where they’d be safe and they walked home together.

Vlad’s shop became slightly less terrifying. In fact, he rather enjoyed his time in the dusty old store, amongst the whirring clocks and priceless nicknacks that were as old as him. He felt almost at home. It was familiar, he guessed, and that was enough to make it easier to breathe. 

Second, and more importantly, Anya’s company was a little less unbearable. They still teased but it was… gentler, somehow. True to his word he helped plan her Christmas party even though he had no idea what was going on. She even let him tag along with her to the office every once in a while. 

One night he insisted he’d make dinner in return for her gracious hospitality. But first, they needed to go to the market— the grocery, he learned, was much more overwhelming and bright and crowded than he could’ve ever imagined. So much food. He didn’t know whether to be amazed or disgusted. Regardless, his stomach still gurgled, and he delivered on his promise for a good old-fashioned Russian meal. This was an occasion to invite Vlad and Lily over, Anya declared. So their dinner turned into an impromptu party, complete with laughter and vodka and sugar cookies. Dmitry couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat at a dinner table with anyone other than himself to keep him company. He wondered if he’d miss this, when it was time for him to go back. 

“What would you be doing right now?” Anya’s voice broke through his thoughts. 

Long after Vlad and Lily had left, after the dishes were done and their bellies full, he and Anya were lounging on the couch under a blanket, the television playing something quiet. “What?”

“If you were… you know, back home, what would you be doing?”

He sighed. There was no simple way to answer her fair question without sounding pitiful. Most likely, he’d probably still be bartering in the market, or finding a comfortable gutter to crash in for the night, or making the deputy commissioner’s life miserable. The truth was… no matter what he was doing, he’d be loathing himself every second. For once he didn’t feel that way. 

He realized he still hadn’t responded. He thought about laughing it off, as if his terrible life was a joke, but he couldn’t lie to her, especially not when she was looking up at him like that with her sleepy curiosity he’d come to know. “Nothing this wonderful.”

For a second he wondered if he made the moment a little too fragile, like setting an irreplaceable porcelain cup too close to the edge on a table, but after a beat she blinked and gave him a small smile, the one that meant she wasn’t quite sure what to think. A few minutes later he felt her head land on his shoulder and he held his breath. She was sound asleep and he was terrified that any movement would wake her up, so he just smiled to himself and relaxed into the couch. 

Since he couldn’t move he focused on whatever was on the television. He’d never been to the cinema or seen a film, so this experience was fascinating. It appeared older than the ones they were watching earlier— fuzzier and colorless, the title It’s a Wonderful Life, he’d caught— but he was still enraptured by it anyway. It was a little slow, though. He was just about to reach for the remote and resign himself to sleep when whatever was happening on screen made his blood run cold. The main character was thrown into sort of what Dmitry was experiencing. Not a time warp, but living in a world where he didn’t exist. He ended up realizing his self worth by looking at how the lives of everyone around him were affected without him. It was meant to be heartwarming, and it sort of was, but long after the screen went dark, Dmitry was still staring blankly, heart pounding. 

If he somehow couldn’t go home, he wondered, what would happen to those he left behind? Would anyone care? If he disappeared, would the bartender or the baker notice his absence, or would everyone be too wrapped up in their own need for survival? 

Dmitry knew the answer. And that’s what scared him most of all.

“I could see you working here,” Vlad was saying from his desk after a customer had left. 

Dmitry had come in at his usual hour to work on the music box, all too aware of the ticking clocks reminding him he was running out of time, now only two days away from Christmas. “What makes you say that?” 

“You fit right in.”

“Is it because I’m as old as most of the junk you’ve got in here?”

A hearty laugh. “Maybe. But you also have a knack for this stuff. A real gift, I suppose.”

Truthfully Dmitry could see himself making a living at this antique shop, maybe. Charming customers, breathing in the dust, finding a place where he actually belonged, fixing broken things because he couldn’t fix himself. “I don’t know. At this point I don’t really have a future anywhere.”

