1)
The scraper made a rhythmic, jagged sound against the crumbling plaster of the apartment wall. Pavel Morozov adjusted his grip on the handle, his knuckles white from the cold that seeped through the building’s foundation. “Stop that noise, Pavel. It is midnight, and the neighbors will think we are finally tearing the place down,” Irina said, her voice thin and brittle like the dry wood of her chair. “The wind is coming through the brick, Mama. If I do not seal this crack, the radiator will be useless by morning,” Pavel replied, his voice flat with exhaustion. “Seal it with what? Hopes? We have no coal, and the gas pressure is lower than a dead man’s pulse,” Irina muttered, pulling her wool shawl tighter around her neck. Pavel didn’t look back at her. He focused on the grey fissure that snaked from the ceiling to the floorboards. As he dug the edge of the metal tool into a particularly loose section, a chunk of masonry fell away, clattering onto the floor and sending a cloud of suffocating dust into the air. “Look at that. The whole city is turning to powder,” Irina said, coughing into her hand. “Wait,” Pavel whispered. He reached his hand into the cavity he had just created. His fingers brushed against something cold, flat, and decidedly not made of stone. “What is it? A rat’s nest? Leave it, Pasha. We have enough mouths to feed,” Irina said. “It’s metal,” Pavel said, his breath hitching. He pried at the object, his fingers catching on a rusted edge. With a grunt of effort, he pulled a rectangular box from the wall. It was heavy, the size of a boot box, and covered in a layer of grime that smelled of oil and old fire. “Put it back,” Irina said, her voice suddenly sharp and fearful. “Pavel, I mean it. Nothing hidden in the walls of Velinsk is a gift. That is a ghost you are holding.” “It has the seal of the Steel Factory. Look, Mama. The administration stamp. This was hidden here years ago,” Pavel said, rubbing his thumb over the faded red wax on the latch. “The factory is a tomb. Twelve years it has been sitting there, rotting. If someone hid that box, they had a reason. A reason that usually ends with a bullet in the back of the neck,” Irina said, her eyes fixed on the box with an expression of pure dread. “I’m opening it,” Pavel said. He forced the latch with the tip of his scraper. The metal groaned and snapped. Inside, the box was stuffed with yellowed papers, blackened photographs, and blueprints that looked like they had been salvaged from a furnace. “My God, Pasha,” Irina whispered, her hands shaking as she clutched her prayer beads. “These are maintenance logs,” Pavel said, leafing through the brittle sheets. “Look at the dates. These are from the month of the fire. Here, a report on the safety valves. It says they were intentionally disabled to save on electricity. And this... this is a ledger. Payments to Mikhail Zorin. He wasn’t the mayor then, he was just a deputy.” “Burn it,” Irina hissed, stepping toward him. “Burn it in the sink right now. Do you want to end up like the others? Do you want to disappear into the river?” “There are names here, Mama. The engineer, Borisov. He’s still alive. He lives down by the docks,” Pavel said, his eyes scanning a document signed by his own father. “Wait. Why is my father’s signature on a disposal manifest for industrial waste? He was a floor foreman.” “Your father did what he had to do to keep us in this freezing hellhole,” Irina said, her voice cracking. “He was a good man who got caught in the gears of bad men. Now put those papers away before the walls themselves start listening.” Pavel didn’t sleep that night. He sat by the flickering lamp, reading the accounts of how thirty-two men were locked inside a burning warehouse because the emergency exits had been welded shut to prevent theft. He saw the receipts for the cheap wiring that had been substituted for high-grade copper. By dawn, the city of Velinsk felt different to him—not just a decaying ruin, but a crime scene.
