As a shaft of sunlight fell across a desk strewn with piles of paper and files and staplers, Marina Votyakova whispered: “Why couldn’t he have been here? He would have been safe here. Look, there is no damage, the fire didn’t reach here, not a mark.” She looked down at the parquet floor, ran her finger gently along the lemon yellow wall and repeated: “I don’t understand, why didn’t he run here?” Her voice faded away as she wiped her tears with a rolled-up tissue clutched tightly in her hand.