I don’t remember my name. Not really. I remember snow. A ballroom glittering like ice. A woman’s voice—soft, urgent—telling me to run. Then darkness.\n\nNow I’m called Anya, a nobody in a Paris orphanage, dreaming of palaces and a music box that sings to me in the night. The nuns say I was found on the streets, half-frozen, speaking only Russian. But last night, I woke screaming—visions of a man with hollow eyes rising from black water, calling my true name.\n\nToday, a letter arrives. From a woman claiming to be my grandmother. She says I’m Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova. That I’m the last hope of a murdered dynasty.\n\nAnd that he’s coming for me.\n\nI stand at the train station, clutching the music box. A young man with a cocky grin and a worn coat approaches.\n\n‘You don’t remember me,’ he says, ‘but I remember you. I promised I’d find you. And I’m not letting you face this alone.’\n\nBehind him, the wind howls like a warning.\n\nDo I trust him? Do I run? Or do I go back—to Russia, to memory, to the truth?