Semyon stood frozen by the window, the evening’s chill seeping into his bones. A faint, soft glow spilled from the farmhouse, casting long shadows across the dusty floor. But it wasn’t the light that held him spellbound — it was the woman within.
She wore a faded dress, embroidered with delicate patterns that spoke of a time long gone. In her arms, a small child lay still, like a flickering candle struggling against the dark. Their faces were pale, almost unreal, and when she turned her head, her eyes met his with a sadness that weighed heavy, but also something else — a silent plea, a question that echoed through the years.
Only moments before, Semyon, the tractor driver, had rushed to the farm carrying the heavy set of keys. He’d handed them to the woman and her child — homeless, desperate for shelter. She had smiled softly, whispering thanks. The baby had giggled, clutching his finger. And then, she vanished.
Now, watching through the glass, Semyon’s breath caught in his throat. She was still there — but not really.
He stumbled backward and then forward, heart hammering, and gripped the cold metal key in his hand. His legs trembled as he inserted it into the door lock. The door creaked open, the familiar creak now a strange echo in the quiet farmhouse.
Inside, nothing stirred. The house smelled of old pine and stove smoke — comfort, yet alien. A letter lay on the table, brittle with age and yellowed by time. Carefully, Semyon unfolded it.
“If anyone finds this — please help. We have nowhere left to turn. We will knock no more. If misfortune comes, remember us: Masha and little Ivan.”
Dated June 8, 1956.
Goosebumps rose on his skin. This was no ordinary night.
He glanced down and saw it: a porcelain doll, cracked arm and tangled hair, lying beside the stove. He remembered there had been no doll before — not that morning, not ever.
Outside, the wind stirred dry leaves, and a distant crow’s call pierced the silence. No footprints, no voices, just an empty road leading into the fog.
The next morning, thick mist cloaked the village. Semyon wrestled with doubt but knew he had to tell someone. At the police station, he recounted what he had seen. The officer’s skeptical smile barely masked disbelief.
“You’re imagining things, Semyon. Who else saw her?”
But old Marfa, the neighbor, crossed herself and whispered, “You saw them… the lost souls of the farm. They come when forgotten.”
Semyon left the station with the letter clutched tight. The past and present had collided that night — and now, he held the key to a story long buried.