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flames at one another and huffing. Aleksandr ignored them,<br />

glancing at the sun again and again. Why wouldn’t the damn<br />

thing move Finally, blessedly, the night came.<br />

He stayed in front of the house until the moon was high<br />

overhead and the cold made his bones feel heavy as oxen. The<br />

dragons nipped at his feet and drove him inside. So he waited in<br />

his chair by the fire. In his lap, Aleksandr cradled Minchka’s doll,<br />

hands loosely closed over the little cloth chest. He had found the<br />

tiny doll a week after Minchka left, wedged amid the rags the two<br />

dragons used as a nest beneath the sleeping platform. One of the<br />

dragons had sharpened its teeth on the carved wood of the doll’s<br />

face, making deep gouges like the tracks of tears. It was a child’s<br />

toy and his daughter was no longer a child. Seven years gone,<br />

but he could not picture her as anything other than the little girl<br />

he’d held that last night. The doll wasn’t even a proper present as<br />

Minchka had already owned the thing. But she had loved the doll<br />

so much. Would she still Would she still love him<br />

The night trickled away with no sign of Minchka. She<br />

had to come. She had to. His fingers tapped out the minutes on<br />

the chair arm. The fire burned lower in the hearth but he didn’t<br />

add more wood. His legs wouldn’t work anymore. If she didn’t<br />

come....<br />

When morning’s first pink touched the sky and Aleksandr’s<br />

eyes had drifted shut, there was a knock on the door.<br />

Aleksandr started awake. The knock came again. He was frozen.<br />

Unable to open the door and see. If it wasn’t her he was afraid<br />

something would break inside him that couldn’t ever be fixed.<br />

“Papa” A soft voice called.<br />

His breath caught and he clutched the doll tighter.<br />

“Papa, are you there”<br />

Aleksandr’s hands trembled as he rose and shuffled to<br />

the door like an old man. The dragons snorted smoke rings in<br />

disgust, racing to the door and back five times before he reached<br />

it. The wood was cold and pitted beneath his palm.<br />

“Minchka” Aleksandr whispered. His hands shook harder<br />

but he fumbled the door open.<br />

58 Writing Tomorrow Magazine

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