The only thing that slows that process is paperwork.
Marriage changes classification. It forces them to decide in the open. It makes any move against her a move against me on record, not in shadow.
If I wait, they control the pace. If I move first, I set it.
So it happens fast.
The ZAGS office I use sits behind a bakery and a phone repair stall, an older building that smells faintly of paper and floor cleaner. People come here for births and deaths and marriages, and no one looks closely at faces because everyone is thinking about their own.
Galina is at the second desk from the window. She looks up when she hears my steps. Her mouth lifts before she checks herself.
“Nikolai,” she says, pen already in her hand. “You look like trouble.”
“I’m getting married,” I tell her.
She blinks once, then laughs under her breath. “That’s worse than trouble.”
“Soon,” I add.
Her focus shifts, all habit and triage, the way it does when urgency becomes procedure.
“How soon?”
“Days.”
She exhales, pushes her chair back, and motions for me to sit. “You bring me miracles, always at the end of the day. Documents?”
I slide the folder across the desk. Inside are two passports and a thin stack of papers, all of it prepared to pass a lazy check and survive a careful one. My passport is under Nikolai Sokolov. Ana’s is under Ana Markova. Under that are clean copies of birth records and a few stamped identifiers, nothing flashy, nothing that invites a second look.
She opens the folder and flips through it fast, her fingers practiced, her face unreadable.
“No prior registrations,” she says. “That helps.”
“There’s a child,” I say. “So we need her on my coverage the same day, and I need the paperwork to hold if anyone tries to pull it apart later.”
She nods and starts writing without looking up. “It always does.” She doesn’t ask anything that isn’t already on the page.
“No witnesses,” I say. “Just signatures.”
“That’s fine,” she replies. “Paper doesn’t need applause.”
She stamps the application and slides it back to me. “Three days. Expedited,” she says. “Officially for health reasons.” Then she adds, “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be,” I say.
She hesitates, then smiles, softer this time. “Congratulations, Nikolai.”
I leave before she can say anything else and walk two blocks to a small grocery near the tram stop. I buy a bag of chocolates shaped like animals for Mila because she likes things she can line up on the table. I add a scarf for Ana, dark blue wool, plain enough to disappear into a coat, warm enough to matter. I pay in cash and take the long way home.
When I arrive, the only sound is blocks clicking and Mila’s small laugh. Ana is on the floor with her, building something that keeps falling over. Mila looks up when she sees the bag and scrambles to her feet, laughing, already reaching.
“For me?” she asks.
“For you,” I say, handing it over.
She hugs the bag and runs to the table to open it with the seriousness of a task. Ana watches from the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.
I hang my coat and set the folder on the counter. “It’s done,” I say. “Three days.”