“Nonsense!” Vlad said. “If anything, this experience should teach you it doesn’t matter where or when you’re from. Back then you have much of a chance to make a life for yourself, just as much as you would here. What matters is what you do with your time.”

Dmitry sighed. Vlad was easy to talk to for the most part, but his conviction for him was a little more exhausting than he’d like, even though he appreciated the support. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why all the…” he waved his hand noncommittally. “The wisdom to get me to try harder, or whatever.”

Vlad only laughed. “I see potential in you.”

“Sure.”

“I do! And, frankly, you remind me of myself. More than you realize.”

A silent minute passed. “What do you mean?”

Vlad grinned, slowly, and then made his way over to the little desk Dmitry was stationed at, pulling up a chair. “Have you ever wondered why I know so much about time travel and your period in history?”

Dmitry furrowed his brow. “Well, yeah, but I just assumed it was something you learned with age.”

“Enough of that! I’m not that much older than you,” Vlad grumbled. “I’m not from around here either, you know…”

It took a second for Dmitry to understand what he wasn’t saying. Then he gasped. “Wait— you mean you’re— you too?”

“Yep.”

“You got stuck?” Would the same thing happen to him?

“Ha! No, I chose to stay.”

“What? What happened?”

Vlad just smiled and crossed his arms. “I was a… an honorary count in the royal court, back when Russia was still an empire. But one day I got cocky and stole a watch studded with diamonds and… well. The same thing happened to you, I guess. Got thrown into… what was it? Two-thousand-six? Seven? And wandered a bit before I figured out it had something to do with the watch. Missed my first window by the time I managed to patch together an understanding of how time works. I even met a few more time wanderers as well. Still haven’t figured out why we ended up in Paris, but I’m glad I did.”

“What made you stay?”

“Lily.” He said it with a shrug, as if he were affirming that the sky was blue.

“You mean you… your whole life is back— you gave it all up?”

“Have you met Lily? I didn’t need to tell time to know my time is wasted without her.”

Dmitry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. First off, that he wasn’t the only one to accidentally throw himself into a time warp. But also the fact that Vlad had found something worth giving up his entire understanding of life for.

Vlad rested a hand on Dmitry’s shoulder. “The point is… don’t waste your time, son.”

Before Dmitry could decipher what exactly that meant the bell at the front door chimed and a familiar voice announced her arrival.

“Progress, boys?” Anya asked when she navigated to the back.

Dmitry couldn’t answer until Vlad gave him a cheeky look. “Uh, yeah, yes. Some.”

“Enough to help me finish wrapping tonight?” she held up some shopping bags and he laughed.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

He and Vlad stood and shared a goodbye, but before he could walk out the door Vlad stopped him. “Good luck, son. Remember, it will only be ready when you’re ready, and you won’t know you’re ready until you find a reason to stay.”

Confused as ever, he couldn’t deny the skip in his chest when Anya smiled reassuringly up at him on their way back to her apartment. 

“You all right?” she asked while they were wrapping gifts for the party tomorrow. They had the Christmas Eve charity auction to set up by dinner and then the staff party immediately after, and since he promised to help with both, she would allow him to come. Though maybe not if he couldn’t figure out how to wrap as neatly as she’d shown him. “You’re quieter than normal.”

He shrugged. “I’m just concentrating, is all. Is this even necessary?” He held up the mess of crumpled paper and tape stuck to his fingers for emphasis.

She rewarded him with a laugh. “It’s meant to be a gesture to show you care. And it’s fun to unwrap, if wrapped correctly.” She held out her hand and he slid the gift to her so she could attempt to fix it. “But seriously. After almost ten days together you should know you can’t hide much from me at this point.”

“True.” He smiled, eyes downcast. 

“You just seem… lost.”

“I mean, that’s the whole problem?”

“No, like—” she sighed. “You were lost before you came here.”

He blinked. Anya was too perceptive for his own good. Giving up, he rested his elbows on the table, not meeting her eye. “Sometimes I wonder why I’m even doing this.” The sound of crinkling paper quieted. “It’s like— I don’t know, I want to live up to whatever Vlad says he sees in me, but at this point I don’t even know if I deserve a life that’s not miserable. And… I’m starting to think I don’t really belong anywhere. Or maybe I do, and it’s back in a gutter in Petersburg with the other cynics.”

