Artem felt suffocated, trapped within the silent, sticky grip of terror. Sleepless nights found him tossing on sheets that seemed as scorching as burning coals. Each noise outside the window, every creak within the old house, clutched his heart with anxious anticipation. He yearned to hear the key turning in the lock, the swift footsteps approaching the hallway, or the joyful laughter of his daughter, the sound that once filled their home with light. Yet the house remained ominously silent. It was a silence so loud it roared in his ears, deafening and dreadful.
The dryness that parched his throat eventually forced him to rise. Like a ghost, he wandered down the dark corridor, his hand instinctively reaching for the daughter’s door handle. Peering inside without surprise, he saw moonlight—cold and impartial—falling upon the neatly made but vacant bed. The faint scent of her perfume hovered—citrus and jasmine—a fragrance that now embodied foreboding in Artem’s perception.
“Vera!” His voice, hoarse from sleeplessness, shattered the silence like a gunshot. Shaking his wife, who was resting in a troubled, shallow slumber, he called out urgently. “Ver, Alice is still not home.”
“Is this the first time?” she murmured, turning onto her side with closed eyes. “Maybe she stayed late at Lena’s. She’ll show up by morning.”
“It’s already four in the morning, Vera! Four!” His shout bore the weight of desperation, compelling Vera to instantly rise, her eyes wide with suddenly sinking dread.
“Four? Oh my God… No, this is no coincidence. Something has happened to her! It has to be something!”
The hours until dawn stretched endlessly. In silence, they paced their apartment restlessly like wounded animals, pressing against windows, startled by every sound outside. Exactly at eight, without hesitation, they rushed to the university, clinging weakly to the hope that their daughter — responsible and meticulous as ever — would appear for her first class.
But Alice did not come. She was absent from the first and second classes. No one had seen her yesterday or today. Classmates shrugged indifferently; teachers frowned in puzzled concern. The world — once so familiar and reliable — now cracked, pouring impenetrable darkness over Artem and Vera.
- Calls began, timid at first, then hysterical.
- Friends and hospitals were contacted.
- The search extended from ambulance departments to emergency rooms, finally reaching terrifying morgues.
- Every ringtone and response saying “no such patient admitted” sent fresh waves of pain through their hearts.
Vera’s despair leaked out as a quiet, monotonous moan. She pounded her head against the wall until Artem caught her, weakened and near fainting.
“We must go to the police,” she breathed, hopeless like a sinking ship.
The search for Alice spanned two torturous months, each minute filled with exhausting uncertainty. Everyone rallied: classmates plastered fliers citywide; neighbors contacted distant relatives; volunteers combed forests and parks. Each day began with a prayer and ended with bitter tears. Every call held the dual possibility of rescue or doom.
The strain overwhelmed Vera one morning. Artem found her pale and trembling in the kitchen, blue lips clutching her chest. The paramedics arrived; tests revealed an acute coronary syndrome diagnosis. Now alone, Artem felt like an immovable mountain — dark and silent — nearly resigned, almost accepting the unimaginable.
Then, faint as a spark in the night, a glimmer of hope emerged. During questioning, a timid classmate of Alice’s mentioned hesitantly:
“She said something about leaving for a monastery…”
Artem froze, thinking he misheard. “Where?” His voice was strange and strangled. “Which monastery? Are you sure?”
“I swear, I don’t know which one,” the girl replied. “But that’s what she said, after… well, after Arseny left her. She told me she didn’t want to live anymore.”
“Arseny?” Artem had never heard the name before. It sounded foreign, unsettling.
The girl unraveled the story: of a passionate, secret romance and plans to marry right after graduation. On the first of September, Alice had appeared radiant at classes but left broken-hearted and empty. Arseny, her Arseny, dropped out voluntarily. His phone was dead; his social media vanished. He disappeared, leaving behind only betrayal’s bitter sting and universal void.
