Her heels clicked on the black stones of the cemetery, but she did not stop. Her hands trembled, yet she clung to the bundle of flowers she had brought, her fingers turning white, like almonds peeled in boiling water.

The air was cold and crisp; the sun had risen a short while ago. She had slipped out of the house before her mother woke up—before anyone could see her.

When she neared his grave, she began to slow her steps. The dazzling smile of his flashed before her eyes. She shouldn't have given him her virginity. Absentmindedly, she brushed her hand over her belly, as if checking to make sure it was still there, that the heartbeat was still strong.

You must get rid of him, she knew that. This is not a world for women to bring children without their fathers. "Bastard," that's what everyone would call him. And her, a whore.

Maybe that was the push she needed. She took a step forward, ready to apologize to him for what she had to do.

"I..." Her voice trembled as she pulled her shawl tighter, trying to warm herself. She swallowed hard and continued, "I love you—I won't love anyone the way I loved you, I promise you that." He had been a jealous man. She wanted to appease him, even though she wanted to love again. She didn't want to wither away for life at the age of seventeen.

"I'm pregnant." A faint, genuine smile appeared on her lips. "He's yours," she repeated in a serious tone, as if to assure herself that her sin with him didn't make her promiscuous.

"I'll always love him too." A lump was stuck in her throat. She would always love him, no matter what happened. She loved him already—before he really existed.

She turned her head back, hearing faint sounds coming from the cemetery. Squinting, she saw the black hat of a man walking with his wife. If they spotted her, it would be disastrous. She had to make haste.

"I... I need a husband," she said quickly. "So I have to give him up." Cut him out. Burn him. Kill him. She almost heard the voices in her head. Her voices—because no one else knew about this. His voice, because he was in her belly, and his heartbeat reached her heart. And he was alone. How could she do this?

"I'll come to visit from time to time," she promised and turned to leave the grave with hesitant steps. She knew where she had to go now; she had arranged to meet the woman in the square. They were supposed to go together to the dangerous part of town. She was shivering, not only from fear but also from the cold. She hadn't taken her fur coat, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention. Who wouldn't notice a blonde-haired girl in fur? Everyone there was dirt poor. A shiver ran down her spine.

She bit her lip when she saw the plain woman in the square, quickly examining the closed cafes and the deserted street. Lucky she had arranged to meet her so early, lucky she had thought of everything. How could I, with all my wits, be so stupid to sleep with a man unwed?

She exhaled to release the air and began to approach her. The woman gave her a faint smile and extended her hand. Michaela blinked in confusion and recoiled, trying to signal the woman to leave her alone. But she kept her hand in the air, and finally, Michaela gave in and intertwined her arm with the woman's. Arm in arm, they walked down the street.

Surprisingly, the woman didn't smell unpleasant. She smelled of soap and roses. She was also beautiful, though older. Brown hair arranged in waves, warm, round eyes. Did she have a family? Children? Had she done this once? Michaela almost blurted out the questions aloud but fell silent when she realized this is a woman that helps others get rid of their babies—she must not have a family, she must be... something bad.

The woman led her quickly through the empty streets. The buildings gleamed at them, dazzling. The woman kept a fast pace, with Michaela panting behind her. She wasn't used to this—she usually traveled in her father's automobile or rode her horse. She had never walked anywhere in a hurry.

The woman sighed in relief and slumped her shoulders as she turned toward the black residential building. The whole street consisted of low houses, black brick stones, and lightweight brown doors. This is how they live on the other side of the city, Michaela thought to herself in bitterness. This is why she's doing this—she doesn't want to live like that—or her baby to live like that.

But when the doctor lifted her dress, tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. He wore thick gloves, and their roughness made her nauseous. Her child, she wanted to scream.

The woman with the warm eyes held her hand now, kneeling on the floor next to Michaela. She looked at her. "Everything will be alright," she said in a soft voice, even if a bit hoarse.

Michaela closed her eyes tightly. I'm not here. I'm not here, she promised herself.

"It will be over soon," the woman said, and Michaela held her breath. The room reeked of antiseptic, and the sound of scraping her body out felt like a knife cutting through her chest. He's scraping him out.

She placed her palms over her eyes, trying to pretend she was somewhere else. All the while, the woman stroked her arm, murmuring soft words in her ear. She was the only good thing here, in this little hell she was in now.

"You need to take these," the doctor lifted some pills from the yellow metal tray placed on the peeling dresser. Michaela stared at them with wide eyes.

"They'll prevent infection," he said, and only then did she notice the rust peeking through the tools he had used. She looked away—it didn't matter now.

The gentle woman returned with a tall glass of water. Michaela shook her head. She didn't want anything—she just wanted to go home.

"You'll need to take care of yourself in the coming days. Is there someone at home you can tell?" Michaela shook her head again. Her mother would kill her—really kill her. She'd call her a whore and throw her out of the house.

"I'll come to check on you," the woman began to say, but Michaela shook her head so fast. "I'll be fine," she whispered reluctantly.

And when the woman intertwined their arms on the way back, Michaela was grateful for it, because she could barely walk and she felt something dripping, but she refused to think about it. As they approached her neighborhood, she gently released her arm from the woman's grip and held her hands for a moment, trying to say thank you without words, because she had no words, and then she let go and did not look back.

The first days were bearable, because the pain was physical, and she thought that maybe she could cleanse herself of it, be punished for it somehow and let it go. Then the weeks dragged on, and the pain was invisible to all but her. She felt a constant scream hiding inside her, ready to attack at any second.

But one day, she saw an orange sunset in the park near her home. Not a special one—or maybe special like all the others. And suddenly she could feel it. She knew that her child's soul still existed and was free in the world. Maybe one day she would meet him in some way or another, or maybe he would be on this earth long after she had died.

She managed to breathe through the tears falling down, and then she managed to take in the air without tears at all.