Prologue

The cozy half-light of the coffee shop smelled of freshly ground beans and cinnamon. I took a sip of my maple latte-my little weakness in this century-watching a couple by the window. They were so young, so diligently feigning nonchalance. The girl squinted at her phone screen, hunting for a flattering angle for a selfie, while her companion tried to catch the waitress's eye. A familiar dance. Far too familiar.

I took another sip of the sweetish coffee and allowed myself a bitter smile. How many of these dances had I witnessed? How many had I danced myself-in puffy crinolines, in silken kimonos, and wearing nothing at all under the starry sky of Attica?

My name is Yana.

I am a collector. My collection consists not of trinkets, paintings, or jewels. I collect moments. Masterfully carved, hard-won, fate-begged instants when two people became one whole, not just in body but in soul. I paid for them with years of waiting, with risk, sometimes with another's life. I studied under great courtesans, priestesses, and simply wise women who grasped the essential truth: true power lies not in subjugating, but in enchanting. In making them desire your presence, your gaze, your touch so fiercely that empires were ready to crumble for it. And you know, I achieved my goals. Not always honestly-so what? A woman rarely gets hold of the levers of power recognized by the world. But we are gifted with another skill: finding the weakness in the strongest armor, discerning the secret desires in the coldest eyes. I used this. First, to survive. Then, to taste the flavor of true power. And later… later, simply to keep from going mad with the boredom of this endless cycle.

I watched as the couple by the window finally looked up from their phones. The guy mumbled something, the girl laughed a fake laugh, glanced at his hand resting on the table-hesitating to touch it.

"Good Lord," I thought with sudden, sharp pity. "Take her hand! Squeeze it! Look into her eyes! Say something real, anything!"

But no. He reached for his phone again. And so did she.

Two ships, locked in the same harbor, signaling to each other with dim lights, afraid to draw alongside.

My entire life, my entire eternity, spent mastering the greatest of arts-the art of being a Woman-and here is the result. A silent submersion into a digital ocean of loneliness right before the eyes of another lonely human.

I finished my latte. The sugary foam left a sweet aftertaste on my lips. It was time. Time to look again into that one album that gathers no dust on a shelf but lives within my heart. An album of the brightest, the most painful, the most beautiful memories. Of those who knew how to love. And of those whom I taught.

After all, someone must remember this in the present. Even if it is only me.