After a minute he finally met her eyes again. “Well,” she started, setting aside their project, “based on the person I’ve come to know, I think you underestimate yourself.”

“That’s the thing, though.” He always had trouble accepting compliments. “You’ve only known me for a few days.”

She shrugged. “You’re worth a chance, I think. Wherever you end up.”

He swallowed and risked a glance at her. Then he shrugged, attempting to diffuse the tension, “You might change your mind if I can’t fix the damn thing.”

“Is that really what you’re worried about?”

“I mean, considering the circumstances, yes.”

She looked at him for a moment like she didn’t believe a word. Then, with a deep breath, she stood and disappeared down the hall.

“Anya, what are you—”

The scraping of his own chair on the floor was interrupted by her voice. “Hang on.” Dmitry awkwardly sat down again and she came back with something small in her hand. She didn’t show what it was, though, not even when she sat across from him. “You once asked me why I moved to Paris.” He nodded, unsure of where this was coming from, but too curious to stop her from continuing. She sighed again and set whatever she’d grabbed from her room onto the table between them.

A small, ornate music box. Not quite identical to his, but eerily similar.

He gasped. “Wait— you mean you— you’ve had a music box all this time without telling me?”

“I know, but it’s—”

“It could’ve been helpful!”

“How?”

“I don’t know!” Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure how it would’ve helped. Her expression said she thought the same thing. He sighed, submitting to being incorrect. Fine. “What does this have to do with you living here?” he asked in a softer tone.

“My Nanna gave it to me when I was a little girl,” she started, bringing her feet up to the seat and hugging her knees to her chest. She lifted the music box and wound a hidden handle at the bottom, a soft and familiar lullaby starting to twinkle. “Back home there was a fire. This,” she tapped the music box, “was the only thing that survived. I couldn’t… I didn’t want to stay there. All those memories, you know? And Petersburg was never the same without my sisters and brother. So Nanna let me come live here with her. And then I got a job, moved out, and… never went back.”

“Damn,” was all he could say after a minute of silence. What else could he say? He knew from experience I’m sorry was too empty. So instead he remained factual. “This time of year must be rough, then.”

She huffed a laugh. “Usually, yeah. We had a lot of traditions that you can’t really continue if you’re alone in an apartment.”

“You look like you’re handling it well.”

She shrugged. “It happened a long time ago. Besides,” she grinned, “I’m not as lonely this year.”

He ducked his head to hide his smile, warmth blooming across his cheeks. “My father wasn’t the biggest fan of this season. But he’d always try to get me something small— new gloves, a wooden toy he carved, whatever he thought would make life a little happier.”

“Did it?”

“A little. Until I got older and he thought life lessons were better gifts.” She giggled and he leaned forward on his elbows. “I was pissed about it at the time, but it’s hard to stay angry at someone who was thrown into a labor camp.” Maybe he was a little angry, still, for being abandoned at thirteen, for having to wait in the cold all night by himself. Maybe that anger wouldn’t go away for a while.

A pause. “What about your mom?”

“She left when I was very young. I hardly remember her…” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, they taught me I didn’t need anyone to survive.”

Anya dropped her feet back to the ground and rested her elbow on the table. “Maybe you don’t need anyone, but the company can be nice.”

He blinked at her. Maybe she was right, maybe the bitterness that iced his heart would thaw a little with some companionship. Much to think about. “Here’s to no more lonely holidays.”

She grinned again. “For either of us.”

“Cheers.”

They shared another laugh and after finishing their gift wrapping (Anya doing most of the work while Dmitry offered moral support), she left him at the table for the night. He’d decided to bring the music box home with him tonight instead of leaving it at Vlad’s so he spent some time working on it in the hopes of finishing the project. Setting both antiques next to each other, he was able to compare, despite their slight differences, and finish assembling the rest of the pieces back into place.

