Semyon had spent most of his life in the small village, plowing the fields and watching the days stretch out one after another like an endless horizon. He was familiar with every stone, every tree, and every house on the dusty road. But that day, the road was different, and so was the house.
It had been a simple task: delivering the keys to an old abandoned house at the edge of the village. The house had been vacant for as long as anyone could remember, its windows boarded up, its front door sealed. But today, as he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Inside, a faint light flickered.
Semyon stopped the tractor at the edge of the road, gazing at the figure standing in the doorway. She was a woman — her face weary, yet strangely familiar, as if he had seen her in some forgotten dream. Her eyes met his with an intensity that made his heart skip a beat.
“I’ve come to help,” he said, stepping down from the tractor, his voice unsure.
The woman smiled faintly, nodding. She had a child cradled in her arms, a little boy with eyes that sparkled with an eerie familiarity. He felt a shiver run down his spine, but he pushed it away, attributing it to the cold wind.
After handing her the keys, he hesitated. Something about the scene felt wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The woman thanked him softly, her voice like a whisper from another time.
As Semyon drove away, he glanced back. The house, shrouded in dusk, appeared normal from a distance. Yet something gnawed at him, pulling him back. When the sun dipped lower, he could no longer resist the urge to return.
His footsteps were heavy on the ground as he approached the window, peering inside. The light, now stronger, flickered like the glow of a forgotten celebration. The woman stood there again, her presence unsettling, as if she had been waiting for him.
Then she turned, her gaze piercing through the glass. It wasn’t fear he saw in her eyes, but something ancient — a longing, a question that only time could answer.
Semyon’s heart raced. He could no longer stand there. He rushed to the door, his hands trembling as he turned the cold handle. When the door opened, a wave of warmth hit him, but it felt unnatural, as if he had stepped into a memory long buried.
Inside, everything was as it should be: the crackling stove, the scent of wood, the quiet hum of an old house. Yet the air felt thick, heavy with forgotten stories. His eyes fell on a letter on the table, yellowed with age, its edges frayed.
He unfolded the paper carefully. The writing was elegant, delicate, as if written by someone from another world.
“I beg you, if anyone finds this letter… I don’t know where to go with the child. We have been thrown out. We will knock no more. If misfortune happens — let at least someone remember us. Masha and little Ivan.”
The date was June 8, 1956.
Semyon froze. The air around him seemed to freeze too. The letter, the woman, the child — it all made no sense. It couldn’t be real. Yet, there it was, as clear as day.
Then he saw it — the doll. A porcelain doll, its arm cracked and its hair tangled. It hadn’t been there before. Not yesterday, not this morning. It had appeared from nowhere.
Outside, the wind howled, stirring the dead leaves. Semyon stepped outside, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the weight of something watching him. The road was empty, silent, as if no one had ever passed by.
Determined to make sense of it all, he walked to the local policeman. But when he told the story, the officer only laughed.
“You’re completely crazy, brother,” the policeman said, brushing it off.
But Marfa, the old neighbor, crossed herself and whispered, “So you saw them…”
Semyon felt the weight of those words settle into his soul. The house, the woman, the child — they were no figments of his imagination. He had seen them. And they were waiting for something. Waiting for someone to remember them.