“I won’t clear it, I promise.”
The old woman finally let her go, nodded slowly as if satisfied with the promise she had received, and then, with an agility not at all befitting her age, she quickly left the store, disappearing into the swirling snow behind the glass door.
Elena watched her go, then shook her head, trying to shake off the strange feeling. The poor old woman probably had a few screws loose. It was a pity, old people, lonely, poor, living in their own world of fantasies and superstitions. Maybe poverty and loneliness had muddled her mind, making her spout nonsense about snow and husbands.
Outside, Elena was immediately hit by a whirlwind of snow, icy flakes plastering her face. She shivered, wrapped herself deeper in her old scarf, and walked quickly to the bus stop, where a small crowd of shivering people had already gathered.
She and Victor lived on the outskirts of the city, in a private residential area where houses stood spacious, with large plots of land. The house was inherited from Elena’s parents—a sturdy old house with thick log walls, built back in the 70s. Elena had been managing it for many years, improving the once-neglected garden, planting apple trees that now yielded a harvest every summer, and creating flowerbeds: roses by the porch, peonies along the path. 32 years of marriage, and for most of them, almost 30 years, they had lived in this house, which was her home.
The bus was stuffy, crowded, and smelled of wet clothes. Elena squeezed her way to a window, leaned her forehead against the cold glass, and again remembered the strange old woman’s words. “Don’t touch the snow.” What an odd thing to say! Just this morning, as Victor was hastily eating breakfast before leaving, he had grumbled that the yard must be cleared, that significant snowdrifts had formed, completely covering the paths. He told her to take care of it by evening so the paths would be clear, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to turn the car around. And now some unfamiliar, crazy old woman was whispering strange things about some snow. A stupid coincidence, nothing more.
The house greeted her with dark, empty windows and cold. Victor had left for the depot in the morning to prepare the truck for the trip and hadn’t lit the stove. Elena came in, shook the snow from her boots onto the mat, took off her wet coat, and walked barefoot across the cold floor to the kitchen. She lit the stove, put a kettle on. She unpacked her groceries, neatly putting everything in its place: vegetables in the cellar, chicken in the fridge, bread in the breadbox. Every movement was familiar, practiced over years.
The house gradually warmed up, the wood in the stove crackled cozily, the kettle began to whistle. Victor was supposed to be back by six in the evening to pick up his things and food for the road. Elena began to cook with the same methodicalness as always: she cleaned and butchered the chicken, set it to boil for a rich broth. She chopped vegetables for a salad that Victor liked to take with him, and took out cutlets from the freezer that she had prepared a week ago, especially for his trip. He preferred homemade food to roadside cafes, saying they were full of chemicals and filth.
At exactly six, the front door slammed, and the cold burst into the house along with Victor. He entered with a heavy tread, shaking snow from his jacket right onto the floor, ignoring the puddles. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a weather-beaten, harsh face and cold gray eyes. Fifty-nine years old, but he looked strong and sturdy, despite a quarter of a century behind the wheel of a heavy truck. Twenty-five years of roads, thousands upon thousands of kilometers across the country.
“Well, got everything ready?” Victor asked his wife, walking straight into the kitchen.
“Yes, Vitya, I’ll pack it now,” Elena said, already taking out the prepared containers and beginning to carefully pack the cooled soup, cutlets, salad, and bread.
Victor sat down at the table, heavily poured himself tea from the old earthenware teapot, and added three spoonfuls of sugar. He was silent, staring at his phone screen, typing something quickly without even looking at Elena. She glanced at him furtively, at the profile she knew in every detail. When did it start, this alienation, this icy wall between them? A year ago? Two? Or maybe five? Or ten? Before, in the early years, he would come back from his trips tired but happy, hug her at the door, tell her about the road, about his encounters, joke, laugh. And now—only silence, only irritation in every movement, in every glance, as if she were not a wife but a tiresome servant.
“Clear the snow in the evening, after it gets dark,” Victor threw out, not looking up from his phone. “The paths are completely covered, and it might snow more tomorrow.”
“Victor, it’s almost dark already, and there’s such a blizzard…” Elena began, but fell silent when she saw him raise his cold gaze to her.
“I said in the evening,” he cut her off sharply. “You’re not a child, you can handle it in half an hour. I didn’t have time, the trip starts early tomorrow morning, an important cargo.”
Elena pressed her lips together, continuing to pack the containers into a large travel bag in silence. The old woman’s words came back to her: “when your husband leaves for the night, don’t touch the snow.” An impossibly strange coincidence. Although, what kind of coincidence was it, really—it was winter, the snow had to be cleared every week, or even more often in this weather.
“When exactly are you leaving?” she asked quietly…
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