# Chapter 1: Lost Signals

Elena's back ached as she bent to collect a soggy cigarette butt from the corner of the platform. She hated the smell of them, but they were everywhere in Paveletskaya station, especially at this hour when the night cleaners had already gone home and the morning rush hadn't yet begun. The Metro slept for only two hours each night. Elena did not have that luxury.

She dropped the butt into her collection bag and straightened, listening to the crack of her spine. Forty-five was too young to feel so old, but the concrete floors and constant bending did their work on her body. The station was empty except for a homeless man sleeping on a bench near the far wall. Elena let him be. The station supervisors would chase him out once the first trains started running.

The cavernous underground space hummed with the peculiar silence that only exists in places designed for crowds. Elena found it peaceful. These quiet moments before dawn were the only ones when she could practice her English without feeling embarrassed.

She pulled a crumpled newspaper from her pocket—today's find was a Wall Street Journal from three weeks ago. Some American businessman had probably left it behind. Elena collected all the English language papers she found. a habit she'd started years ago when Mikhail first showed interest in America.

"The Federal Reserve signals..." she read aloud, stumbling over "Federal." She tried again. "The Federal Reserve signals potential interest rate hikes." Her accent was thick, but the words made sense to her. She had learned English this way, piece by piece, discarded page by discarded page.

Elena moved to the next platform section, sweeping methodically. She had fourteen more sections to clean before her shift ended, and then she would need to mop the floors of the women's restroom. The work was mindless, which gave her brain space to worry about Mikhail.

Three months of silence. Not a call, not a message. His last video call had been normal—or what passed for normal with Mikhail these days. He'd been excited about some new project, talking too fast for her to follow the English technical terms he used. His dark hair had fallen across his eyes as he gestured with his hands, explaining something about quantum states and information transfer. The same eyes as his father, who had been gone for thirteen years now.

She pulled out her phone and checked it again. No messages. The screen showed a photo of Mikhail on his sixteenth birthday, just six months ago, before he left for America. He looked so young in that picture, despite his serious expression. Her brilliant, serious boy.

Elena put the phone away and continued sweeping, gathering discarded metro tickets and food wrappers into her bag. She found another newspaper, this one in Russian, and added it to her collection for later. The words she learned from these papers were her small rebellion against fate, against the limitations of her education, against the life that had narrowed her possibilities down to cleaning the floors where Moscow's busy lives briefly intersected.

A flutter of white caught her eye—a piece of paper caught against one of the pillars, trembling in the faint air currents that always moved through the tunnels. Elena shuffled over and bent to pick it up. It was a printout, not a newspaper, folded and refolded many times, then crumpled as if someone had crushed it in their fist before letting it fall.

She smoothed it open, planning to add it to her recycling bag, when English words caught her eye. She recognized "congratulations" right away—it was a word she'd learned early, saving celebratory headlines about sports victories and political summits.

Elena held the paper closer to the dim early morning lights of the station.

"Congratulations on your acceptance to CalTech's Quantum Computing Program..."

Elena felt her heart skip. She knew that word—CalTech. That was Mikhail's school in America. She scanned down the page, her eyes frantically searching for something familiar.

There it was. Mikhail Volkov. Her son's name, printed in the formal way with his patronymic: Mikhail Alexeyevich Volkov.

"Three spots available... exceptional candidates... full scholarship..." She recognized bits and pieces, but much of the text moved too quickly beyond her vocabulary.

Elena folded the paper carefully and slipped it into her jacket pocket. Someone must have printed this out for reference—maybe one of the university students who passed through the station. An odd coincidence to find it today, of all days, when thoughts of Mikhail weighed so heavily on her.

She glanced at her watch. Still an hour before her shift ended. The cleaning would have to go faster.

Elena worked with new energy, sweeping with quick, efficient strokes. In her mind, she composed what she would say to Mikhail when she called him tonight. She would not scold him for not calling. She would just remind him of their promise. When he left for America, they had promised to speak every day, beginning and ending each call with their special phrase: "Ya mama, chelovek." I'm your person, Mom. It was their bond, reaching across oceans and continents.

"Excuse me," a voice interrupted her thoughts. Elena looked up to see a young woman in a business suit standing nearby, briefcase in hand. The first commuter of the morning. "Could you tell me when the first train arrives?"

"Five minutes," Elena replied in Russian, gesturing to the digital board displaying arrival times.

The woman nodded and moved away to wait near the platform edge. Soon others began trickling in—early morning workers, mostly, with tired eyes and coffee cups. Elena finished her section quickly and moved to the next one, staying ahead of the growing crowd.

By the time her shift ended, Paveletskaya station was fully awake, filled with the rush and noise of Moscow's daily rhythms. Elena returned her cleaning equipment to the storage closet, changed out of her work smock, and headed up the escalator to the surface.

Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten. Elena pulled her coat tighter around her body. Moscow in October was already cold, the air carrying the first hints of the winter to come. She walked briskly toward her apartment building, six blocks from the station.

The journey gave her time to think. Perhaps she should try emailing Mikhail instead of calling again. But no—the calls were their tradition. And he had always answered before, no matter the time difference. Nine hours separated Moscow from Los Angeles. When it was early morning here, it was still the previous evening there.

Elena climbed the stairs to her fifth-floor apartment. The elevator was broken again, but she was used to the climb. Her legs ached less than her worry for her son.

Inside her small apartment, Elena put down her bag and immediately went to the shelf where she kept her English practice books. She took out the most advanced one and searched the index for "quantum computing." Nothing. "Computing" led her to a section on basic technology vocabulary, but nothing as specialized as what Mikhail studied.

She sighed and set the book down. Then she remembered the crumpled printout. Elena retrieved it from her pocket and smoothed it out on the kitchen table. She would translate it properly, word by word.

