Artyom was suffocating under the grip of a silent, sticky terror. He could not find rest, tossing and turning on sheets that felt like glowing embers beneath him. Every noise outside the window, every creak of the old house tightened the grip of dread in his chest. He was waiting—waiting for the sound of the key turning in the lock, for swift, light footsteps in the hallway, and the joyful laughter of his daughter that used to fill their home with light. Yet, the house remained silent. The silence deafened his ears with its overwhelming intensity.
Parched and dry, his thirst finally forced him to rise. Like a ghost, he wandered down the dark corridor, his hand reaching out instinctively toward the door of his daughter’s room. Peering inside, he already knew what awaited him. The moonlight, cold and impartial, illuminated her perfectly made, empty bed. The faint, nearly imperceptible scent of her perfume — a blend of citrus and jasmine — lingered in the air, now, to Artyom, it smelled of misfortune.
“Vera!” His hoarse voice, worn down by sleeplessness, shattered the silence like a gunshot. Shaking his wife, who was troubled by a restless, shallow sleep, he called out urgently. “Vera, Alisa is still not home!”
“Is this the first time?” she mumbled, turning to the other side without opening her eyes. “Probably Lena kept her at study. She’ll show up by morning.”
“But it’s already four in the morning, Vera! Four!” His cry was laden with such despair that it immediately roused his wife, her eyes widening with a chilling realization.
“Four? Oh, God… No, this isn’t normal. Something has happened to her! Definitely something’s wrong!”
“The night stretched endlessly as they remained silent, yet restless, pacing the apartment like wounded animals, pressing their ears to the windows, trembling at every sound outside.”
Exactly at eight o’clock, without a moment to waste, they hurried to the university, clinging to a faint hope that their daughter, known for her punctuality and dedication, would attend the first class. But Alisa was absent. Neither first nor second lectures saw her presence. Neither the previous day nor the current one revealed any sign of her. Classmates shrugged, professors frowned in bewilderment. The world that felt familiar and reliable just yesterday fractured, plunging Artyom and Vera into utter darkness.
The phone calls began—first cautious, then increasingly frantic. Friends, acquaintances, hospitals… Initially, the emergency departments were contacted, then reception wards… Eventually, terrifying, soul-chilling words echoed: “morgues.” Each ring of the phone and every negative response caused another wave of pain within their hearts. Vera’s despair spilled out in monotonous, quiet moans. She repeatedly hit her head against the wall, barely caught by Artyom before fainting.
“We have to go to the police,” she muttered, her voice carrying the resignation of one who feels like a sinking ship.
For two excruciating months, they searched for Alisa. Each day was an agonizing blend of hope and uncertainty, stretching endlessly over twenty-four hours. Everyone nearby participated: classmates posted flyers throughout the city, neighbors phoned distant relatives, volunteers combed the forests and parks. Every morning began with a prayer; each evening ended in bitter tears. Any phone call could bring salvation—or doom.
Key Insight: Vera’s strength shattered. One morning, Artyom found her pale in the kitchen, her lips blue, clutching her chest. The ambulance diagnosed her with acute coronary syndrome. Alone, facing his misery like a silent, immovable rock, Artyom nearly accepted fate. Almost.
Then—a faint glimmer, barely noticeable, like a spark in a pitch-black night. Among Alisa’s classmates, a timid young woman with frightened eyes revealed under questioning:
“She… she once mentioned wanting to join a monastery…”
Artyom was stunned, thinking he misheard.
“Where?” His voice sounded foreign and strangled. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t know which one, I swear! But she talked about it—after Arseniy left her. She said she no longer wanted to live…”
“Arseniy?” For the first time, Artyom heard the name. It felt alien and jarring.
The girl shared everything she knew: about a secret, passionate love; plans to marry immediately after graduation; how Alisa arrived on the first day of school radiant, but left broken and empty. Arseniy had been expelled—voluntarily. His phone was unreachable, social media profiles deleted. He vanished, leaving only bitter betrayal and an abyss of emptiness behind.