As he worked he thought about what Anya had shared. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it that first night— he’d never want to bring it up again if he were in her shoes. But, more than anything, he wondered how she could still be so trusting and optimistic. How she didn’t let her sorrows or loneliness consume her. How she didn’t end up as bitter as him. Maybe, before he made it back home, he could ask her the secret trick he’d been missing.

Finally, the moment of truth arrived— all that was left to do was to twist the handle at the bottom to test his work.

He hesitated. If he started the music, would he be transported back? No, Vlad had said something about going back to the bridge for it to work. And for it to be on a holiday. And for this little toy to mean something to him. How could he do that, though? A few days ago he was planning on selling it for a ticket out of Russia, but now, after hearing how something so small could be the only reminder of past loved ones… he wasn’t so sure. 

His stomach plummeted. Remember, Vlad had said, it will only be ready when you’re ready, and you won’t know you’re ready until you find a reason to stay.

Dmitry set the music box down. He didn’t have to wind it to make sure it worked, he knew the music would play, soft and clear, and he knew tomorrow, when he’d cross the bridge again on the night of Christmas Eve, he’d end up back by the Neva. 

If only Vlad wasn’t right. If only he could muster up elation instead of dread.

If last night was tranquil and slightly emotional, the next morning was the exact opposite. 

Dmitry planned to tell her first thing in the morning. It was time for him to go, there was no use sugarcoating it. He woke up at his usual hour and even made bacon and toast this time in preparation. Why he was so nervous, he couldn’t say, but he spent the whole morning rehearsing his pre-goodbye speech to himself. Even if he’d never felt this way about anyone before, there was no reason telling her should be hard.

But when she emerged from the hallway, smiling and bleary-eyed and beautiful, the words died before they could even reach his throat. How could he ruin his last perfectly quiet morning with her? 

But after fueling herself with food and coffee her bubbly energy resurfaced full-force and there was no time for any discussions outside of the two events she was in charge of today. Then she traded her pajamas for a cinched red gown and all possible comprehensive thoughts flew out the window. He tried— he really did— to bring it up or show her what he finished last night, but she was too busy looking like an ornament in a tree or humming a Christmas tune, holding up various sweaters for him to wear, making last-minute work calls. It was like she’d forgotten his deadline. Or that he didn’t belong here in the first place.

“Do you need to stop by Vlad’s?” She was asking, running around the living room and gathering whatever belongings she’d need at the auction in an hour. 

“No, actually I—”

“Good, it’s out of the way so we would’ve been late anyway.”

He tried again. “Anya, I need to tell you something.”

“Have you seen my shoes? I wore them the other night, the red ones—”

“Listen, Anya—”

“Found them!” She bent behind the couch and rose with a grin. “Oh, I meant to tell you last night, but Vlad invited us tomorrow for lunch to celebrate. My Nanna will be here in the morning too, so I don’t know, it could be fun.”

“Anya, listen. It has to be tonight,” he muttered. It had to be tonight, or it would never happen.

Her brow knit, finally pausing. “What?”

He took a deep breath. “I have to go.”

Anya tried not to show her disappointment. She felt her smile inch away, her heart leaping to her throat, her breath halting, before she recovered enough to ask, “You mean… you’re going back tonight?”

“Yeah, I…” he picked up the music box from the table behind him and held it out to her. “I finished it. I won’t go until after the party tonight, since I promised I’d help, but it’s ready.”

“Oh.” She fiddled with the straps of her heels she was still holding, her silk dress swishing at the movement. “How do you know it’ll work?”

“I don’t know. Just… a feeling.”

All of the urgency from just seconds ago was gone. She could only stand and stare at him while he studied the ground, unwilling to meet her eye, long enough to make it awkward. She stepped past him into the living room to reach underneath the tree for a small box, wrapped in peppermint striped paper and ribbon. Turning back to him, she started, “Since you won’t be here tomorrow morning, we might as well get this over with now.”

He blinked down at the gift and his eyes snapped up when he realized it was for him. “Wait— no, you didn’t have to get anything for me—”

She rolled her eyes and pressed the box to his chest. “Too late. Come on, just open it!”

