The mirror held the scene in quiet stillness.
Anna paused, smoothing the pleats of her gray dress. It was modest, carefully pressed—chosen for comfort rather than attention. She had worn it for years, and while it would never turn heads, it carried a kind of reliability she trusted.
Behind her, Dmitry adjusted his cufflinks with practiced precision. His shirt was crisp, his posture exact. Every movement reflected intention. He had built himself around that image—orderly, controlled, composed.
“Are you ready?” he asked, eyes still on his own reflection.
Anna lingered for a moment, studying hers.
