Autumn came to the Moscow suburbs slowly, without any solemn announcements—like a person who has long lived in the house but prefers to remain unnoticed, sitting quietly in a corner. The streets of Sergiev Posad were filled with the smell of wet earth, fallen leaves, and smoke from bonfires where the local elders seemed to be saying goodbye to summer. The air was thick, like syrup: you didn’t breathe it—you pushed it aside with your shoulders.
Alexey woke up at six thirty, as usual. His internal alarm clock worked better than any electronic device. Vera’s voice had been waking him for many months after she left: “Time to get up, Lyosha. Clients start at eight.” Sometimes he heard her voice behind the wall, lazy, slightly smiling.
The kitchen smelled of coffee. It was his ritual—to brew it twice. He drank the first cup himself, the second he placed nearby—where she used to sit. Her favorite mug with birds on it, its chipped rim like a birthmark to him, something he longed for.
Lada approached—an old mutt, as ancient as the house itself. Worn, with amber eyes that held memories. She nudged his knees and sighed—their silent conversation was precise and complete.
From the mailbox, Alexey pulled out a newspaper, then a strange envelope. White, thick, without a stamp or address. Inside—a sheet of paper. Vera’s handwriting. His hands trembled as if he had returned to those first days after her death.
On the paper were only a few lines:
“Lyosha. I’m near. Don’t be afraid. You need to know. Go to where it all began.”
Signed—a familiar flourish of the letter “V.” The date—today’s. He stared at the numbers like at a windshield after a crash: hoping everything could be fixed.
He did not cry. His eyes were dry—too dry. That happens when drought lasts for years, and even the sky stops waiting for rain.
Alexey sat on the porch. The autumn air fluttered the edge of his sweater. Lada lay down beside him, resting her head on his leg. He looked at the gray sky—like paper for wills.
He remembered how he and Vera first came to this house. She laughed, dusting with her sleeve, saying:
— This will be our castle. Even if the wallpaper peels, the main thing is that the windows look in the same direction.
She always found beauty in simplicity. Even in the stove with a broken handle.
The house really looked one way—toward the field where wild apple trees grew, and where the forest began. They used to walk there in the evenings. Vera planted mint along the path. Now the mint had withered.
He spread the letter on the table. Compared the handwriting with diary entries found after the funeral. Everything matched—even her characteristic mistakes. She always wrote “вдаль” with a soft sign. He used to laugh:
— You’re a philologist, how come?
Who could have written this letter? He asked himself silently, afraid to hear the answer. A forgery? A joke? Madness? But his fingers knew this paper, this scent—light, like vanilla and herbal tea. The handwriting was genuine. Memory did not deceive.
He ate almost nothing all day. Only drank water and petted Lada. In the evening, he took out an old photo album. Photos are like doors: some open memories, others close by themselves. Vera in an old shirt in the kitchen. Vera with dough on her nose. Together on the bank of the Volga, where their first vacation was. He remembered how in the tent she said:
— Promise you won’t lose me. Even if it gets hard.
He promised. Then he didn’t know that the hard times would come later.
Late at night, he reread the letter again. His fingers memorized every crease in the paper. Taking a flashlight, he went outside. Lada slowly followed. They walked along the alley where maples were once planted. The leaves rustled like strange voices.
Alexey thought: maybe the dead are really near? Not in body—but in sound, in smell, in memory. In the letter.
At the porch, he stopped. Sat down. Held Lada close. Above—no stars.
—I will come, Vera. To where it all began. Only… tell me where that is?
The night didn’t answer. But there was less fear than yesterday.
Morning began as usual. Coffee, two mugs. Only now he didn’t drink either. He just sat, watching the steam rise and vanish into the air as if confessing.
Alexey pondered: where did it all begin? They had several such places. But one was special. An abandoned station in the village of Podborie, where they met during student practice. Philologists in dirty jackets rummaging through archives, searching not for meaning, but for an excuse to talk. Then Vera read letters from wartime and cried—from another’s pain as if it were her own.
He recalled sitting on a bench when she approached and said:
— Your face looks as if you wrote all these letters.
— Maybe I was just born a hundred years ago.
She laughed and sat next to him.
Podborie was two hours away. The station was long closed; the building stood like a hunched old man. Alexey hadn’t been there for more than ten years.
