— Irina asked when they stopped to rest on the third floor.
— Oh, dried herbs. I buy them at the market, then brew them. For joints, for blood pressure. Our doctors only prescribe pills, and they upset my stomach. But herbs—they work more gently.
They reached the fourth floor. The old woman took out her keys and opened the door to a small studio apartment, from which emanated a smell of stale air and something herbal, pungent.
— Come in, let’s have some tea, — the hostess offered, but Irina shook her head.
— Thank you, but I have to get home. My husband is waiting.
She placed the bags in the hallway and was about to leave when the woman took her by the hand. Her fingers were surprisingly strong and warm.
— Wait, dear. I won’t remain in your debt. — Irina smirked: what debt, she just helped carry some bags. — I see right through people. It’s not bragging, it’s a gift. Or a curse, who knows, — the old woman’s voice grew quieter, dropping to almost a whisper. — And I see that trouble is hanging over you. Imminent trouble.
Irina felt a chill run down her spine, but immediately checked herself. She didn’t believe in fortune tellers or omens; all her life she had relied on reason and logic. In the hospital, she had seen it all: those who trusted folk healers more than doctors, and how that ended.
— Nothing’s going to happen to me, — she tried to joke, but her voice sounded uncertain.
But the old woman didn’t let go of her hand, gazing into her face with a kind of piercing pity.
— On Friday, do you hear? On Friday, you be the first to open the door. A bad guest will come. If your husband opens the door, there will be trouble. Big trouble. You open it first.
— What Friday? — Irina asked in confusion, feeling something tighten inside her.
— Next Friday. Remember: you open it first. Don’t forget. It’s important, dear. Very important.
Irina gently freed her hand.
— Alright, ma’am, alright. I’ll remember.
She quickly went downstairs, feeling a strange anxiety. Of course, it was all nonsense, the woman was just old, maybe not entirely well. There were plenty of people like her who considered themselves clairvoyant. But for some reason, the words stuck in her head like a splinter under the skin that’s impossible to remove.
At home, it smelled of fried potatoes and something else—onions, perhaps. Andrey was sitting in the kitchen with a mug of beer, staring at his phone. When he heard Irina come in, he didn’t even look up.
— What took you so long?
— I helped an old woman carry her bags.
Irina walked past him to the sink, turned on the water, and began to wash her hands. The hot water stung her fingers, but it felt good after the cold autumn street.
— Picking up strays again, — Andrey muttered, not looking up from the screen. — You barely have any strength yourself, and you’re still at it.
He wasn’t like this before. He used to help old women cross the street, carry heavy things for neighbors, and was proud that his wife was responsive and kind-hearted. But now… Irina looked at her husband and, as if for the first time, saw how he was hunched over the table, how nervously he gripped his phone, how his jaw twitched. His face was gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes, and his hair seemed to have grayed more in just a month.
— Have you eaten?
