Time did not exist in the Trubetskoy Bastion.
There was only the drip.
A slow, maddening metronome echoing through the dark — counting out an eternity in sound. Each drop struck the stone with a hollow plink, carving its rhythm into Katerina Svanidze's mind until she could no longer tell one hour from the next.
The cell was a coffin of weeping stone buried deep within the Peter and Paul Fortress. The air smelled of rust, mold, and old despair — the kind that had seeped into the walls over centuries. A sliver of gray sky peeked through a window too high to reach. Somewhere beyond it, the Neva River whispered, a sound she could no longer imagine touching.
Kato sat on the edge of her straw pallet, knees drawn to her chest. The fire that had once defined her — the girl who had printed pamphlets, who had argued revolution with stars in her eyes — was now a faint ember struggling to stay lit.
They had questioned her for weeks. Men with dull eyes and precise cruelty. She had given them nothing — only silence and the occasional sharp word. In the darkness between sessions, she had recited poetry under her breath, sung fragments of hymns, and clung to one image: Ioseb's face. Not Koba the planner, but Soso, the poet from Gori. The boy who smiled like the future could be rewritten.
That memory kept her alive.
Then the questions stopped.
Silence took their place — heavy, deliberate silence meant to do what torture could not.
Until today.
The new footsteps were wrong. Not the heavy boots of guards. Lighter. Measured. Confident.
A key scraped in the lock. The hinges whispered open.
Lantern light flooded the cell, blinding her. And then he stepped in — a figure so alien to this place that for a moment, she thought she was dreaming.
Tall. Immaculate. A dark tailored suit that seemed to defy the grime around him. His beard was trimmed to mathematical precision. The faint scent of tobacco and citrus followed him, clean and sharp.
It was Pyotr Arkadyevich Stolypin — Prime Minister of the Russian Empire.
He might as well have been the embodiment of the system itself, walking into her grave.
He moved as if the dungeon belonged to him. A guard entered behind him, setting a small stool and a tray on the floor before retreating. Steam curled from a porcelain cup.
"Good afternoon, Katerina Semyonovna," Stolypin said, his tone almost gentle. "I thought you might appreciate proper tea. The water here is… unpleasant."
Kato stared. Her throat was dry. "I want nothing from you."
He smiled — thin, bloodless. "Of course. But indulge me. It's from my own samovar. Black tea, two spoons of sugar, slice of lemon. The way the intelligentsia in Tbilisi prefers it, I'm told."
The detail hit like a slap. He sat, composed, the civilized world intruding into hell.
"I'm not here to ask about your cells or your clumsy bomb plots," he said. "Others have handled that. I am here for an intellectual puzzle. And you, my dear, may be the only one who can solve it."
He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me about Ioseb Jughashvili. Not Koba the criminal — Soso the poet. Did he have a favorite verse? What frightened him? Not death or prison. The small fears. The ones that whisper in the dark."
Her resolve, so steady against the fists of interrogators, faltered. This was something worse — a mind dissecting hers with surgical precision.
"He fears nothing," she managed.
"Everyone fears something," Stolypin said softly. "I, for example, fear mediocrity. To leave my empire weaker than I found it. What drives him? Is it you?"
Kato turned away, refusing to answer.
He sighed — not angrily, but like a disappointed tutor. "Very well. Another topic."
He sipped his tea, unhurried. "Your man is extraordinary. The train robbery in Vologda — inspired. He used our own pursuit against us. That's strategy, not luck."
He set down his cup. "But ghosts leave footprints. It seems your Georgian ghost and his men have taken an interest in Viennese coffeehouses. Curious, isn't it?"
Vienna.
The word cut through her like glass.
Her head jerked up before she could stop herself. Stolypin saw it — the flicker of panic, the shock. He nodded slightly, pleased. "Ah. So that's where he is."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small photograph.
"My network is the finest in the world," he said. "But information isn't understanding. I know what he's doing. I want to know why."
He placed the photograph on the floor beside her untouched tea.
It was a picture of her and Soso at a May Day picnic years ago — young, laughing, full of impossible hope. His arm around her shoulders, his head thrown back in laughter.
"This," Stolypin said quietly, "is the man who interests me. The poet. The lover. The one buried under the monster."
He stood, the lantern behind him throwing his shadow across her cell.
"But you can still reach him."
He looked down at her — calm, final.
"Help me understand him, and you'll live. Refuse, and you'll die here, alone — and when he is finally dragged in, you'll see what remains of him through these bars."
He turned and walked to the door. The guard followed, carrying away the stool and tray.
The door shut. The lock turned.
The cell was silent again.
Only the drip remained.
Kato stared at the photograph on the floor — the smiling ghosts of two people who had believed they could change the world.
And she sat in the dark, alone with the drip, the cold tea, and the faint, unbearable echo of laughter from another life.