The letter was dated July 14, just over three months ago. It was an acceptance letter, congratulating Mikhail on being selected for some special program within CalTech. Elena struggled with some of the technical terms, but she understood enough to gather that it was an honor, something exclusive.

Had this been what excited Mikhail in their last call? He'd been working on something new, something important. But why would he stop calling after that?

Elena set the paper aside and made herself a cup of tea. The small kitchen felt emptier than usual. She'd grown used to Mikhail's absence over the past months, but today it felt sharper, more defined. The silence in the apartment seemed to emphasize his absence.

She picked up a small framed photograph from the counter. It showed Mikhail at twelve, holding up a mathematics medal he'd won at school. His smile was small but genuine, his pride visible in the way he stood straight and tall. Even then, she'd known he would outgrow Moscow, outgrow her. His mind worked in ways she couldn't follow, creating patterns and solutions that seemed to come from nowhere.

Elena replaced the photograph and checked the time. It would be evening in California now. A good time to call.

She sat down on the worn sofa, phone in hand, and dialed the number she knew by heart. It rang once, twice, three times. Each ring stretched longer than the last.

On the sixth ring, the familiar voicemail message began. "You've reached Mikhail Volkov. Please leave a message."

His voice sounded so close, as if he were in the next room rather than across the world. Elena closed her eyes.

"Mikhail, it's Mom," she said in Russian. "I'm calling again. Please call me back when you get this. I just want to know you're okay."

She paused, then added softly, "Ya mama, chelovek."

Elena ended the call and set the phone down beside her. The apartment felt colder somehow. She pulled the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Three months without a word. Something was wrong. She felt it in her bones, in the hollow space beneath her ribs where worry lived.

Elena picked up the phone again and opened the photo gallery. She scrolled through pictures of Mikhail—Mikhail at his computer, Mikhail on the day he left for America, Mikhail as a small boy building elaborate structures with blocks, his dark eyes intense with concentration.

Always serious, her boy. Even as a child, he had approached everything with a gravity beyond his years. After his father died, that seriousness had only deepened. While other children played, Mikhail solved equations. When other teenagers went to parties, Mikhail stayed home reading advanced physics textbooks that Elena couldn't begin to understand.

But he had always talked to her. Not about his work—she couldn't follow that—but about his life, his thoughts. And they had always ended their conversations the same way, with their special phrase.

Elena stared at the phone, willing it to ring. The room remained silent.

She got up and went to the small desk in the corner of the living room. It had been Mikhail's study space before he left. Now it held her English-language materials and a small laptop computer they'd bought secondhand three years ago.

Elena opened the laptop and navigated to her email. She hadn't checked it in days—there was rarely anything important there. But now she scanned through the messages, looking for anything from Mikhail.

Nothing recent. The last email from him had been sent two and a half months ago, just a brief note saying he was doing well and his classes were interesting. Nothing to suggest why he would suddenly stop communicating.

Elena closed the laptop and returned to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, staring at the meager contents without really seeing them. She wasn't hungry anyway. Worry had hollowed out her appetite.

Outside, the day had fully dawned, gray light filtering through the kitchen window. Elena made another cup of tea and took it to the window, looking out at the familiar view of the apartment complex across the street. The world continued as always, unaware that her son had disappeared into silence.

Elena's gaze drifted to the calendar hanging on the wall. October 15th. Exactly three months since Mikhail's last call on July 15th. She hadn't realized the significance of today's date until this moment.

Three months without a word was too long. Something had happened.

Elena set down her teacup and went to the bedroom. From the top shelf of her closet, she pulled down an old shoebox. Inside was her emergency fund—rubles saved painfully over years, a small amount added each month from her meager salary.

She counted the money slowly. It wasn't much, but it might be enough for what she needed to do.

Elena returned to the desk and opened the laptop again. This time she navigated to a travel website. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before she began typing.

"Flights Moscow to Los Angeles."

The search returned results that made her wince. So expensive. But what choice did she have? Phone calls went unanswered. Emails disappeared into silence. The only way to find out what had happened to Mikhail was to go to him.

Elena scrolled through the flight options, calculating costs against her savings. If she converted everything to dollars... if she took the cheapest flight... if she found the most affordable place to stay...

It might be possible. Barely.

She would need a visa. She would need to request time off work. She would need to figure out how to get from the Los Angeles airport to Mikhail's school.

The task seemed overwhelming, but Elena felt a sense of purpose now. She would find her son. She would bring him home, or at least discover why he had gone silent.

Elena closed the laptop and returned to the sofa. She picked up her phone again and dialed Mikhail's number one more time, knowing what the result would be.

Six rings, then voicemail.

"Mikhail," she said, her voice steadier now. "It's Mom again. I don't know why you're not answering, but I'm going to find out. I'm coming to America."

She paused, then whispered their ritual phrase, the words that had connected them across distance and time: "Ya mama, chelovek."

Elena ended the call and looked around her small apartment, mentally cataloging what she would need to pack, what arrangements she would need to make. The task ahead was daunting, but she felt a strange calm settle over her.

America was a foreign place, vast and unknown. She spoke little English, had never traveled beyond Russia's borders, had never even been on an airplane. But Mikhail was there, somewhere, and that was all that mattered.

Elena walked back to the window and looked out at Moscow waking up to another ordinary day. For the city, it was just Tuesday. For her, it was the day everything changed.

In the distance, she could see the dome of a church catching the early morning light. Elena wasn't particularly religious, but now she found herself offering a silent prayer to whatever might be listening. Keep him safe until I get there.

She returned to her phone and dialed Mikhail's number again, listening to it ring into the American darkness.

"Ya mama, chelovek," she whispered to his voicemail. I'm your person, Mom. Always.