On: US, Iran hit each other again as hopes for quick peace deal fade

The samovar has been cold since noon. I sat by the window, watching the birch branches tap the glass like impatient fingers, and read the newspaper aloud to no one in particular. The words - United States launched fresh attacks… Tehran to retaliate… negotiations dragging out - fell flat in the empty room, as if the syllables themselves were exhausted. Outside, the wind carried the scent of wet earth and something faintly metallic, like the air before a storm.

My sister came in, her shawl still damp from the garden, and asked if I thought the tea was still good. I said it was, though neither of us believed it. She poured herself a cup anyway, her hands trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple. We spoke of the garden - how the peonies had bloomed too early this year, how the fence needed mending - but the words were a screen, a way to avoid the weight of what we both knew: that the world beyond our windows was tearing itself apart, and here we were, sipping cold tea in a house that had long since stopped being a home.

The postman arrived, his boots caked in mud, and left a letter from Moscow. It was from a publisher, declining another story. I folded it carefully, as if the paper itself might judge me. My sister sighed and said, “Perhaps next time,” though we both understood there would be no next time, not for us.

The birch branches tapped once more against the glass. The storm was coming.