He got ready quickly. Lada jumped into the car as in youth. Outside, autumn colors flowed past the window—all amber tones, as if autumn decided not to be sadness, but gold.
The station greeted him with silence. A wooden building with a collapsed roof, a path overgrown with grass. Alexey stepped out. It smelled of dampness, ash, and anxious waiting.
He went inside. The corridor was dusty, walls peeling. On one wall—a fresh marker inscription:
“You are near. I feel it. Go further.”
The letters were hers. Style. Even handwriting. And the date—today’s.
He walked down the corridor, stepping carefully as if on water. Around the corner—a room where shelves once stood. Now there was only one chair. On it—a photo. He and Vera. The very one from practice. She holds his shoulders, he with a guitar. The photo had yellowed. But he knew for sure—he had left her at home.
— Who are you? — he whispered, feeling cold beneath his skin.
A draft swept through the room. Lada growled softly.
He left. Behind the building—a field. They once picked cornflowers there. He went there, not knowing why. In the center—bushes of mint. Alive. But he knew: it didn’t grow here. Vera planted it only by the house.
Alexey sat down nearby. Closed his eyes. Remembered how she said:
— If there is a soul, it will smell. Not of incense. But of mint, bread, warmth.
He remembered everything. How they laughed. How they sat by the fire. How once she wrote him a letter—real, on paper:
“If you get lost—come back here. I will wait. In any time.”
He kept it in his wallet. Now it was gone. Lost in an accident. But the words remained. And now came alive around—not in dreams, not in fantasy. Here—in the field, in the smell of mint, in the letters on the wall.
On the way back to the car, he noticed a girl. Young, in a light jacket, with a basket.
— Are you Alexey? — she asked before he could speak.
He nodded.
— Then this is for you. — She handed him a box. — A woman left it. Long ago. Said to give it if someone came looking.
Alexey couldn’t believe it. Opened it. Inside—a Vera’s pendant. Blue glass like a drop of river. And a note:
“You are going the right way. I’m near.”
He sat right on the ground. Lada came and lay beside him. The girl was silent but her eyes were warm. Understanding.
— Who is she? — he asked.
— I don’t know. Came in spring. Sat here a long time. Then said:
— He will find it. The main thing is to reach memory.
Alexey drove home in the dark. His eyes stung from headlights, his heart pounded in his throat. He didn’t know if this was mysticism, madness, or coincidence. But he knew one thing: Vera seemed to be speaking to him. Not from the grave. Not from the past. But from the very heart. And he heard.
Alexey woke early, before dawn. The house was cold—at night the temperature dropped below zero, and the floor, as if offended by autumn, held icy silence. He got up, threw on a hoodie, and went to the kitchen. Lada slept curled up, twitching an ear slightly when he turned on the light.
He didn’t brew coffee—after last night the rituals felt too familiar, almost foreign. He looked out the window where a pale, uncertain morning began to lighten, and thought: maybe all this is just a product of a worn-out mind? But Vera’s pendant lay on the windowsill—tangible, real, alive. And it smelled of mint. Not metal, not glass—but the scent of her skin, hair, life itself.
He took his phone and started scrolling through old messages. The last message from Vera was unfinished—only two words: “Don’t make…” He reread them again and again, trying to guess the ending. Didn’t have time to say? To write? To come back?
At nine, the postman came. Alexey went out before he reached the mailbox. The man in a cap and with a permanent nasal voice nodded:
— Looks like another letter for you. No stamp. Sorry, strange story.
Alexey took the envelope. The same thick material, like old paper. On it—her handwriting:
“You did well. Don’t hurry. The next place is where you said you fear losing me. Don’t hide your fears anymore. You are not alone.”
No signature, but the same familiar handwriting. Lada came, nudged his hand—as if she too felt something close. He sat down next to her and stroked her ear:
— Shall we go further, friend?
And memories found him. Where did he confess he was afraid to lose her? It was long ago—in his parents’ house, one of the first nights of living together. He was afraid not to lose her, but to lose himself—in this fragile “we.” But that was the first time he said it aloud.
Alexey hadn’t been to his parents’ house for three years. After his father died and his mother moved to his sister’s, the house remained empty. Dusty. Waiting. He didn’t want to return—it held childhood years filled with silent love that no one called by name.
The trip took half a day. Outside fields flashed—sad and beautiful, like a quiet song. One hand never left Lada’s back—as if she could confirm that all this was real.
