Well then… I opened my contacts and dialed Ignat’s number. “Ignat,” I said, looking at the dark screen. “Don’t delay the move. Send your people today. And tell them: don’t be shy.”
I returned to my apartment, but my thoughts remained there, on the cliff. I knew their routine better than they did themselves. I knew that at this moment in the glass cube, there was not joyful anticipation of a celebration, but a nervous hustle disguised as fun.
My short “Okay” worked exactly as I had calculated. For Trofim and Anfisa, this word became the all-clear signal after an air raid. They breathed a sigh of relief. I could almost physically feel their relief.
“Mom has calmed down,” Trofim must have said to his wife. “She’s learned her place,” Lukerya would have added triumphantly. They decided my pride was broken, that I had swallowed the insult and accepted the role of an outcast. Fools.
They didn’t understand that in a static system, “okay” is not agreement. It is the state of the system before a planned collapse. I sat down at the computer and opened the smart home control panel. I had programmed this system myself.
I knew every sensor, every actuator, every logical node. On the large monitor before me, the life of my former home unfolded in graphs, video streams, and activity logs. On the screen from the gate camera, I saw a courier. Ignat had acted quickly.
A motorcyclist in a bright yellow uniform dismounted at the wrought-iron gate and pressed the doorbell. In his hands was a thick envelope with a red stripe—a notification of change of ownership. An official document. A legal bombshell.
Trofim opened the door. He looked frazzled. The sleeves of his expensive white shirt were rolled up, his hair disheveled. He was holding the phone with his shoulder, explaining something to a catering service. “Yes, yes, the champagne must be ice-cold!” he yelled into the phone, not looking at the courier.
The guy held out a tablet for a signature. “Delivery for Mr…. Yes, that’s me, give it here!” Trofim impatiently scribbled on the screen with the stylus, not even glancing at the sender’s name. He snatched the envelope. My heart beat steadily, like a metronome.
“Read it,” I mentally commanded. “Read what’s written on the envelope, son. Understand what you’ve just lost.” But Trofim didn’t read. He tossed the envelope onto a small table in the hallway, right on top of a pile of gift boxes tied with gold and scarlet ribbons.
To him, it was just another card, another bill, another trifle distracting from the main event of the year—his mother-in-law’s triumph. The party they were preparing had nothing to do with my five-year-old grandson. Vanechka needed friends, a cake, and a chance to run around.
But Lukerya had organized a high-society event. I had seen the guest lists in their family chat, from which they had forgotten to remove me. Useful people, officials, business partners, in front of whom Lukerya wanted to show off wealth she had no claim to.
I turned away from the hallway camera. It was painful to look at my son, but my pity for him was now mixed with disgust. He had chosen his own blindness. Suddenly, an alarm window popped up on my monitor, pulsating red. “Warning, attempt to change administrator rights.”
I frowned. Someone was trying to access the root settings of the security system. I quickly checked the log. The request came from the tablet in the living room. Lukerya. Of course.
It wasn’t enough for her to kick me out physically. She wanted to erase my presence in the digital space as well. She was trying to change the master code so I couldn’t even remotely open the gates if I suddenly decided to come over. She wanted to lock the door from the inside.
Lines of code scrolled across the screen. She was entering standard passwords, her grandson’s date of birth, names, simple combinations. 12345. Trofimovs. Naive. I had protected this system with 256-bit encryption. Access denied. Access denied. User blocked for 60 minutes.
I imagined her face at that moment. Twisted with anger, bewildered. She was probably jabbing at the screen with her long nail, cursing the stupid technology.
“You want to control the house, Lukerya?” I whispered, looking at the blinking cursor. “You want everything your way? Well then… Architecture is the art of creating an environment. Let’s create an environment that matches your inner self.”
My fingers flew across the keyboard. I entered the manual climate control mode. The house was designed like a thermos. It retained heat perfectly. But the air conditioning system was powerful, designed for hot summers.
I found the “Living Room” and “Banquet Hall” tabs. Current temperature: +24 degrees Celsius. Comfort. Coziness. Warmth. I moved the slider to the left. Target temperature: +15 degrees Celsius. Not enough to burst the pipes.
But it was enough to make guests in evening dresses with bare shoulders feel uncomfortable. The cold seeps in slowly, unnoticed. First, your hands get chilly, then the cold grips your shoulders, and finally, it feels like the icy air is coming from the walls themselves. Next step. Heated floors.
Zonal heating was the pride of this project. Porcelain stoneware that’s so pleasant to walk on barefoot. Status – “Off”. Now the floors would become slabs of ice. The stone would cool instantly, drawing heat from the room. And the final touch. Lighting.
I always taught Trofim that light creates mood. Warm light, 2700 Kelvin, is relaxing, creates intimacy, hides skin imperfections, and makes faces more beautiful. It’s the light of candles, the light of a hearth. That was the light set for the party. I opened the settings for the “Evening” scenario.
Color temperature—6500 Kelvin. It’s the color of an operating room. The color of a morgue. A cold, harsh, sterile white light that shows no mercy. It highlights every wrinkle, every layer of makeup, every spot on clothing. Under such light, food looks unappetizing, and people look sick and tired.
It causes a subconscious anxiety, a desire to leave, to escape. I pressed the button…