He swallowed and slowly lifted his hands to accept the box, then untied the ribbon and peeled away the paper. His hands stilled when he saw what was inside. “It’s a watch.”

“Do you like it? I wasn’t sure, but it seemed fitting. You know, with… everything.”

He was lifting the watch from the box, holding it closer for inspection. “I can’t accept this.”

“Why? It’s for you.”

“It’s too much. And I didn’t even get you anything.”

“Then don’t think of it as a gift. Think of it as… a souvenir. For your adventure in the future.” He was still staring dumbly at the watch so she took initiative. “Here,” she took his arm and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket so she could clasp the watch around his wrist, her hands lingering on his warm skin. “Now you’ll always know what time it is here.”

When she glanced up at him his eyes, normally filled with pain and defiance, swirled with something softer, less dark. Was it gratitude? Disbelief? “Thank you,” he whispered with a raspy voice, his hand squeezing hers. “No one’s ever… I love it.”

She could’ve stared up at those eyes all morning if he didn’t clear his throat and step away. “I should pack,” he mumbled. 

The drive to the auction was quiet. She couldn’t think of anything to say, hating how quickly she was losing him, already missing him more than she could handle, and he hadn’t even left yet. But they arrived at the venue and he went right to work setting up for the event while she was pulled away by another urgent task. 

Most of the work was prepared ahead of time, given it had been her job for the past few weeks, but the final details and last-minute crises had to be addressed before the patrons would arrive. The buffet of hors d'oeuvres had to be perfected, the items for sale had to be placed and accurately labeled, the tables had to be set and decorated. Anya was giving instructions to the auctioneer when she finally spotted Dmitry again. He was wearing the sweater with the wider neck, looking much more comfortable this time, under a suit jacket, hands tucked into his pockets, listening to one of the few Russian speakers here. 

She got his attention by touching his forearm and he greeted her with a smile. “We’re almost ready,” she said. “You can find your seat, if you want, you’ve helped a lot.”

“Where will you be?”

“On the stage until the auction starts.”

“So will I, then.” She started to say he didn’t have to but he shook his head. “My job is to follow you around, remember?” And his smile was so sweet and infectious that she couldn’t help but take his hand and keep him at her side, even though this was already so much harder than she’d imagined.

If the auction was painful, the staff party was agony. 

So many smiling faces, cheerful music, bright red decorations, desserts and drinks prepared to celebrate the holiday and the success of the auction. And, honestly, just being done with a massive project was a relief for everyone. It was almost impossible to plaster on a smile in front of her coworkers, but she didn’t want to kill the joy of the room so after setting everything up she just stood back by the wall. Like a magnet Dmitry found her and leaned next to her against the wall, glass in hand, looking as miserable as she felt.

“Enjoying yourself?”

She shrugged. “Just glad everything worked out. Couldn’t have done it without you, really.”

He smiled and ducked his head. “Well, I’ll never get another Christmas like this again, so why not make the most of it.”

He meant it as a joke but it just made her more sad. She leaned on her side, facing him, perhaps a little closer than what was deemed appropriate. “In that case, go have some of the yule log.”

“What?”

“Cake.”

“Oh. I’d rather not… get used to sweets here.”

“You mean you don’t want to get attached?” she said with a small smile, an attempt to tease.

“It’s too late for that,” he muttered, eyes wandering before landing on hers.

Her heart squeezed. “Look— I don’t know what brought you here, but whatever it was, I’m glad it was here, to me.”

He blinked and swallowed, eyes flickering down. “Me too.” 

Moments later he whispered, “It’s getting late,” and they said their goodnights to the guests and stepped outside.

Now was when she should call for a cab. “Do you want to walk?” she asked instead.

