Joy and Misery

Masha’s breath caught as she lifted the baby from the box. His tiny fingers curled around hers, warm and impossibly fragile, and the crystal on his chest pulsed like a heartbeat made of light. Tears blurred her vision as she traced the curve of his cheek, her voice breaking into a laugh that trembled with disbelief. “He’s… perfect,” she whispered, clutching him to her chest as if the world might snatch him away.

John watched her, his throat tightening. He wanted to scream, *“This isn’t a child—it’s a countdown to ruin!”* But Masha’s tears fell onto the baby’s blanket, her shoulders shaking with a joy he hadn’t seen since the early days of their marriage. Her happiness was a knife in his ribs, sharp and sweet.

“Do you… want to be his mother?” he asked, the words raw, as if torn from him.

Masha’s head snapped up. For a heartbeat, fear flickered in her eyes—a shadow of the truth they both knew but refused to name—before she pressed the baby tighter to her, her voice fierce. “*Yes*,” she said, the word a vow. “Yes, John. *Always.*”

---

Alone in the pharmacy’s back room, John pried open the metal box. The letter inside smelled of rust and burnt sugar. His hands shook as he read:

***JOHN WHITE, CARE FOR BILLY UNTIL HE TURNS 16. THEN, GO TO THE CROWDED CITY CENTER. LET HIM FIST-PUMP YOU. YOU WILL GET WHAT YOU DESERVE.***

*Billy.* The name lodged in his chest like a shard of glass. Through the doorway, he watched Masha rock their son, humming a lullaby that cracked at the edges. Her voice wavered—a mother’s love already haunted by dread.

---

**Sixteen Years Later**

Billy burst into the pharmacy, his orange hair glowing like embers in the sunlight. “Dad! Top of the class!” His grin faltered for a heartbeat, eyes darting to the calendar on the wall.

John dropped his broom and pulled Billy into a hug so tight it hurt. He breathed in the scent of his son’s shampoo, the faint sweat from his sprint home, and wondered how sixteen years could slip through his fingers like smoke. “That’s my boy,” he rasped, voice thick. “Your mother—”

“Fist pump!” Billy interrupted, fist raised.

John froze. The ritual, once playful, now felt like a noose tightening. He forced a laugh, bumping his knuckles against Billy’s. *One more day. Just one more.*

---

That night, Masha lay beside John, her fingers tracing the scar on his palm. “You’re quiet,” she whispered.

He stared at the ceiling, the letter’s words burning behind his eyes. “It’s time,” he said, the words ash in his mouth.

Masha’s hand stilled. “*No.*” Her voice splintered. “He’s *ours*, John. We raised him. We *love* him.”

Outside their door, Billy pressed his forehead to the wall, silent tears carving paths down his cheeks.

---

**Morning**

Masha burned the pancakes. Billy kissed her cheek, his lips lingering. “Don’t cry, Mom,” he murmured. “I’ll come back. *Promise.*”

She gripped his shoulders, her nails biting into his jacket. “You’d *better*,” she said, laughing through her tears.

---

**MC Market Center**

The square buzzed with life—vendors hawking sweets, children shrieking, the air thick with the smell of sugar and exhaust. Billy fidgeted, his orange eyes darting. “Dad… why here?”

John’s smile wavered. “Fist pump?”

Their knuckles met—a touch as familiar as breath.

***Boom.***

John’s body erupted like a water balloon filled with blood.