In that moment, whilst crying into her pillow, Alisa shouted through her tears, “I will never love anyone again! I have no reason to live! I’ll go to a monastery so I never have to see any of you!”
The friend dismissed those words as emotional outburst. Yet, months later, they resurfaced like a lifeline.
The search reignited with relentless vigor. After several days, the monastery’s name was uncovered—a small, ancient hermitage hidden deep within the forest.
Artyom, nearly losing himself, reached for his car keys but was stopped by the lead officer, a wise man seasoned by experience:
“Don’t rush, Artyom Viktorovich. This is delicate. What if she refuses to speak to you? What if she resists leaving? That could only worsen things. We need a strategy. You don’t need a parental reprimand, but rather the help of a skilled psychologist.”
“Where are those good psychologists these days?” Artyom muttered gloomily. “Scammers everywhere. Can’t I just talk to my own daughter?”
“You can talk, but solving the root problem she has is unlikely. She didn’t come to you with her pain, which means there’s no trust. A neutral, qualified specialist might accomplish what you cannot. By the way, I know one. Quite unconventional. He has helped many seemingly hopeless cases. His name is Mark. If anyone can reach your daughter, it’s him.”
Defeated and desperate, Artyom agreed. The address was unusual — a remote, run-down house on the outskirts.
The door opened to reveal a disheveled man, sporting days-old stubble and a crumpled robe. The smell of cheap port wine and hopelessness surrounded him. His gaze was cloudy and vacant.
“What do you want?” he slurred.
Overcoming disgust and disappointment, Artyom explained his visit.
“Ran off to a monastery?” Mark laughed hoarsely, a fleeting spark of lively interest crossing his eyes. “Original. You deeply religious? No? Even more interesting.”
“Are you mocking me?” Artyom protested. “This is a tragedy! A young woman’s life ahead, and suddenly a monastery! They say you can help.”
“I don’t know,” the psychologist shook his head unsteadily. “I need to think. Maybe a drink will help warm me up.”
Surprisingly, Artyom nodded. In a filthy kitchen cluttered with books and papers, amid the faint crackling of an old refrigerator, Mark recounted his story. A brilliant psychologist once capable of instantly resolving others’ troubles, who missed the blow that shattered his own home. His wife left him quietly for another man, without drama.
“A shoemaker without shoes?” Artyom smiled bitterly.
“Exactly,” Mark sighed deeply. “I thought I’d manage, but no. I didn’t realize how attached I was. The emptiness at home drove me mad. I began drinking, abandoned practice, surrounded myself with questionable friends, women, pointless parties. Money and alcohol flowed like rivers — a temporary escape. Now I understand an old saying: ‘Drink in the morning, and the whole day is free.’ I’m tired. My soul hurts. I dread mornings. Rebuilding from zero is agonizing. The weak break. Turns out, I’m weak. Yet people still come—even to someone like me,” he gestured at himself. “Probably that’s why I live. So, I’ll visit your daughter. What’s the place called?”
The early morning at the monastery was marked by cold, pure air so dense it seemed quenching. Darkness cloaked the land, except for a faint, blurred strip of dawn in the east. Matryona Maria, in whose humble cell Alisa resided, prepared quietly for morning service, careful not to stir the stillness.
But Alisa was awake, eyes closed, feeling torn inside. She was exhausted—not just physically but from the overpowering, forced grace of the place. Tired of feigning humility and finding solace here. Fatigued by endless dishwashing in the refectory, monotonous meals, and the quiet, measured footsteps along the corridors. She pined for home, for loud music, silly jokes with friends, the aroma of coffee from the university’s machine, and the glances from boys.
Arseniy… His image had dimmed, becoming flat and unexpressive. He was gone, and because of that she nearly ruined her life and made her parents suffer. Thoughts of her mother with kind eyes and her father with perpetual jokes pierced her heart painfully.
