Ivan woke to find the stiff flower on his chest. He had an impression that his sister had left it there on purpose. She wasn't one to make things pretty, though. He pondered the meaning of the flower. She often left these cryptic messages in her wake. He rolled the stem between his fingers, recalling fondly how, as a child, they had been his favorite sight, especially after a harsh winter.

Morning encroached dragged by time and leaving yesterday far behind. Ivan watched the sun rise, feeling humbled by earthly reasons. Once he watched the sun detach from the horizon, spilling orange and yellow behind it, he stood and went to the kitchen, feeling a pang of hunger rise.

He stopped at the table, finding a note perched on the center. He reached for it. In his sister's pretty script he found his name and, within the parchment, an advertisement for a concert that was coming to Moscow, all the way from Vienna.

His heart leaped to his throat when he read the city's fated name. His fingers burned with rage. He crumpled it and disposed of it promptly. Had there been a fire he would have burned it. He looked at the cramped kitchen and found he had no appetite or patience.

Like a lost spirit he wandered the small house and its surroundings, trying to decide where to go next. He kept his hands clasped behind his back. As with tall men, he hunched his shoulders forwards to look demurred. His boots kicked up dust and rumpled grass. After several rounds about the house, he returned and found his sister had returned. She sat on the couch, her fingers working rapidly to knit something blue and long.

"Did you eat?" she asked.

Ivan shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

She raised her eyes at his cross response. He frowned and sat down heavily across from her. He placed his head in his palms, shutting his eyes. She watched him, her fingers still moving lithely through the yawn. Ivan noticed a scarf being produced from her grasp. There was something different about her, something he hadn't noticed the night before.

He met her gaze briefly and then looked back down at the floor.

"Do you want me to make you breakfast?" She asked gently.

Again, something like a stone carried in her voice, unmoving, unrelenting. Ivan shook his head once more.

"I have no desire to eat, sister."

She lowered her knitting, hesitating. When Ivan said nothing more she returned her concentration to it. No, the work was too short for a scarf. Perhaps it was a glove, Ivan mused.

"Did you see the note I left you?" Katrina asked.

"Yes. I don't want to speak of that horrid place."

"You mean Vienna?"

"Yes."

Katrina waited.

"That's where I last saw him." Ivan said. Yao never truly left his mind. Like a ghost in a cluttered, moody house, he always remained, but pure, unlike his ghastly phantom cousins. Ivan licked his lips, leaning his head back to stem the flood of tears.

"Well I'm fairly certain the musician has nothing to do with him. You may as well get out of the house and stop wandering the nation like some vagabond spirit."

Ivan stared at her, his dark eyes cloudy. His sister never commanded. She never raised her voice. She didn't now, but she rode on some authority unlike herself. He watched her gentle, doe eyes, waiting for an answer. She didn't respond or look at him. She returned to her work, as if everything depended on the completion of her knitting. Her bare feet spread across the rug, hugging it guardedly.

"What will he play?" Ivan asked.

"I heard his show was extremely popular. He has a dancer and his playing is one of the best in the world at present."

"If I promise to go will you tell me what's wrong with you?"

Her hands fell to her lap. The ball of yawn rolled an inch away from her on the seat. It dangled on the side before falling without a noise, rolling away. A cat would have very much liked a good pounce or two at it. "I would like you to go, but there is nothing wrong with me." She said. Her chin was upturned. If Ivan wasn't mistaken, he could see some excess fat forming, but nothing to be repulsed by.

"Will you tell me at least what happened?"

"Do you promise to go?" She asked, this time in a soft tone more like herself. She smiled at him, her features melting.

She wanted what was best for Ivan. He considered this. He could use a good bit of music. It lightens the soul, they say, and he hadn't gone to a concert hall in too long. He missed the dim lights and the melodic humming of tuning instruments in the excited moments before the start of the show. Ivan had a longing for an opera, The Magic Flute to be exact, but he would settle with a concerto. He didn't recall much of the advertisement except that a show was coming from Vienna to Moscow. Besides, he didn't have to stay the entire time. Katrina would understand if he couldn't bare the sight anymore.

Ivan took too long to decide, so Katrina continued to persuade him. "I received word of it from Natalia some time back. She wanted to go. She'll come a week before the first day of autumn, the day it premiers, and she wanted all of us to go together. The letter is behind you on the table if you want proof."

The paper was weighted down with a miniature mirror. Ivan glanced at his sister's smart, small handwriting. He didn't need to read it to know his sister spoke only the truth. He turned back to Katrina, keeping his mouth clamped shut.

"If you won't come for yourself, come for us."

"Fine, I promise to come." He said quickly.

Katrina smiled warmly and appeared to return to her usual self. She hummed a tune as she knitted. Ivan waited for her to explain her situation. She did not.

"You'll stay here until Natalia arrives, won't you? If you don't, I suppose it is your decision. However, you made a promise and I want to uphold it to the best of your abilities. Come when Natalia comes and we shall live again like the old times."

"The old times are dead." Ivan snapped dryly.

Nonplussed she continued, dreaming about a future as wonderful as the past. Ivan crossed his arms, staring through the windows. He felt hungry again, but chose to ignore it.

She stopped speaking. He wasn't conscious of her pause, having been distracted by his thoughts. He blinked and noticed the silence. He turned to face her, waiting. Neither said anything for a long time. Ivan had a sneaking suspicion. His eyes widened in surprise. Could it be? No, no, this was Katrina… Up until that point he had assumed they were one in the same person, that their experiences were linked, that she couldn't have lived her own life. Now he realized the utter stupidity of his assumption and opened his mouth to speak.

Katrina watched him and, as if sharing a secret, began to blush. "Ivan, there will be an addition to our family very soon." She said, placing her palm against her stomach.

Ivan didn't register what she said.

Slowly, it came to him that his sister was undeniably pregnant.

"Who is the father?" he asked in a fusion of rage, confusion, and protectiveness.

"Dead."

"I didn't ask what the fath—…" Ivan stood and approached his sister. He embraced her and began to pet her hair. He assumed she was there for him. No one was there for her… Was there? Ivan kissed her forehead and head and cheeks. "I'm sorry, Katyusha, I'm sorry…"