They sat in that room, Dmitri with a hefty novel upon his lap and phrase upon his tongue, reading with a perpetual sort of pace. The son no longer thought of the words draining from his lips. No; those gazes were not upon the page. They were elsewhere.

And Ivan had placed his thoughts away from that novel as well, far from those trivial characters and continents from their plight.

Within that odd realm, Dmitri's wells began to overflow, a few of those poignant droplets landed against the neatly printed Cyrillic upon the page, marring it, destroying it, although there was nothing there to tarnish.

"Dmitri, you can stop reading. I'm not paying attention anymore."

The book was closed.

"What's wrong?" Ivan's lips seemed to dent slightly.

"Nothing, really…" Sapphires swallowed the light of the window. "I just wish things weren't the way they were."

"Well, how so?"

"I just wish I could have met you sooner. And that mama was still here. The poor woman went through hell. And we tried so hard to save her." Dmitri shook his head. "We worked the entire day. Both of us. And they gave us hardly enough for food. For blankets, and doctors. Forget doctors. They turned us away when they found out we had nothing. And somehow, I feel like it's still my fault." Tears wiped away. "It's so wrong. I should be angrier, but Andrei took all my anger and I took all his feeling."

"I'm sorry, Dmitri." The man glanced to the ceiling, trying to see the sky. "Let's get out of this room. It's suffocating, isn't it?"

"We could open the window."

"No…The cold isn't good for my condition." That great body attempted to rise. "Let's go to the library. I haven't got to show it to you. And I hate this goddamn place. Will you hand me that cane?"

Dmitri took that luscious pole form the well, its handle melded in gold and the shaft something of ivory. A pang of disgust at holding such a thing. If the man had elected an oaken staff, so much would have been saved. A family would have been fed. A mother saved.

So Ivan rose from those sheets, managing to move toward the door with the hindered steps. The good son followed.

They traveled throughout those corridors, those ancient paintings of so many cracking years within the sun's harsh rays, the gold glistening, the old man faltering. The youth's heart collapsing. The prodigal mansion turning to a prison. The library before their feet.

The doors were pushed open and either drifted inside.

Poor Dmitri's core screamed.

It was beautiful.

Books lined that grand room, two stories holding a million different tales. There were beaten books, there were new books; there were books from years and years ago; there were books made just yesterday.; there were books about men; there were books about women; there were books about love; there were books about hate; there were books about crime and punishment; there were books about war and peace; there were books about women named Anna; there were books about women who were not named Anna. There were books. Books upon books upon books.

One could not count them all.

A heavy palm settled against Dmitri's shoulder. "You can read any of them. Don't worry about asking. It's yours."

Those lips were made deficient.

"Спасибо."

"Of course."

"Have you read all of these yet?"

"Most of them. That shelf there is all the ones I haven't read. Do you like books? I know your mother made you read them, but do you like them?"

"I love them! Whenever we had holidays, Andrei would always get me a book stolen from the library. Mama would twist his ears around for stealing, but I always felt grateful."

Ivan laughed. "Well, no one has to steal from libraries anymore." The hold was removed. "Dmitri, when is your birthday?"

"Oh…June third."

"Hmm."

The polite young man only smiled.

And how old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"You're so young…" There was a silence.

"I don't feel very young, sir. Sometimes I wake up feeling sixty."

Then a saddened smile. "I wake up feeling sixty every morning. We must be the same age." Ivan came to the shelves upon the bottom floor. "Please feel free to look around."

And for some reason, there was guilt that seared as strong acid. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry? You don't have a reason to be."

"I don't really know why. But I'm sorry." Sorrow still possessed the throat of that twenty-two year old, born on June third. "Are you upset with me?"

"No, no…I'm not upset. I'm only upset with myself."

Before that statement could be inquired about, the door swung wide and that nurse walked in, a novel the density of a brick within her arm, cradled as a child.

She stared at them.

"What's all this scandal?"

A sigh from Ivan's mouth. "Well you caught me. I would run, but I wouldn't get very far. Are you going to take me away now?"

"No…But if I was Franz I would. How are you feeling, Mr. Braginski?"

"I'm just fine. Dmitri can even testify for me. Don't I just look wonderful? Like I could pick up an entire ox."

Ellis laughed. "Of course. And I can pull a train with a piece of yarn and my teeth." Her simper lingered a lasting count. "I'm sorry to ruin everything, but Dr. Edelstein wants to give you that medicine. It's great to see that you're up and about, but I have to take you back. At least for now. You can return as soon as we're finished. I promise."

"Alright then…I suppose I don't really have a choice in the matter, so I?"

"Not at the moment, no."

Dmitri's brows furrowed. "Why do you have to be in bed? Can't you have your medicine here?"

"The shots make me very tired. But the dosage had been lightening, so don't concern yourself."

There was only air against that coiling tongue.

"I'll return soon. You can remain here, if you like."

"Oh. Alright."

Dmitri was left with inquiry bearing upon his shoulder and an ache within his chest. Everything seemed to ebb at once, dejection, concern, those four chambers al cramping up and arteries tangling. But vindictive thoughts were banished, the sick parents sent away, and that soul was bound in what all that literature had to say, throwing volumes the size of cylinder blocks at all his perpetual demons.