A gravely sick wealthy woman strolling in a snowy garden noticed a father and his son shivering on a seat—and brought them to her residence…

He sat down, head lowered. And was silent for a long time. A light wind ruffled his hair, stars twinkled, as if ironic over their drama.

I didn’t know, he finally exhaled. Then why did you keep silent all this time? Because I wanted to believe that love isn’t always about the body. That you can be close without crossing boundaries.

But seems I ruined everything. No, he said, standing up. It’s not you.

It’s life. It doesn’t ask if it’s convenient for us. The next morning, Emily suggested.

Let’s go skydiving. You dreamed of it? Me? You told how in youth you dreamed, but no money. Consider it your chance.

And you? And I was always a coward. But you know, time has come.

To do at least once what scares you to death. Laura threw up her hands hearing where they were going. Are you in your right mind?…

You barely agreed to a massage. Emily Thompson, you can’t have overloads, can’t have stress. Laura, she answered softly.

And can I live? The airfield smelled of hot asphalt and gasoline. Instructors spoke quickly, explained, showed. Michael checked straps, Ethan waved from the ground.

Emily stood calmly. Calmer than all. You sure? asked Michael, looking into her eyes.

Absolutely. We live once. They rose into the sky.

Underfoot—desert, roads stretched in strips, dusty quarters, sea open to the horizon. Emily felt her heart pounding. Not from fear.

From realization: she’s here. Now. In the sky.

On the edge. They jumped almost simultaneously, in tandem with instructors. Michael flew like a bird, shouted in delight.

Wind hit the face, earth approached. Everything was like in a movie. Then—a scream.

He didn’t make out whose. Turned. And saw—Emily’s parachute canopy didn’t open.

The second—too. Instructor pulled the ring. Panic.

Seconds. They fell. Like in a silent film, without sound.

Only wind. Only sky, torn to pieces. Michael yelled.

No. But it was already too late. She fell, as if not a body, but light.

And the light faded. Screams, fuss, sirens. Flashes of blue lights, running on the beach, confused tourists, roll call of names—all this became like noise behind glass.

Michael stood, squeezing Ethan’s shoulder, and watched as two men in uniform zipped two bodies into dense black bags on stretchers. He didn’t cry. His eyes were dry, like the scorching sand underfoot.

Only his heart hummed like a huge pipe, low, dull, tearing the chest from inside. Laura argued with someone from the airfield administration, demanded a translator, called the consulate. In her voice was no panic, no hysteria, only cold determination.

Her face was steel, as if her whole life she prepared for such a day and knew: can’t give up now. Michael didn’t interfere. He couldn’t.

Everything inside seemed to go into a deep tunnel. Ethan clung to him, said no word, only looked into emptiness, like a kitten whose home suddenly disappeared. The first two days passed like in a haze.

Papers, visas, certificates, official statements. Michael for the first time in life found himself in the role of close to the deceased, and everything seemed absurd. He repeated his last name, showed passport, nodded, signed documents, and all this as if didn’t concern him…