It was late and dark, the snow thick on the ground, but he nodded like it was the most obvious decision he’d ever make. Maybe he felt the same way. Tired and not ready to let go. They were quiet in the street but there wasn’t much to say, and the bustling crowds that never slept were enough conversation, the colorful lights and street lamps making the fresh snow sparkle on the sidewalk. They passed a lone trumpeter playing a Christmas carol to no one in particular— a song for himself and for everyone and for no one. Somewhere along the way Anya’s freezing hand found Dmitry’s and thankfully he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t speak until they were walking along the frozen Seine. “I didn’t see how beautiful it was until now.”

She knew what he meant. Christmas looked good on nighttime Paris. “I’m sure the Neva is beautiful, too, at this time of year.”

He didn’t say anything. Soon they reached the Pont Alexandre, where this whole adventure began, and he stilled next to her before stepping onto the cobblestones ahead, still holding her hand. When she faced him she wondered if the number of pedestrians had thinned down or if her imagination was just erasing everything but the man about to leave her grasp. 

“Well,” he started, tone light, “this is my stop.”

She bit her lip, trying to smile but failing miserably. “You’re sure it’ll work?”

He nodded and pulled the music box from his pocket with a shivering hand. He hesitated, looking in the direction he needed to go, but still holding her hand. Now would be the easiest time to go. And yet… the word goodbye was stuck in the back of her throat. He made another attempt at lightening the mood. “Bet you’re looking forward to having your living room back.”

She laughed in spite of the pain in her chest. “It’ll be a lot quieter, that’s for sure.”

They shared a halfhearted laugh but their smiles quickly fell until she couldn’t take it and wrapped her arms around his midsection and buried her face in his chest. After a second of hesitation he slowly returned the embrace, arms tight and warm and comforting. 

“Anya, I…”

“Shh,” she squeezed tighter. Her eyes were already burning and she wasn’t sure she could handle whatever speech he was about to say.

“No, I need to tell you—” she felt his chest expand in a sigh, “thank you, I guess. For everything.”

She took a shaky breath. “Promise me something?”

“What?”

“Promise you’ll remember you’re special?”

“You’re just saying that because I’m a time traveler.”

“No, I’m serious.” she shook her head, pulling back to look up at him. “Don’t forget it. Because I know I never will.”

Now his eyes were swimming in the dim light. He swallowed and moved a hand to her cheek, the cold contact sending goosebumps across her skin, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead, feeling his cold nose poking her hairline, and her eyes fluttered shut. “I’ll miss you.”

They stayed like that for a minute or two, wrapped in a quiet embrace, tears on cold cheeks, before he finally pulled away. “Joyeux Noël, Dmitry,” she whispered before his hand slipped from hers.

He gave her a sad smile and tipped his hat, shuffling away. “Thank Vlad for me.”

“I will.”

“Good luck with your grandmother tomorrow.”

“Good luck with your next con,” she answered, thankful for a little banter.

He laughed. “I’ll need it.” Taking a deep breath, he turned towards the bridge, music box in hand, and pulled his coat further up on his shoulders, as if already bracing for the bitter Russian winds. 

She couldn’t watch. As she was walking away, she thought of another witty response, hoping to hear his laugh one more time. “You should try to—”

But he was already gone.

Dmitry landed exactly where he left, back overlooking the frozen Neva, though much more dignified and graceful this time. A new kind of emptiness ached in his chest. Other than the spark of peace from being somewhere familiar, he couldn’t remember why he needed to come back at all.

He decided he deserved something better.

Christmas morning came with its usual flare of sadness. Anya crawled out of bed early to prepare for her grandmother’s arrival, cleaning up the living room (or trying not to think about what to do with all the men’s sweaters laying around) and picking up a roast to serve for dinner tonight, dressing up in a wintery gown she was not in the mood to wear.

The ache dulled a little when she saw Marie’s smiling face, though, and she greeted her with a hug as if nothing were wrong. No matter what was going on, family would always heal her spirits, if only temporarily. They exchanged gifts on the couch and Anya was instructed to wear the new dress she just opened— since she was the only grandchild left, Nanna said, she’d have to get used to being a little spoiled on Christmas— and they went to Vlad and Lily’s for lunch, much to Nanna’s disdain. 

