Chapter Text
Zatonsk Police Station.
March 13, 1889.
Chief Inspector Shtolman.
Yakov Platonovich,
I sit in my room, pen in hand, my belongings are strewn about, some have been folded and placed in their traveling bags, others have been tossed aside to be dealt with later, or never. I am determined to impart to you everything on my mind, thoughts I would never reveal if I was not ending our association and leaving this town, never to lay eyes on you again. Father would advise me against putting my thoughts into words at this rash moment with my mind unsettled, my emotions overwhelming my ability to reason. Uncle would counsel me otherwise. He would encourage a cathartic diatribe of angry accusations. I find myself following the advice of Uncle in this matter, which alone should give me pause.
But in truth, it is not anger that is at the forefront of my jumbled mess of feelings, but a dark, engulfing loneliness. I am realizing that what I mistook for evolving devotion was nothing more than camaraderie, and perhaps not even that. I question the extent to which our relationship could be valued as high as a mere friendship. For if you at least considered me a friend, I do not believe you could have treated me as you did. Your cold and mean-spirited accusations hurt and frightened me, but without them, I would not have awakened to the truth. For that, I suppose I should be grateful.
You have wronged me, and I shall not forget it. I cannot know if your abuse was a calculated manipulation or an unfortunate side effect of how you perceived our relationship. Only you can answer that. For me, the pain is the same in either case, and I am not interested in delving into the reason for it. The sting of disappointment in time will fade, but a scar, ugly and ragged, will remain to remind and chastise me for my foolishness. The foolishness of trusting freely, of not guarding my affections, of allowing my heart to lead me.
I imagine your investigations will now proceed in a fashion much more to your liking, Yakov Platonovich, as I will no longer be able to interfere. I should, of course, wish you and the precinct swift success in your endeavors, but I am not capable of that amount of charity at this moment. Instead, my angry heart desires you to be thwarted in your work in the absence of my assistance. I know it is a false hope, for, despite my enmity, I still understand you to be a talented and perceptive detective.
With sincerity,
Anna Mironova.