“In about an hour. The cargo is already loaded and sealed, all the documents are ready and signed.”
Victor finished his cold tea in one large gulp and rose heavily.
“I’ll go take a shower, pack my things, and then we’ll go.”
He went upstairs to the bedroom. Elena remained in the kitchen, slowly finishing the cold soup she had cooked that morning. Outside the window, the blizzard howled, snow falling in large flakes without stopping. She went to the window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked out into the yard. The single lamp by the gate barely pierced through the thick veil of snow, illuminating the swirling snowflakes. The path to the gate was indeed almost completely covered, a white snowdrift reaching nearly to her knees.
About forty minutes later, Victor came down, already dressed in his travel clothes, a heavy duffel bag on his shoulder. Elena handed him the bag of food, wrapped in several layers.
“Will you call when you get there?” she asked, knowing that he usually didn’t call, but still asking out of habit.
“Yeah,” he grunted, taking the bag without even looking her in the eye. He didn’t even kiss her goodbye, as he used to, just gave a short nod. “Look, make sure you clear the snow, you hear? Or it’ll pile up again overnight, you won’t be able to get through in the morning.”
The door slammed with a dull thud. Elena heard his old jeep start up, heard it drive down the snow-covered street; the sound of the engine gradually faded into the distance. She sat down at the kitchen table, cupping a mug of cold tea in her hands. It was quiet. Empty. And there was a strange anxiety in her heart, for no clear reason.
The old woman’s words surfaced in her memory again, clear and insistent: “don’t touch the snow.” Elena shook her head, trying to dismiss the thoughts. What nonsense. An old woman’s superstitions. But… something held her back from getting dressed warmly and going out to clear the yard as Victor had ordered. A wave of fatigue washed over her, like a sack of sand on her shoulders. It had been a long and exhausting day, her legs ached, her back was sore from housework. And with such a blizzard raging, it would all be covered again by morning anyway, what was the point of struggling now?
It was decided. She wouldn’t go out in this bitter cold to wield a shovel now. She would deal with it in the morning if it was really necessary. Victor was already far away, he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t know. And if he asked, she would blame the blizzard, say it was pointless to clear it in such weather.
Elena went upstairs to the bedroom. She changed into an old warm nightgown and a soft robe, lay down on the bed with a worn book she had started a week ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to read. The letters blurred before her eyes. Her thoughts were jumbled, returning again and again to the strange encounter in the store.
Who was that mysterious old woman? Why did she talk specifically about the snow, about the yard? And why was she so insistent, so serious, looking so piercingly into her eyes, as if warning of something terrible and inevitable?
Outside, the storm continued to howl, the house creaking under strong gusts of wind. Elena got up, went to the bedroom window, and looked out. The yard was plunged into pitch darkness, only the faint yellow light of the single lamp by the gate snatched the swirling, thick snowflakes from the gloom. The path had completely disappeared under a thick white blanket. The gate, the porch, the rose bushes—everything was buried beyond recognition.
A strange feeling of anxiety gripped her, tightening her chest. It was as if something was bound to happen tonight. Something important, fateful, something that couldn’t be ignored. Elena returned to bed, pulling the warm blanket up to her chin. She didn’t feel sleepy at all, despite her fatigue. She lay there, listening to the wail of the winter wind outside, unable to shake the growing anxiety that squeezed her heart. The old clock on the nightstand ticked monotonously, showing 11 p.m.
Victor must be far away by now. Speeding along the snowy night highway, listening to the radio, drinking strong coffee from a thermos, lost in his own thoughts. What had he been thinking about lately, anyway? They had barely spoken in recent months, years. He would come home, sleep off the road in silence, eat something without looking, pack again, and leave. They lived like complete strangers under one roof, bound only by a stamp in their passports.
When did it happen? Elena sifted through the recent years of their life together in her memory. Maybe it all started after she couldn’t have children? But that was so long ago, at the very beginning of their marriage, more than 30 years ago. Back then, Victor seemed to console her, said the right words, that they would be fine just the two of them, that happiness wasn’t about children. Or maybe it was her serious illness three years ago? The surgery, the long, painful recovery… Victor became particularly distant then, cold, as if she had become a burden to him. Or had he simply grown tired of her, of their monotonous life? Of this old house, of her aging face, of everything?
Elena closed her eyes, trying to banish the heavy, oppressive thoughts. Tomorrow would be a new day. Maybe it was all just in her head, from fatigue and loneliness. The winter blues, that’s all. She needed to pull herself together, do something useful. When Victor returned in a week, she would cook something special, something delicious, and they would sit down and talk properly, heart-to-heart. They hadn’t really talked in a long time.
Sleep came in fits and starts, restless and anxious. Elena would drift into a troubled doze, then wake up abruptly from a particularly strong gust of wind, from the creaking of the window frames. She dreamt of the old woman from the store, her piercing, all-seeing eyes, her dry, tenacious fingers on her sleeve. “Don’t touch the snow,” she repeated in her dream, over and over, like an incantation.
Elena woke up early, while it was still completely dark. She looked at the clock with sleepy eyes—it was half past six in the morning. Outside, it was just beginning to lighten slightly, the blizzard had finally subsided completely. The silence was special, dense, ringing. Elena got up, threw a warm knitted robe over her shoulders, and went down to the kitchen. She mechanically put the kettle on the stove, lit the burner, walked to the window and froze, not believing her eyes.
The yard was covered in a smooth, untouched layer of snow, completely white. But from the gate to the house, to the first-floor windows, there were clear, very deep tracks. Men’s tracks from heavy, large boots. Definitely not Victor’s; she knew his shoes, his size, his gait perfectly. They were completely unfamiliar tracks.
Someone had come to their house during the night. Walked around the yard. Came close to the windows. And she had been completely alone.
Elena stood at the window, her whitened fingers gripping the windowsill. Her heart was pounding so hard and fast it felt like it would jump out of her chest. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the tracks, trying to understand, to process what was happening. Deep, clear prints of heavy boots led from the gate straight to the house, methodically circling it on two sides, stopping at each first-floor window, as if someone had been carefully examining the house. Someone had been walking around her house at night. While she was sleeping, completely alone, defenseless.
Her hands began to tremble. Elena stepped back from the window, pressing a palm to her mouth to stifle a terrified sob that was trying to escape. It became hard to breathe. She needed to calm down, pull herself together. Think clearly. Maybe it was the neighbors for some reason? No, that was impossible. The neighbors to the left, the elderly Petrovs, were both over seventy; such deep, heavy tracks were definitely not theirs. The plot to the right had been empty for a year, the owners had moved to the city long ago, the house was locked up. And across the street lived only Maria Ivanovna, but why would an elderly woman walk around someone else’s yard at night in a blizzard?
Elena forced herself to move closer to the glass, examining the tracks more carefully. They weren’t chaotic or random, but very purposeful, deliberate. From the gate straight to the living room windows, then neatly along the wall to the kitchen windows, further to the back of the house where the pantry and cellar entrance were. It was as if someone had methodically circled the entire perimeter of the house, carefully looking into every window, studying something, searching, checking. A cold chill ran down her spine, goosebumps covering her skin…
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