The glowing, scarlet embers of the swirling portal ignited a spark in Nikita, pushing him to summon every ounce of strength from the bloody mess that he had become. His entire body was synced to one singular purpose: to undo the damage he had caused to himself and his wife.
As Nikita sprinted with all his strength, Irina slowed, leaving long, snake-like trails in the dirt behind them. Going back for her would be wasting precious moments, moments that could mean the difference between life and death.
"Run, Iryna!" Nikita shouted. "Run!"
Groaning in agony, Iryna reached out for a tree, sweat beading on her forehead, running down her face, pooling at the base of her collarbone.
The baby was coming.
Iryna's pained cries began as moans, then escalated into screams of unbearable agony. Nikita's mind raced, trying to think of a way to help, but deep down, he knew there was nothing he could do. He could only watch his wife endure, nothing but watch as the portal to the east burned, the vibrancy slowly draining away like water through a clogged drain, leaving only emptiness.
Iryna collapsed to the ground, like a wilted flower. Her voice was barely audible, lost in the chaos around them. Nikita gripped her clenched hand, and with one last, trembling whisper, she spoke her final words. "Artem," she gasped. "If he survives... call him Artem." With immense pain, she gave one last, desperate push.
The cry of a baby echoed in Nikita’s ears, filling his heart with a strange joy. He cradled the newborn and carefully chipped off a sharp piece of tree bark to sever the umbilical cord. "He's a boy, Iryna," Nikita whispered into the silence. He paused and looked down at her, his heart sinking. Her chest had stopped rising and falling. The glassy stare in her eyes was fixed on the sky. He rushed to her side, the baby still in his arms. "No..." Tears filled his eyes. "He's a boy, Iryna..." he whispered, holding her cold, motionless body. "He's a boy."
19 Years Later...
Artem woke with a start, groggily checking the time. Three in the morning. Three hours before daybreak. Maybe I should work on the boat, he thought, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sliding his feet into his worn clogs. He eased open the heavy steel door, slipping through the small crack and jumping down into the workshop that had once been the garage.
He stopped by the workbench, cluttered with tools and the remains of too many dinners eaten in solitude, and grabbed a handful of bolts and screws. Then, he silently made his way to the project – the one he and his father, Nikita, had started on his 16th birthday, three years ago. He climbed into the boat, the moss-covered planks creaking beneath him, and rested his hands on the paddle grips.
"My 19th birthday," he muttered to himself, clutching the acceptance letter to the University of the West, the letter he'd found at the bottom of the boat just the other day. "I'm going to college in a few weeks." Birthdays were never a time for celebration. There was always a different story to tell. It had been 19 years since the mother he'd never met had given birth to him amidst the ashes scattered across the forest floor. A single tear slipped down his cheek as he recalled the vivid stories his father had told him of the woman he'd never known. His father had longed for her, longed for his wife.
Quietly, Artem stepped out of the boat and made his way back to his room, pausing outside the old wooden door to his father’s room. It hung loosely on its hinges, a reminder of all the repairs Nikita no longer had the energy to make.
Artem didn’t need to enter to know that his father was on the bed, consumed by sorrow. He continued on, entering his room and shutting the door gently behind him. This was the way things had always been. Because today, 19 years ago, his father had gained a son, but in return, he had lost so much more…