The only person who noticed Anya’s unusual quietness was Vlad. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed, but he gave her a sympathetic smile and she knew she didn’t have to explain why today was so hard and empty. 

Once they were back at Anya’s apartment she let the roast heat up in the oven while they chatted. 

“I heard the auction last night was a success?” Nanna was asking.

“I think so,” Anya answered, pulling the dinner out and setting it on the table. 

“I had no doubt it would be a hit,” Nanna said, settling into her chair. “I’m proud of you, dear.”

Anya smiled. To anyone else, Marie was harsh, cold, and critical of everything and everything around her, but when it came to family she softened like melted snow. 

“Now,” Nanna continued after Anya sat down. Uh oh. She knew what that tone meant. “Did you meet anyone there?”

Could she have at least waited until dessert for these questions? “I did make a few friends, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You know what I’m asking, Anastasia, don’t sass me.”

Anya smiled cheekily into her wine. “Well, no, like last year and the year before.”

“Were you looking?”

“No.” She took a bite. “No… I wasn’t.” 

Nanna raised her eyebrows.

She supposed she couldn’t hide the cloud parked on her forehead for very long. “Well, there might have been— there may have been something, but I don’t know. It’s… complicated, and he’s probably not who you’d expect.”

Marie set her fork down. “Anastasia, I don’t care who he is, all I care about is you finding someone who makes you happy.”

Before Anya could react there was a knock on the door. Her eyebrows narrowed, she couldn’t think of who it would be. But she excused herself from the table to answer the door anyway.

Absolutely nothing could have prepared her for who was on the other side.

Hat crumpled in his hands, nose pink, hair a mess, chest rising and falling as if he’d just been running, Dmitry breathed, “Hi.”

She must’ve been staring for too long because behind her she heard Nanna call, “Who is it, Anastasia?”

“Ooh, tell her it’s Mariah Carey.”

Anya was too shocked to laugh. Blinking action back into her limbs she stepped out into the hallway. “Um,” she cleared her throat. “It’s— hang on, Nanna.” 

After she pulled the door shut behind her Dmitry quickly started, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“What are you— aren’t you supposed to be home?”

He smiled and stepped close enough for her to smell the snow that dampened his coat. “You see, when I got back I just… I realized… I forgot something.”

“Oh.” her brow furrowed. “I didn’t see anything you left behind.”

“No, it wasn’t anything— it was a gift. For you.”

“Oh.” she said again. “You didn’t have to—”

Her voice faltered when he raised a hand to her face, a freezing thumb brushing a hair away, and he leaned down and met her lips with his own.

She gasped into his mouth and he pulled away as fast as he appeared. “My home is wherever you are, if you’ll have me,” he whispered.

Before she could stop herself she leaned back in, as if gravity had shifted, or as if she were giving in to that magnetic pull she felt from the moment she first met him, and he smiled against her lips, happiness humming in his chest under her hands. In spite of the ice on his skin warmth sprouted from his palm rested on her cheek and on her back, where his hand was pulling her even closer.

But then she remembered he wasn’t supposed to be here and where they were and that her Nanna was just a wall away from all of this. “Wait,” she pulled back enough to read his expression, “what about— what about Petersburg? Your life? Won’t you miss your window if…?”

He was already shaking his head. “I got back and I just… no one has ever made me feel the way you do. Like I could belong. And that has to mean something, right?” He took a breath. “Look, I know we’ve only known each other for a few days but I don’t think I’ll ever shake… whatever this is. And I think you feel it too. You can say no and I’ll leave you alone, but I thought it was worth a risk.”

Her grip on the lapel of his coat tightened. “You came back,” was all she could say, her smile too big for more words.

He grinned, cautiously hopeful, like he was too afraid to think she’d want him. “I came back.”

Joy flooded into her empty heart at an overwhelming speed. “Well,” she rose to her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, her thumb resting over his dimple, “come in, old man. I would hate to be rude to my Nanna on Christmas.”

He laughed and squeezed her hand. “Of course not.”

Anya opened the door, tugging Dmitry inside behind her, and the rest was history.