In the throes of tears, Alice had shouted, “I’ll never love anyone again! There’s no reason to live! I’ll join a monastery and never see you all again!” Her friend hadn’t taken her seriously then, assuming it was just emotional turmoil. Yet months later, those words emerged as a lifeline.
The search intensified with renewed vigor. A few days into the investigation, the monastery’s name surfaced—a small, ancient skete hidden deep in the woods.
Overcome with urgency, Artem grabbed his car keys, but the case’s lead officer, a seasoned and wise man, stopped him:
“Don’t rush, Artem Viktorovich. This is delicate. What if she refuses to talk? Or declines to leave? You might only worsen matters. A plan is essential. I believe a psychologist, not a parent’s reprimand, is what you need.”
“Good ones? Where are they now?” Artem muttered darkly. “Frauds at every turn. What, I can’t speak to my own daughter?”
“Talking, yes. But solving the core problem? Hardly. She came to you with her troubles, but trust is missing. An outsider, impartial and professional, might reach what you cannot. I know such a man—Mark. Unconventional and capable. He helped many in hopeless circumstances. If anyone can touch your daughter’s heart, it’s him.”
Desperate and broken, Artem consented. The address was peculiar — a dilapidated house on a desolate outskirts.
Key Insight: Healing sometimes requires surrendering to unlikely helpers, for they hold the keys to locked doors of trust and understanding.
The door opened to a disheveled man, unshaven and clad in a crumpled robe. The scent of cheap port wine and hopelessness clung to him. His eyes looked glassy and distant.
“What do you want?” he slurred.
Suppressing disgust and disappointment, Artem explained his visit’s reason.
“Ran off to a monastery?” Mark chuckled hoarsely; a flicker of genuine interest glimmered briefly in his eyes. “Original. Are you religious? No? Even more interesting.”
“Are you mocking me?” Artem bristled. “This is a tragedy! A young woman, full of life, suddenly a monastery! They said you could help.”
“I don’t know,” the psychologist shook his head, swaying. “Need to think. Maybe a little drink? To warm up.”
Surprisingly, Artem agreed. In a cluttered kitchen full of books and papers, with the old refrigerator humming quietly, Mark revealed his story. Once a brilliant psychologist, adept at solving others’ problems, yet blind to his own household’s collapse: a wife left him, simply and quietly.
“A shoemaker without shoes,” Artem mused bitterly.
“Exactly,” Mark sighed deeply. “I thought I could manage. I was wrong. Didn’t realize the depth of my attachment. That emptiness at home drove me mad. I began drinking, abandoned work, surrounded myself with dubious friends, meaningless parties. Money and booze flowed freely. It numbed me briefly. Now I know the saying: ‘Drink in the morning and be free all day.’ I’m tired. My soul aches. Mornings are hard. Starting from zero is agonizing. The weak break. I’m a weakling. Yet people still come, even like this,” he gestured to himself. “Maybe that’s why I’m alive now. I’ll go for your daughter. Where is this place?”
At dawn, the monastery air was crisp and thick, almost quenching thirst. Darkness still lingered, save for a faint, blurred streak of dawn on the horizon. Mother Maria, in whose modest cell Alice lived, quietly prepared for the morning service.
Alice was awake, lying with closed eyes while her soul felt torn apart. She was exhausted: weary of the forced, suffocating grace of the place; tired of pretending humility and solace; fatigued by endless dishwashing in the refectory, monotonous meals, and gentle, measured footsteps in the corridors. Longing overwhelmed her for home, loud music, silly jokes with friends, the coffee aroma at university, and boys’ glances.
Arseny… His image dulled, became flat and indistinct. Gone was gone. Had that been enough to nearly destroy her life? To cause her parents such pain? Thoughts of her mother’s kind eyes and father’s endless jokes pierced her heart sharply.