The house greeted with a creaking gate. The grass in the yard grew to his knees, dry and yellowish, rustling underfoot. A stranger’s face reflected in the window.
Inside, it smelled of books, dust, and time. Alexey slowly walked through the rooms. In the living room, where a carpet once hung, now there was only a bare wall. He sat in the chair his father used in the evenings and closed his eyes.
And immediately heard that night: a storm, sudden power outages. His voice, trembling, not from cold:
— I’m afraid. To lose you. To lose this.
Vera said nothing then. Only took his hand. Her silence always spoke louder than words.
He stood up. On the kitchen windowsill lay a new envelope—as if materialized from the air. Inside—only one sheet:
“I heard everything. Then, that night. And now. Don’t shut down. Don’t be afraid to live. You are still needed.”
On the back—a dried cornflower. Possibly the very one from the field in Podborie.
He sat down on the floor. Lada lay down nearby. For the first time in a long time something alive gathered in his eyes—not pain, not fear, not confusion. Just tears. Like the first rain after a year of drought.
He cried quietly, silently—as a person who held an entire sea inside for too long.
Afterwards, it got easier. Unexplainably, illogically. Simply—easier.
On the porch, an old neighbor woman waited for him. She made the best sea buckthorn jam and knew the scariest stories.
—I thought you wouldn’t come, Lyosh. But you came. Like a call.
— Did you see if someone was here?
— A woman came. In spring. Beautiful. Sad. Sat on the porch. Said: the house remembers everything. Left a note. On the windowsill.
Alexey nodded. He didn’t understand this reality but felt: this was not a dream. Not a hallucination. This was a path—not to the past, but to memory that breathes.
The road home took longer than usual. Alexey drove slowly, as if afraid to lose what he found. The car bounced on bumps, Lada dozed, pressed into the seat’s corner. Outside villages passed by, old bus stops with peeling paint and announcements: “Honey for sale,” “Guard needed,” “I will pray for health.”
When he returned, evening had already fallen over the house. The gray sky spread like too thick watercolor. He turned off the engine, went out, inhaled the air already hinting at winter. The first frost touched the grass—the porch was covered with a whitish frost.
It was cold inside. He turned on the heater, lit a warm lamp, and sat long in silence—without music, without TV. Just silent.
Then he found another letter in the mailbox. It lay between advertisements and the newspaper. Alexey recognized it immediately—paper, handwriting, neat fold.
“You are closer than you think. Only the last step remains. There, where you haven’t been but which I told you about. Find that house. Find the one who knows. I believe in you.”
At first, he didn’t understand. Not a place from the past—but from conversations. The house Vera dreamed of—a small one by the river, “when everything settles down.” He laughed then:
— We’d better figure this out first.
— But you know—one day. I’ve already chosen. There’s a shed, a maple by the porch, and such silence as if time sleeps.
He didn’t ask then where it was. Only once she mentioned—somewhere in the Kashirsky district. Now he remembered.
He took Vera’s old notebook. Flipped through it long until he found a note:
“House in Peschanoe. Owner—grandpa Egor. Call in spring. Take a look.”
He shuddered. Peschanoe is a tiny village on the bank of the Oka River. He had been there once—passing through. Then he didn’t know this place would enter his life. Now it was calling him.
Morning brought a road through forests, like into another reality. On the roadside—traces of someone’s life: firewood by the gate, jackets on fences, lanterns on ropes. There was no signal in Peschanoe—and that somehow fit.
He recognized the house immediately: the maple by the porch, the crooked shed, dusty windows. Recognized it by heart. Or Vera’s memory, woven into his blood.
By the gate sat a man—an old man in a quilted jacket, with a face that survived everything: war, famine, the loss of his beloved woman, years of loneliness.
— Egor?
— That’s me. You must be Lyosha?
— From Vera.
— I know. She said you’d come. Asked not to sell the house. And to leave a letter.
The house smelled of the stove, wood dust, and homemade jam. On the table—a blue envelope:
“This is the last. Not because everything ended, but because next is you yourself. This house is yours. Sell it or live in it. The main thing is to live. Not survive. Not mourn. Just live. Here is silence, but it is not empty. I am always near. In you.”
Alexey read as if he had taken his first breath after a long dive. He sat by the window, Lada curled at his feet. The sun warmed the windowsill. It was quiet. But not empty. Soft.
