Outside the windows raged not just a snowstorm, but a true winter apocalypse. The wind, like a possessed spirit, howled, roared, and battered against the glass, as if demanding to be let in. Snow whirlwinds spun in a mad dance, smothering the world in white silence. On such a night, even the bravest soul could lose their way. But at that very moment, through the veil of snow, Marina Sazonova — fragile, refined, with eyes where the spark of hope had long since gone out — saw her.
On the roadside, half-buried in snow like a forgotten doll, stood an old woman. She swayed as if the wind could sweep her away at any second. Her face was furrowed with wrinkles, but in her eyes — deep as the wells of time — there was a strange, troubling awareness. Marina slammed on the brakes. Her heart clenched. “If I drove past… she would simply vanish. Freeze. Become an icy statue among the drifts. Like a symbol of forgotten pain…”
She jumped out of the car, wrapped in her fur scarf, and trembling from both cold and something greater — a foreboding — she took the old woman by the arm. The stranger did not resist. Her fingers were icy, yet there was something strange in them, almost magnetic.
The house — a grand neoclassical mansion with columns, fireplaces, and shadows that danced on the walls — greeted them with silence. Marina seated her guest by the fireplace, poured mint tea herself, and ordered the maid to bring a warm blanket. Everything, as it should be. And yet — in the air hung something… wrong.
On the table, among crystal vases and antique books, lay an envelope. White. Ordinary. And yet — like a blade thrust into the heart. Marina recognized the handwriting immediately. Her mother-in-law’s. Elena Sazonova’s. Dead. Gone for twenty years.
“Dear, I stopped by — you weren’t home. Decided to leave a note. Gleb knows. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Each word pierced like an icy shard. “Knows?” her mind echoed. “Knows what?”
Gleb, her husband — an oligarch, his eyes cold as diamond, his words sharper than any knife — had been on a business trip for a week. And her mother-in-law… she was long dead. But there had been whispers. Family murmurs. “Marina can’t give him an heir… Gleb is disappointed… The next wife will be stronger…” And each time — one of them disappeared. An illness, an accident. And Gleb? He always grieved… but too quickly found another.
From the living room came a cough. Deep, raspy, as if from beyond the grave. Marina turned — and froze. The old woman stood by the shelf of family photographs. Her fingers touched the frames. She gazed at them… with a familiarity far too personal.
— “Grandmother, would you like sugar in your tea?” Marina’s voice quivered like a string in the wind.
The old woman slowly turned. She smiled. A warm smile… but with no warmth in it.
— “Thank you, dear. But I must go… They’re waiting for me.”
And she vanished into the hallway, like a shadow dissolving into darkness. Leaving only a dry handkerchief on the sofa. Plain. White. But when Marina picked it up, her heart froze.
Embroidered in the corner were the initials: “E.S.”
Elena Sazonova.
Her mother-in-law’s maiden name.
The one who had died twenty years ago.
Her phone vibrated. The screen lit up. It was Gleb calling. And beneath his name — a message:
“Tomorrow everything will be decided. Mother is right.”
Marina went cold. “Mother? Which mother? The one who’s dead? The one whose letter is lying on the table?”
Outside, the blizzard suddenly subsided. In the silence came a sound — quiet, but soul-freezing: the creak of the rocking chair. The very one in the living room. Empty. Yet it rocked. As if someone had just risen. As if someone had been there.
Marina froze like a statue. Her fingers clenched the handkerchief — it burned like a coal. Gleb… he wasn’t supposed to be home. He was in London. Or Dubai. Or far away. And that message… it was a verdict.
— “Gleb…” she whispered, staring at the screen.
At that moment the phone went black. The lights in the house too. Complete, absolute darkness. Only the fading glow of the fire cast phantom shadows on the walls — like dancing souls.
Upstairs — a door creaked. Slowly. Deliberately.
— “Who… who’s there?” Marina’s voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.
No answer. Only a whisper, barely audible, as though carried by the wind through the walls:
“Don’t be afraid… You chose her…”
Her heart pounded as if trying to escape her chest. She lunged for the switch but stumbled. Fell to her knees. Under her hands — fabric. Another handkerchief. And another. Scattered across the floor like a trail leading to the corridor. To where her mother-in-law’s portrait hung — stern, with a piercing gaze.
A flash from the phone screen lit everything for a second.
The eyes in the portrait looked straight at her.
And in the corner of the canvas — a dark, wet stain. As though the paint had run.
Or was it blood?
BOOM!
A thunderous knock at the door. Marina screamed.
— “Marina! Open up!” Gleb’s voice. Familiar. But…
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
She ran to the door. Her hand on the handle. Then she froze.
What if it wasn’t him?
Behind the door — laughter. Thin. Old. Familiar.
— “Daughter…” rasped the voice she’d heard in the living room. “You invited me in yourself…”
She recoiled as if shocked.
The phone lit up again. A new message:
“Don’t trust him. I’m coming. Matches are in the cupboard. Burn the letter.”
Sender: Elena Sazonova.
Date: February 18, 2003.
Twenty years before today.
Marina clutched the phone. Shivers ran down her body. This was impossible. Madness. But the date… it couldn’t be a coincidence. That was the day Elena Sazonova was found dead in this very house. The official version — heart attack. But rumors whispered… “She tried to stop her son…”
“Burn the letter…”
She rushed to the table. Tore open the envelope. Inside — a yellowed page, written in a trembling hand:
“Marina, if you are reading this, then Gleb has chosen to repeat the script. He believes only a new wife will give him an heir. But it’s a lie. All his wives died in childbirth — too convenient, isn’t it? Check the safe in his office. The insurance policies are there. And my diary — under the floorboard by the window. Forgive me for not warning you sooner. Only I could save you… from the grave.”
The floor creaked.
She turned.
— “Found it?” Gleb’s voice was right behind her.
She didn’t have time to scream. A strong hand grabbed her by the hair, slamming her face into the table. Blood ran from her split lip.
— “I warned my mother not to interfere,” he hissed, pulling out a syringe. “You’re just another failed attempt.”
From the hallway came a crack. Wood splintering. The front door burst open with such force that frames fell from the walls. Glass rang out like a scream of the soul.
And in the doorway — her.
In a blue dress. The very one she was buried in.
Elena Sazonova.
— “You… you couldn’t…” Gleb stammered, backing away.
— “I came to each one,” her pale fingers gripped his shoulders like marble. “But you never learned to be afraid.”
Marina, fading into unconsciousness, heard the last words:
“Thank you for picking me up in the blizzard… Now you are free.”
Epilogue: A Year Later
Morning. Cold, gray. A young woman in a black coat stands at a fresh grave. On the stone — the name: Elena Sazonova. Beside it — a bouquet of white lilies. And an envelope.
— “I kept the promise,” she whispers. “All the insurance is reassigned. Your foundation for women will live. Gleb left no heirs. But you… you left me.”
The wind brushes her shoulder — like a hand, unseen but warm.
She leaves. Looks back one last time.
On the stone — two words, that hadn’t been there a moment before:
“MY DEAR.”
And in the mansion, now empty and silent, on the mantelpiece sits a cup of tea. Fresh. Each evening.
In case, on another blizzard night, the old woman knocks again…
The one who no longer asks to come in.
But who will never be forgotten.