December 2012.
High in the mountains, in a bowl sculpted by the rough, calloused palms of ancient peaks, nestled a small village. It existed as if in defiance—crossed out from time. It wore its name not just with pride, but with caution, like a fragile vessel—Zatishye.
In winter, the world here narrowed to the size of a single street. The snow, thick, dense, and sterile-clean, covered it with a heavy down quilt, stealing the geometry of roofs, erasing the sharp angles of fences, turning everything man-made into soft, shapeless drifts. Snow was the master here. It greedily devoured sounds, and so the silence in Zatishye was almost tangible, dense as cotton. It was broken only by the senile creak of centuries-old pines in the wind and the rare, dull thud of a woodcutter's axe, sounding like a heartbeat underwater.
But this silence wasn't dead. Not yet. It was alive, breathing. Within it, like in humanity's last cradle, life swayed—simple, frighteningly calm, full of that unnoticed, quiet happiness that isn't written about in great books because it holds no conflict. Only peace.
The air here smelled of frost, tart pine needles, and woodsmoke. Smoke rose lazily, reluctantly from a dozen chimneys, drawing whimsical patterns on the piercingly blue, indifferent sky—hieroglyphs of comfort. It was the smell of home. The smell of safety that always seems eternal a minute before it vanishes.
In the very heart of this sleepy, doomed idyll, in a house standing slightly apart at the dark edge of the forest, a twelve-year-old boy was waking up.
Cole felt the cold before consciousness returned to him. The cold was always here; it waited behind the thin glass. The frost pattern on the window breathed chill, resembling ferns frozen in a scream, and the plank floor was icy, like the surface of a stream fettered by November. The boy shivered, instinctively pulling the blanket up to his chin, trying to hide, to prolong the moment of ignorance, and for a heartbeat, he slipped back into warm, viscous slumber.
But reality called him in the most reliable way. A smell drifted from the kitchen—the scent of baking bread and frying meat. The scent of life. This aroma was stronger than any cold, stronger than any premonition.
Throwing off the blanket, he hurriedly pulled on prickly wool trousers and an old but favorite sweater. The thing smelled just like this whole house—of smoke, old wood, and his mom.
In the kitchen, in a pillar of morning light that broke through the frozen window, cutting the gloom in half, stood she. Lina.
Her silhouette in this solar haze seemed almost unreal, tenuous, as if woven from motes of dust and light. Her long chestnut hair was gathered in a messy, heavy bun, exposing her neck, and on her cheek, as always, whitened a speck of flour—a small detail of a great existence. She heard the creak of floorboards—the house always warned her—and turned around. Her face was illuminated by that warm, calm smile that spread heat through Cole's chest, displacing the morning chill.
"Woke up, my little wolf?" her voice was quiet, with a light, cozy rasp, but to Cole, it sounded like the only music in this world of silence. "And here I thought you decided to sleep through the whole winter like a bear. Sit down before it gets cold. Heat doesn't live long."
She placed a plate before him. Steaming scrambled eggs—yolks bright as little suns, a roasted piece of venison, and a thick slice of fresh bread that was still steaming. They ate in a cozy silence, broken only by the crackle of logs in the stove. Fire devoured wood, giving life to people. This was their morning. Their ritual. Their little eternity.
Lina set aside her fork and looked at her son. Her gaze was long, studying, as if she were trying to memorize his features.
"Planning to go out again?" she asked. The question sounded soft, but hidden within it was the tension of a taut string. "Be careful, Cole. The forest doesn't forgive mistakes."
Cole swallowed a piece of bread, feeling a surge of childish, unfounded bravery.
"I'm not scared," he grumbled, trying to make his voice sound deeper, more grown-up. He straightened his back. "I'll become a hunter myself soon. I'll bring you the biggest catch. You'll be proud."
Lina smiled again, but the smile touched only her lips. A shadow flickered in her eyes—not of fear, but of a deep, ancient sadness of knowledge. She reached out and brushed a rebellious lock of hair from his forehead. The gesture was so tender, as if she were touching crystal.
"I know you will. You're strong," she said softly, almost in a whisper. "But remember what I told you. Strength is not just the skill of taking life."
She fell silent, choosing her words, as if afraid he wouldn't understand the main point.
"The main thing is—be kind, Cole. Strength without kindness is just cruelty. It is empty. It devastates the one who wields it, rather than filling them. It leaves behind only ash. Promise me you won't forget?"
Cole looked at her. He saw her anxiety but didn't understand its nature. For him, cruelty and strength were tools, not a philosophy.
"I promise," he nodded, easily giving a vow the depth of which he could not fathom.
After breakfast, throwing on a thick jacket, Cole went outside. The frosty air hit his face, burned his cheeks, forcing him to take a deep, greedy breath, feeling ice needles prick his lungs.
The village had already woken up, but this awakening was quiet. One could hear the distant, thin whine of a saw, the methodical, soothing knock of a hammer, the lazy bark of a dog being benignly scolded by its owner. And above all this, like bells—the ringing, shimmering voices of children.
Nearby, on a patch cleared of snow, his peers were playing their favorite game. Two, wrapped in old rags, portrayed growling "monsters," clumsily waving their arms. The rest, armed with crooked stick-swords, were "Sorcerers." With shouts of "Defend the village!", full of played-up pathos, they rushed into battle.
Cole stopped, watching them with a light, condescending smile. What a stupid game. What naivety.
Monsters... They invented beasts to be scared for pretend. Here, in Zatishye, the scariest monster was the old bear that hunters, drunk and merry, had tracked down last autumn. Reality was simple and understandable.
He took another deep breath of the crystal-clear air. Calm spread through his body—dense, reliable. The feeling of home. The feeling that this world was unshakable, that it would always be this way: snow, smoke, mom in the kitchen, stupid games.
He took a step forward, intending to go to the forest, to his favorite spot by the frozen waterfall where time seemed to stop altogether.
And at that very moment, at the point of ideal equilibrium, the world trembled.
A chill ran down his spine, under his warm jacket. It had nothing to do with the frost. It was a cold of a different order—the cold of a gaze fixed on the back of his neck.
The wind, which had been lazily swaying the tops of the pines, died down for a second, as if someone had cut off the oxygen. And along with it, as if on command, the birds fell silent.
The silence ceased to be cozy. It became a vacuum.
The whole village, every house, every tree, seemed to hold its breath for one eerie, unnatural moment stretched in time. The world was listening for the footsteps of something that shouldn't be here.
Cole shivered. He looked around sharply, searching for the source of anxiety, searching for a shadow, searching for a threat. But the landscape was flawless. White snow, blue sky, black silhouettes of trees.
The birds began to chirp again—nervously, fussily. The wind resumed its dance, but now Cole heard something plaintive in its howl.
"Probably just imagined it," he thought. The mind always rushes to explain the inexplicable to save itself from fear.
He shook his head, casting off the strange, sticky feeling, and walked confidently forward to meet his ordinary, simple day. Not knowing that this was the last ordinary day of his life.