— “Grandma, leave the tea!”
The voice was so close and clear that Lyudmila Sergeevna started. The tea bag slipped from her fingers and plopped into the mug. The water in the kettle was already coming to a boil, and the kitchen was filling with steam. She slowly turned around. Kirill was standing in the doorway. Straight. Calm. Without his usual swaying. He was clutching an old plush elephant to his chest—the only valuable thing he never parted with.
He had been silent for eight years. The doctors called it a peculiarity, Alena—a difficult case, and Lyudmila Sergeevna had long grown used to communicating with her grandson through looks, gestures, and patience. Now he was looking directly at her.
— “Grandma,” he repeated more quietly, “leave the tea!”
He swallowed and added:
— “She used to do that before.”
Something inside Lyudmila Sergeevna snapped. Her heart pounded sharply and heavily, as if it had stumbled. The room suddenly felt too small.
— “Kirill!” she whispered. “You… you can talk?”
The boy couldn’t show any joy. His lips trembled, his fingers tightened their grip on the elephant.
— “Please!” he said. “Just leave it!”
The kettle whistled—piercingly, anxiously. Lyudmila Sergeevna mechanically turned off the stove and sank onto a chair. Her hands felt weak. Her head was buzzing.
Just ten minutes ago, everything had seemed normal. Her son, Sergey, was rushing to the car with suitcases. Alena, neat and confident, stood in a light coat, speaking in the calm voice of someone used to keeping everything under control.
— “Mom, are you sure you can handle it?” Sergey asked for the third time. “Seven days is a long time.”
Lyudmila Sergeevna smiled, although her back ached with fatigue:..
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