Returning was terrifying. What would she say? How would she face them? Surely, she was expelled from university. Yet here, she was accepted, sheltered, not intruded upon or lectured, just awaited. Awaited until her own soul found its way back. In that silence and waiting, she began to hear herself whisper softly: “Lord, guide me, show me the way…”
The entire day passed in the refectory with monotonous labor, time flying unnoticed. Now she sat in her cell, awaiting Mother Maria’s return with the evening service for their little, now cherished tea time.
Throughout the long drive to the monastery, Mark remained silent. His driver sensed something profound was unfolding: Mark was not merely commuting to work but preparing for the most pivotal meeting of his life. Focused and serious, he appeared as he hadn’t in years.
There it was — the ancient skete, encircled by formidable walls seemingly sprouted from the earth. The old stones breathed peace and eternity.
“Are you with me?” Mark whispered, fingers trembling slightly.
“No, I’ll walk around here,” the friend nodded.
Mark moved slowly toward the gate, legs weak and temples pounding. His mind swirled with fears and doubts. Touching the rough bark of an ancient tree, suddenly something shifted.
Silence descended — not merely absence of sound, but a dense, living presence. It filled him, swept away the clutter of anxious thoughts, all torment and pain. Inside, an unimaginable calm and clarity reigned. Frozen, overwhelmed by silence, he couldn’t move. Years of built-up grime, resentment, anger, and despair dissolved without trace in this ocean of quiet. His wounded soul unfurled wings and took a deep breath.
It was a sweet, all-encompassing sensation of love—boundless, forgiving, requiring nothing in return.
Through this sacred silence came singing—soft, harmonious—from deep within the temple crowned with heaven-blue domes. Words were incomprehensible but touched his heart’s deepest strings. He had never felt such peace. Tears of relief streamed silently down his cheeks.
A gentle knock interrupted the cell’s door. “Mother so early?” Alice wondered, opening.
Before her stood a strange man: disheveled, unshaven, but with eyes clear, bright, and infinitely tired. Those were the very eyes filled with the monastery’s stillness.
“You’re Alice?” he asked quietly, voice calm and deep.
“Yes…”
“How are you? Have you recovered?”
“I… I wasn’t sick,” she faltered.
“I am sick. Very sick,” he replied, settling on a stool, too weak to stand.
He began speaking, openly and without self-pity, confessing his mistakes, betrayals, grievances, and unappreciated parents. He revealed how his hardness and selfishness had harmed his life and those around him. It was a sincere, harrowing confession.
- Alice listened, awakening images of loved ones.
- Her mother, her father, came alive in her heart.
- “They’re waiting for you at home,” he suddenly interrupted.
- “I know…”
- “Your mother has aged greatly, weeping silently alone.
- Your father’s hair is white from worry; though he holds strong, his eyes betray the pain.”
- “They live in hell, because of you. But their love surpasses life itself.”
Alice’s chest tightened with a sharp, physical ache.
“I love them too…” she whispered, tears spilling.
“Really? Then why give them such torment?”
She could only sob, slumped as the images of her grieving parents lingered vividly.
“I didn’t want to… I didn’t think…” she sobbed.
“They know. They forgave you before you left. They ask only one thing—will you come back?”
Alice lifted her head, her eyes burning with resolve.
“Let’s go! Right now!”
Mark placed Alice gently into the back seat of the car, covering her legs with a warm, soft scarf Vera had sent for good luck.
“You’re not coming?” the driver asked, surprised as Mark closed the door and stepped back.
Mark said nothing, only smiled softly, soberly—a gentle and light smile. Standing still, watching the car vanish beyond the turn, carrying a soul saved.
Then he turned, gazing at the ancient walls and the blue domes stretched toward the piercingly clear sky. He had found what he sought all his life: Silence. And with it, he chose to stay, to heal.
In conclusion, this touching narrative reveals the depths of parental love, the agony of lost hope, and the unexpected paths toward healing. It reminds us that even in the darkest moments, a spark of faith, unexpected help, and inner reflection can lead back to light, renewal, and peace.