Return seemed daunting. What would she say? How would she face them? Surely expelled from university, while here, at least, they accepted her quietly, without invading her soul or preaching. They just waited, awaited the moment her own spirit would find the way home. In the hush and expectation, she began hearing herself, quietly whispering, “Lord, help me, guide me on what to do…”
She spent the entire day in the refectory; the monotonous labor made time slip by unnoticed. Now, she sat in her cell, awaiting Matryona’s return from evening service for their small, now traditional, tea time.
Throughout the long drive to the monastery, Mark stayed silent. His friend driving sensed something important unfolding. Mark wasn’t just heading to work; he was preparing for a defining encounter, focused and solemn, as few had seen him before.
There it was—a timeworn hermitage encircled by a towering wall seeming to rise from the earth itself. The ancient stones breathed tranquility and eternity.
“Are you with me?” Mark whispered, fingers trembling slightly.
“No, I’ll walk around here and wait,” his friend nodded.
Mark approached the entrance with legs like jelly and pounding temples. Thoughts, fears, and doubts swirled in his mind. Touching the rough bark of an old tree, suddenly something shifted.
Silence enveloped him—not mere absence of sound but a dense, living presence. It filled every cell, sweeping away anxious thoughts, torment, and pain. Inside him reigned an incredible peace and clarity. Overwhelmed by this quietude, he remained motionless, feeling decades of grime, grudges, anger, and despair vanish into the ocean of stillness. His battered soul spread its wings and breathed deeply. It was a sweet, all-consuming feeling—love: boundless, forgiving, expecting nothing in return.
From this blessed silence, a quiet, pure singing filtered through—from somewhere deep within, from the temple beneath sky-blue domes. Though unfamiliar in words, the melody touched the deepest strings of his heart. He felt better than ever before—silent tears of relief rolling down his cheeks.
There was a knock at the cell door. “So early?” Alisa wondered and opened it.
An unfamiliar man stood there—disheveled and unshaven, yet his eyes were clear, bright, and infinitely weary. That same profound silence that filled the monastery shone within them.
“Are you Alisa?” he asked softly, voice calm and deep.
“Yes…”
“How are you? Have you recovered?”
“I… I never was sick,” she hesitated.
“I, however, am ill. Very ill,” he said, entering and sitting on a stool, seemingly too weak to stand.
He began to speak honestly, devoid of self-pity. He shared his mistakes, betrayals, and the wounds he had inflicted. About parents he once failed to appreciate or understand. How his callousness and selfishness crippled his life and those around him. It was a confession—raw and frightening.
Listening, Alisa’s thoughts turned to her loved ones—her mother and father.
“They are waiting for you at home,” he interrupted suddenly.
“I know…”
“Your mother has aged these months. She stays mostly silent and cries quietly, so no one sees.”
Her heart clenched with fresh, sharp pain.
“Father’s hair has turned completely white. He tries to stay strong, but his eyes betray all his suffering. They live in hell—hell because of you. They love you more than life itself.”
“I love them too…” she whispered as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Really? So why did you cause them such agony?”
Words failed her. Sitting hunched, she envisioned her mother, aged and weeping, and her father with eyes full of relentless sorrow.
“I didn’t want to… I didn’t think…” she sobbed.
“They know. They forgave you before you decided to leave. All they ask is one thing—will you come back?”
Alisa lifted her head, determination burning in her eyes.
“We’re leaving. Right now!”
Mark gently settled Alisa in the back seat of the car, covering her legs with a warm, soft scarf Vera had sent as a token of good fortune.
“You’re not coming?” the driver asked, surprised to see Mark close the door and step back.
Mark offered no reply, only a gentle, sober smile. Standing motionless by the monastery gates, he watched the car disappear around the bend, carrying the saved soul away.
Then he turned, gazing upon the ancient walls and blue domes stretching into the piercingly clear sky. At last, he found what he had sought all his life. He found Silence, and he chose to remain beyond the gates, to heal.
This poignant tale reveals the fierce anguish of parental love, the depths of despair, and the fragile hope that can emerge in times of darkness. It underscores the profound power of forgiveness, the importance of understanding, and the healing potential of compassion.