Vera stops her old car in the street. 

This side of town is polished and ostentatiously neat: each parking spot is perfectly spaced and demarcated with fresh paint, and occupied by the correct person. She knew it well, from driving by, but the one time she had parked on the street she had been chased away rather abruptly. Every other time she had passed by, she had walked. Now that she is here she is not sure where to park.

The cold panic inside of her had now settled into a simmering feeling of loss.

Vera parks her car in an open spot she finds, a street away. She pulls the black cloak over her shoulders and hides her face beneath its folds. She darts down the dark street, lined by perfectly spaced street lamps, lighting her way with a dull amber glow.

When she arrives at the front of the house she hesitates. 

A wide, sprawling mansion lays before her, painted in sparkling white; perfect, even in the low light. The garden gate opens onto a manicured path leading to the large wooden front door. Roses, blooming proudly, speckled with tiny droplets of water. Wide emerald lawns leading to gardens around both sides of the house. 

Vera hesitates; she isn't sure it would be wise to knock on the door. To walk up that garden path, the girl she is in a house in this part of town, a sore toe throbbing visibly even in the low light. She could imagine the faces of his mother or father answering the door, seeing it was her, and watching their faces transform. The things they might say to get her to leave, to get her to leave him alone. But he might answer the door too. And she couldn't do nothing.

Vera trudges slowly, reluctantly, towards the front door. It's an immaculate garden path, without even one leaf lying on the paving, without even a single blade of grass edging it's way too courageously towards the perfect cement. The front door is white, without any smudge or dust or imperfection. The handle glitters silver, the frame of the door glitters golden. Vera lifts her hand to the knocker, grasping it, spoiling the perfect scene with her fingers, unmanicured.

There her fingers linger for a few moments as she swallows, realizing this is the last time she can turn around. She lifts the handle and knocks.

After a few moments, the door swings gracefully open. Mrs. Ashford towers in the door frame, perfect golden hair curling down in a shiny waterfall past her straight shoulders, an elegant black dress falling from her clavicles to the floor. Round calculating blue eyes pierce deeply into Vera.

'Olivera,' she say curtly, the corner of her lip slipping down in disdain. 'This is not an appropriate time.'

'Good evening Mrs. Ashford,' Vera stutters, 'I apologize for disturbing you. I, uhm, I just heard about, about what happened. I'm so sorry-'

'What do you want?' she says curtly. 

'I know this is a bad time, I just, I just want to check in. On him.' Vera feels herself shrinking under her gaze. 

Mrs. Ashford stands tall. 'Piotr does not need you. You are not friends. He has people in his own circle. Those of his own... class.'

The door closes without a goodbye. Vera stares at the closed door in front of her, filling with despair. She didn't glimpse anyone behind Mrs. Ashford while they spoke. That lady has the ability to captivate all attention, calmly and with equanimity, she can dispel even those who disgruntle her, as Vera has just witnessed. Vera takes a step back, but doesn't turn around. 

A frustrating blooms in her. She can't leave, she can't. But how to get Piotr's attention?

She turns as if to retreat down the garden path, but then steps foot onto the perfectly manicured lawn, into the darkness. She gazes up at the mansion before her, speckled with so many windows. She doesn't know which is his, or which floor it might be on. Perhaps luck will have her stumble upon him gazing out, or nearby enough for her to recognize him. She strolls slowly across the lawn, confronted with many windows, all of them black with darkness.

She sighs. Vera continues around the house, making her way towards the first corner. There some lights are on, she can hear the soft murmur of voices. She creeps carefully along the lawn, straying to some bushes, keeping to the shadows. As she reaches the corner, before the washing of light could betray her presence, she peers carefully around the corner.

This side of the home is made of large sliding glass doors, which have been opened. The sweeping dining room now opens directly onto a perfectly manicured lawn, decorated with rose bushes and a small marble fountain. Vera peers around from behind a rose bush. There she sees the beautiful Mrs. Ashford, with her husband. Other people are scattered around the yard and dining room, speaking in hushed tones, all dressed in black.

She scans the people around, perhaps twenty of them, looking for Piotr. He is nowhere to be seen. Vera recognizes a few of his friends and his acquaintances, milling around. A small group of young ladies stands near the fountain, talking quietly. Among them is Stacy. Sheis dressed in a floor-length black gown, holding a small flute of fizzing liquid. Vera's mouth pulls down involuntarily. No Piotr. She turns back away, hiding behind the wall.

Vera feels helpless. She pulls out her phone and tries to call Piotr again, but the tone is engaged. His phone must be off. What is there to do now? She feels resigned to departure. But part of her doesn't want to give up. She sits down in the grass, leaning against the wall, to think. Moments later, too late to move, she notices approaching footsteps. Vera fizzles with nerves, and slowly pushes herself backwards, as deep into the bushes as she can go without making a noise.

'...kind of you to make it.' 

'Of course, I wouldn't miss it.' 

'Please don't be discouraged, he just needs a few moments alone. You know how he gets.' It's the warm, melodious voice of Mrs. Ashford.

'I understand, it's a difficult time.' Vera couldn't mistake that voice. Stacy.

'It's important to be there during these difficult times. It would mean the world to me to know he has your shoulder to lean on.'

'He always has. I won't go anywhere.' Vera can hear the straining eagerness in Stacy's voice, always eager to please. 

'I think if he's any longer it would be a good idea to go and check on him. I'm sure he is in the usual place on the roof.'

Vera suddenly remembers. Piotr's soft voice as he told her all about the constellations in the night skies, which he observed from the view of the roof of his house, his escape from dealing with what was going on inside. Piotr loved sitting on that roof. Piotr had explained this calmly, as she lay in the crook of his arm, trying to distract her all those years ago.

How was Vera going to get onto the roof?

The two ladies finish their conversation and wander back into the din of people talking and mourning together.

Vera slips into the darkness from which she had come. She backtracks towards the front garden path, backing up until she can try and perceive where the roof might be flattest. On the other end of the house to the gathering is a flattened section. She glances down but can't see any small stones anywhere. She glances around, and finds a small shrub with little green fruit, like peas, hanging from its branches. She takes a few and start tossing them up onto the roof.

One, then five. Nothing happens. She throws another few. More and more, taking from the branches liberally. She grabs one more handful of the berries, picks one, glances up to aim, and there peeks a head from the roof. Piotr.

He peers over into the dark garden. She stares up at his squinting face. 'Piotr.' she says. 'It's Vera.'