— She came in spring, — Egor said, pouring tea. — Sat here. Looked at the water. Said: “He will understand when the time comes.”
— Was she… real?
— I don’t know, son. Maybe it was a soul coming. Or maybe time is not so straight. Sometimes those we lost are let back—to keep us from going crazy.
Alexey nodded. Tears again tickled his eyes—but not with pain. With warmth. He couldn’t explain it, but now there was confidence in him: it will be possible further. Not easy. But possible.
He stayed the night. The stove crackled, Lada snored by the door. He lay on the old sofa, covered himself with a sun-scented blanket. And for the first time in a year fell asleep peacefully. Without pain. Without screams inside.
In the dream, Vera sat on the porch, looking at the river and smiling. When he approached, she said:
— Well, Lyosha. Now you are home.
Morning in Peschanoe was different. Alexey woke not by alarm or worry—but simply because he had slept enough. A sunbeam crept through a shutter crack and laid on his face like a kind touch. The room smelled of wood, cold ash, and herbs. The silence was full but not frightening—more like a clean sheet of paper: nothing is written yet, but everything is possible.
Lada stretched and laid her muzzle on his chest. Alexey stroked her, pressing his cheek to her warm side. He did not think. He just was. Without questions. Without “why” or “what for.”
Tea brewed on the table. Egor left early, leaving a note:
“Gone for firewood. The house is now yours. Everything on trust.”
Nearby lay a key—old, heavy, worn by time. Alexey held it in his palm and felt: this is not just a door key. It is a key to the next chapter of life.
He went out on the porch. The maple had almost dropped its leaves, and now its bare branches reached to the sky like hands waiting for an embrace. A light mist rose over the river, and the water flowed calmly, inexorably—as time that stops for no one.
Alexey remembered how Vera wanted exactly such a house—with a view of movement. To remember: everything changes. Even if inside there is calm.
In a few hours, he tidied the house, stacked firewood, lit the stove. Lada ran around the yard, wagging her tail as if she too had awoken after a long sleep. There was something new in this movement—not just a walk, but a beginning of life anew.
He took from his backpack the photo—the very one from their youth. Placed it in an old frame, found a place on the shelf by the window. Next to it laid the pendant, the cornflower, and three letters. A small altar of memory, created not from pain, but from gratitude.
Near noon, Alexey drove to the city. Not to run or hide—but to pick up his son. Pavel had lived with his grandmother since Vera left. Alexey couldn’t handle everything at once then—grief, daily life, responsibility. There was too much pain. And too little air.
Now he could.
Pavel sat by the window, headphones on. When his father entered, the boy didn’t notice immediately. Only later took off his headphones, looked—not hostile, not joyful. Just attentively.
— Shall we go? — Alexey asked quietly.
— Where?
— Home.
— What kind of home do we have now?
— New. But there—your mother. In every window. In every board. And I’m there too. Real.
Pavel didn’t answer. But in ten minutes he was already dressed, backpack in hand.
They drove in silence. Alexey did not rush. He was simply nearby. Sometimes that’s enough.
When they arrived in Peschanoe and entered the house, Pavel stopped at the threshold. Looked around the walls, the maple outside the window, the stove.
— Mom wanted to live here?
— Yes.
— And why didn’t you say before?
— I wasn’t ready. Now I am.
Pavel went inside. Touched the pendant. Recognized it. Took the photo—and slightly smiled at the corners of his lips.
— She looked happy.
— She was. When we were together.
— And you now… will you be too?
Alexey didn’t know what to answer. But suddenly realized: yes. Not tomorrow. Not easy. But will.
In the evening, they sat on the porch, drank tea. Lada dozed at their feet. Pavel was silent, looking at the river.
— And if she really is near? — he suddenly asked.
— Then now she is smiling. Because we didn’t break.
Pavel nodded—quietly, like an adult. Only children who know the price of loss can do that.
Later, when twilight fell on the earth like soft darkness, Alexey stayed alone. He took out the last letter, reread it. And suddenly understood: it was not a farewell. It was a blessing.
Live.
He raised his eyes to the sky. Stars lit one by one. One, the brightest, flickered—as if saying:
“I am here.”
He smiled. Not theatrically, not heroically. Simply—humanly.
And for the first time in a year breathed deeply.
Life continued. Not despite something. But because of it.