— Listen carefully, Lena. You have one hour. Pack your rags and make sure there’s not a trace left that you ever existed here.
Sergey stood in the middle of our rented living room, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t shouting. He spoke in an everyday tone, as if he were ordering a pizza, not shattering seven years of marriage into dust.
— Seryozha, what’s gotten into you? — the grocery bag slipped from my hands. The eggs shattered, yolk spreading across the laminate floor. — We were… we were talking about a mortgage. We had plans together.
— We did, — he nodded, stepping over the puddle with disgust. — Back when you were a promising bride with a grandmother who owned a place in the city center. And now who are you? The owner of a collapsing shack in Wolf Hollow?
He stepped closer, looking down at me. There was no anger in his eyes, only the cold calculation of a spreadsheet.
— Your grandmother, Varvara Ilyinichna, outplayed everyone. A palace on Nevsky Prospect for Oleg, and firewood for you? She knew exactly what you were worth. You’re nothing, Lenka. And I’m not a charity fund to support failures.
— But I worked… I did everything for this home…
— Your pennies are pocket change, — he cut me off. — So here’s how it is. “Go back to your shed, pauper.” I’m bringing Vika from logistics today. Unlike you, she’s a woman with a dowry.
Forty minutes later I was standing outside in a fine drizzle. Beside me was a suitcase with a broken wheel and a box of winter boots. I was thirty-four years old.
I had no husband, no home, and in my pocket there was only a will to a ruined house three hundred kilometers from the city, and an electronic ticket for the nearest train.
Oleg, my older brother, didn’t even call. At the reading of the will he sat there smugly, like a cat that had eaten too much sour cream.
He got a three-room apartment with a view of the cathedral. I got a house in the middle of nowhere, where no one had lived for ten years.
— Don’t be upset, sis, — he tossed out then, spinning the keys to his car. — Everyone gets what’s theirs. Fresh air will do you good, and I need scale. Business, you know?
Oleg’s “business” consisted of endless debts and schemes that always collapsed. Grandma knew that. And still she did this. Why? That question drilled into my head as I rattled along in the third-class train car.
Wolf Hollow greeted me with barking dogs and the smell of damp leaves.
House number eight on Zarechnaya Street looked like a set from a horror movie. The porch sagged, the windows were boarded up with rough planks, the paint peeled down to gray wood.
I pulled the door — it opened with a creak, almost like a groan.
Inside it was freezing cold. It smelled of mice and old paper. I switched on a flashlight. In the middle of the room stood a table covered in a thick layer of dust, and next to it a Viennese chair with a collapsed seat.
I sat down without taking off my coat and cried. Quietly, soundlessly, just letting the tears run down my cheeks. Grandma, why? I loved you.
I sat with you through the nights when you were ill. And Oleg? He even showed up drunk to the memorial and immediately started asking about the apartment papers.
I slept in my padded jacket, wrapped in an old blanket.
By morning, anger pushed out the self-pity. No. I would survive. In spite of Sergey. In spite of Oleg.
I found a rusty bucket and a rag in the shed. I carried water from the well on the neighboring street. I scrubbed the floor with fury, as if trying to wipe years of filth out of my life.
In the bedroom, one floorboard under the bed seemed strange. It wobbled. I pried it up with a crowbar. It popped loose with a crack.
Under it wasn’t dirt, but a brick-lined cavity. And inside it — an iron box.
My heart pounded so hard it throbbed in my temples. Treasure? Gold?
The box wasn’t locked. Inside was a folder of documents, a thick notebook with a leatherette cover — Grandma’s diary — and a letter.
“My dear Lenochka, my beloved granddaughter. Forgive an old schemer. I know you’re cursing me now. But there was no other way. Oleg is a fool, he would have drunk everything away and ruined you too.
And your husband — I saw how he looked at my apartment. Like a piece of meat. If I had openly left it to you, he would have taken it from you, or forced you to sell it and pocketed the money. I wanted you to see who is who.”
On top of the folder lay a deed of gift.
“Donor: Vasnetsova Varvara Ilyinichna. Recipient: Morozova Elena Aleksandrovna.” The property address was there in black and white.
The date was one month before Grandma’s death. Registered, stamped.
Below it was a bank statement. An account in my name. The amount made me sit down on the dirty floor. It would have been enough for another apartment and ten years of a comfortable life.
— Grandma… — I whispered, clutching the papers to my chest.
She had transferred the apartment to me while she was alive. The will was just a performance. A trap for Oleg. And a test for Sergey.
At that moment I heard the growl of an engine. A black SUV rolled into the yard. Oleg got out, pale, followed by two men in leather jackets.
I hid the box back under the floor, replaced the board, and slid the rug over it.
The door burst open.
— Where is she?! — Oleg shouted. — Lenka!
He stood in front of me, trembling. The other two silently scanned the room.
— Help me, sis… there’s trouble… — he stammered.
— The documents, — one of the men spoke quietly. — Your brother borrowed a large sum from us. He put the inheritance up as collateral. Only it’s not his.
Oleg dropped to his knees.
— Lenka! If the apartment is yours, transfer it! I’ll earn it back!
— The apartment is mine, — I said calmly.
Silence fell.
— Then we share, — one of them stepped toward me.
— One step closer and no further, — I replied. — My lawyer knows I’m here. If I disappear, the evidence goes to the authorities.
It was a bluff. But it worked.
— You’re a tough woman, — the man finally said. — Not like your brother.
They took Oleg away. The car door slammed, dust rose into the air.
Three months passed.
I didn’t sell the house. I renovated it. New roof, fence. I rented out the apartment in Saint Petersburg. I stayed here. In silence. Putting myself back together.
One day I was planting flowers when a taxi stopped by the gate. Sergey got out, in a wrinkled suit, holding cheap roses.
— Lenochka! — he grinned. — I found you!
— What do you want?
— I came back. I know about the apartment. I forgive you.
I laughed.
At that moment Mikhail stepped out beside me — my neighbor, a former soldier. He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder.
— Who’s that? — Sergey asked.
— My life. And you are my past.
— We’re not divorced!
— A gifted property isn’t marital property. The money is an inheritance. And this house is that “rotting shack” you despised.
Mikhail took a step forward. Sergey instinctively backed away.
— Get lost, — I said quietly. — Alms are given on Fridays. Today is Tuesday.
As I went back into the house, the smell of fresh pastries filled the air. I knew I had won.
My grandmother didn’t just leave me walls. She gave me sight.
