The next morning came, but Ivan was still asleep. His body lay heavy on the bed, wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, but his mind was far from rest.
He was dreaming.
In his dream, he was just a little boy. Barely four years old.
The house was small and quiet. Too quiet. There was no sound of laughter. No sound of footsteps. Just silence.
He was alone.
The little boy stood on his toes, reaching for a piece of cake placed on a high shelf. His tiny hands stretched upward, but it was too far. A stool sat by the corner, and he dragged it over. He climbed on it, wobbling, trying to balance himself. His eyes sparkled at the sight of the sweet cake just within reach.
But the stool wasn't steady.
Just as his fingers touched the edge of the plate, the stool gave way.
Everything happened fast. His hand struck a vase beside the shelf. It toppled and came crashing down with him. The sound of breaking glass filled the air, followed by the sharp sting of pain.
