09/19/2025
The silence in the village house was a special kind—thick and ringing, like ice on a winter well. It didn’t soothe; it pressed down. Every clink of her mother’s spoons against the bottom of the enamel bowl, every rustle of her housecoat echoed in Liza’s soul as a quiet yet distinct reproach. Her mother never said outright, “Leave.” She spoke in the language of sighs, weighted silences, and phrases tossed out as if by chance when her daughter walked past.
“Look at that—Klavdiya Petrovna’s son drove in a new car from Petersburg. They say he’s got a three-room apartment…” Her mother’s voice dissolved into the smell of boiled potatoes and cabbage soup, but the meaning hung in the air—tangible and heavy.
Liza knew which way the wind was blowing. It drifted from her stepfather, Uncle Slava. He sat at the table, as sullen as a November sky, turning the newspaper pages with such a crash you’d think he wanted to shake all the world’s sorrow off them. He didn’t look at his stepdaughter, but with every movement he made it clear: you don’t belong here. Once, pretending to be asleep, Liza heard his grumbling whisper through the thin partition:
“When will somebody take her, huh? She’s an eyesore. Can’t find her place.”
Her heart then shrank into a prickly lump of hurt. And then she thought: in a way, he’s right. What was she doing here? The village was dying before her eyes. The young had scattered like cockroaches when the light comes on; what remained were old folks and simple jobs—milkmaids, night watchmen, saleswomen at the half-empty store. She had studied accounting in the district center, come back with a diploma, and the only position that turned up was the same cash register at that same store. It felt as if life had pulled her into a slow, sleepy bog with no way out.
The thought of the city—huge and full of promise—festered like a boil. Her friend Katya, with whom she’d once written letters to Tolya during his army service, now lived—judging by the rare postcards—like the heroine of a TV series: high salary, her own apartment, cafés and clubs. Burning with shame and hope, Liza announced her decision to go. Her mother, overjoyed, all but shoved ten thousand from a secret stocking into her hand—“to get you settled.” Her stepfather muttered something indistinct and went out to the shed. It felt like the door to the past had slammed shut.
But the city didn’t greet her with open arms. It deafened her with the thunder of the metro, the piercing squeal of brakes, a chaotic, feverish stream of people rushing somewhere, seeing nothing around them. They bumped into her, threw irritated looks, muttered curses under their breath. Lost, clutching a simple suitcase, she tried to explain to five different people what address she needed. Only the fifth, an elderly man with tired eyes, jabbed a finger toward a bus and mumbled, “You need the outskirts, girl. Ride it to the last stop.”
The search for a room turned into a nightmare. Realtors charged sums she couldn’t dream of paying. One agency offered a “unique” service: they took your money and handed you a list of addresses. No guarantees, no accompaniment. Liza poured her last hopes into that sheet of paper.
First address: the room had been rented out yesterday. Second: the owners looked at her like she was crazy—they weren’t renting anything. The third address didn’t exist at all. She no longer expected a miracle from the fourth and last. The miracle, however, appeared in the form of a tall guy in a grease-stained T-shirt, who opened the door, frowned in confusion, and said he’d been renting that room for half a year.
Despair, hunger, and exhaustion twisted together inside her into a single knot. She couldn’t hold it in and burst into tears, pressing her forehead to the cool wall of the stairwell, sobbing so loudly and helplessly that the guy grew awkward and flustered.
“Hey, come on now. You’ll find a room,” he tried to console her, patting her shoulder.
“And tonight? Where am I supposed to sleep tonight? At the train station?” she sobbed.
“And before this—where were you staying?”
“With a friend! But I got kicked out!”—which was almost the truth.
The guy, whose name was Anton, fell silent, scratched the back of his head, and unexpectedly offered:
“Alright, come in. You can crash at my place. I’ve got space.”
Fear stirred in Liza’s chest. A strange man, an unfamiliar apartment…
Continued in the comments
