Dedicated to Julia—my ray of light and a great
mother who imparts wisdom and knowledge.
And to my beloved Vladimir—may we,
like my characters, find each other
in new lives.
Aurora, September 17, 2021
Sometimes life throws curveballs we never see coming, things we couldn’t even imagine. We’re not prepared for surprises, but somehow, we manage to find a way through because every situation, in some way, is relatable. There’s nothing new under the sun—everything that happens to us has happened to others countless times before. Their experiences can guide us through our own struggles. Everything that occurs follows the laws of nature. If it doesn’t exist in the natural world, it simply won’t happen.
That’s what I believed my entire adult life, ever since my childhood faith in fairy tales and magic was shattered by my jerk of an older brother. As kids, we fought like cats and dogs, but as we grew up, we softened toward each other. My brother was always ready to protect me: from annoying boys, from the nasty neighbor’s dog, from heavy grocery bags. But he couldn’t shield me from the greatest tragedy of my life—disappearance.
How often have you heard the cliché, “We only appreciate something after we’ve lost it”? I took everything in my life for granted and even got annoyed by perfectly normal things. If I’d only known I’d lose everything familiar in an instant, I would’ve been more grateful. But I didn’t know.
I stumbled into this mess because of my passion. My greatest obsession was photographing abandoned places and writing short stories about them. I drew inspiration from these locations, crafting tales of decay, survival, and hardship, then posting them online. I was captivated by the peculiar romance of crumbling buildings, never really considering the harsh truths hidden behind cracked walls with gaping holes or beneath rotting, moss-covered floors. Sometimes, people shared the real stories of these abandoned structures, but I couldn’t feel the pain they held. These places looked beautiful in the moment, especially when viewed from the comfort of a warm, modern home. I preferred not to think about how I’d feel if I were caught in the middle of such events. It was easy for me to let my imagination run wild and spin a gripping story that tugged at readers’ heartstrings, but it was unlikely to transport me to the actual time when those events unfolded. I could write about tough lives and dreamed of literary fame, but I didn’t know the first thing about survival. Real survival, not just the dry lines I’d read online. I’d never had to survive before. I even found the idea thrilling—to live in a post-apocalyptic world like the heroes of my stories. Decay and abandoned places were cloaked in a romantic aura in my eyes, until one warm autumn day when my rose-colored glasses shattered completely.
That day, I rode my bike to a nearby village outside my city. A guy I knew had tipped me off about an interesting abandoned shack there that I might like. I packed a backpack with enough food for the day, grabbed my notebook for jotting down ideas and my camera, and hopped on my trusty bike, setting out early in the morning. I planned to spend the whole day in the village, photographing not just that shack but other spots too. I never rushed to leave after snapping a few quick shots. I needed to soak in the atmosphere of a place, wander around, and enjoy a little snack. Eating lunch in abandoned buildings had become a kind of ritual for me—it felt like I was connecting with the history of these places, merging with them in some way. Sometimes, I even stayed overnight in certain buildings, but only if they were safe and the weather was warm. I loved adventure, but I’d never take unnecessary risks. Today, I didn’t plan to stay over, but I still packed extra food. I tried to be prepared. Who knew what this little trip might turn into?
I didn’t have that foresight. I knew how to avoid the dangers I was familiar with, just like any sensible person. But predicting something that doesn’t exist in nature and avoiding it? That’s impossible! So, you can’t blame me for being careless or foolish. What happened, happened.
The shack I’d been told about turned out to be incredibly picturesque, if that’s the right word for a house that had almost completely fallen apart. To reach my subject for today’s shoot, I had to circle around to the other side of the house, get off my bike, and drag it along a path through a small stream, risking wet feet. I barely made it to the shack, with tree branches snagging at the sleeves of my jacket as if they didn’t want to let me through. Looking back on it later, I often thought it was a sign to stop, but I didn’t listen. My intuition was pretty much nonexistent.
And there, amid the thickets and overgrown grass, stood the old shack. Trees loomed over the remnants of its roof, their branches like giant paws. The house had no roof left. The shack stared at me with a single lonely window, its glass partially shattered, framed by a once-bright blue trim now faded to a peeling grayish-blue. It beckoned me to come inside, but instead of a door, it offered only a collapsed wall. Come on in, whoever wants to, it’s not locked! I carefully hid my bike under a bushy shrub, covering it with a couple of nearby branches. I planned to poke around here for a while, maybe walk a bit farther across the field to take in the surroundings, and the bike would just get in the way. You couldn’t ride it here.
I snapped a few shots from a distance, then made my way to the hole in the wall. Inside, there was a pile of debris from the crumbling walls and ceiling, and to the left, a door with peeling blue paint caught my eye. I took some photos of the interior ruins, particularly drawn to a section of wall near the window—it looked like something had gnawed at it. Time had methodically sunk its teeth into the poor whitewashed wall, biting off piece after piece, savoring its insides. It couldn’t get enough, devouring chunk by chunk, part by part. Time wouldn’t stop until it turned everything to dust. Dust—that’s all that would remain centuries after us. Dust and no memories, unless we wrote down everything that happened. I wanted to grab time by the tail, to halt its insatiable appetite, to immortalize what it destroyed. In our memories, grand buildings and homes of famous people endure, but simple shacks? Never. I didn’t know the story of this shack or who had left it to be consumed by time, but I could invent a past for it, endow it with memories, and preserve it in a few frozen moments. I always felt that the homes of ordinary people were unfairly reduced to dust and erased by time. Families lived in them, remarkable events unfolded within their walls, even if only on the scale of one family—but they happened. Sometimes, old folks from the village shared stories about the past of these forgotten houses. I loved listening to their tales, and they appreciated my attention. In my own family, I didn’t have that gift. My parents and grandparents thought my hobby was nonsense and didn’t even want to hear about what I was passionate about. My brother was neutral, but he didn’t really share my interests either. I sought warmth from others, from strangers’ grandmothers who were just as hungry for attention and understanding as I was. I loved my family and knew they cared about me, but their care felt more like duty than warmth, and that saddened me. The abandoned old folks, on the other hand, showered me with genuine kindness, offering herbal tea, fresh cabbage pies, seasonal fruits, or berries. Some even gifted me a bottle of homemade wine. I always returned home with treats, and I’d bring city sweets for my village grannies, sometimes even leaving them a little money. Few accepted it openly; they’d ask for help with chores or a quick trip to the store instead, so I’d leave neatly folded bills under plates on the table or beneath vases on a side table. It felt good to help these village elders; I felt needed, I felt alive. Their joy filled me with happiness and light, giving me a sense that I wasn’t living in vain.
After finishing my photos inside the house, I decided to check what was behind the door. To my great disappointment, it wouldn’t budge. Something on the other side was blocking it, preventing it from opening more than a few inches. Even a cat couldn’t squeeze through that narrow gap, let alone me. I figured it’d be a good idea to check out the nearby houses and ask the local old-timers about this rundown place. I’d come up with a way to get through the locked door later. I walked along the stream, trying not to step on the branches that had fallen into the water, obstructing the flow, since I didn’t want to soak my shoes. I’d fallen into a stream once before, in the middle of winter, no less. Luckily, one of the grannies let me stay over and dry off by her warm stove. Now it was mid-September, pretty warm, but not warm enough to risk wet boots. I carefully stepped across the stones to the road that hung over this spot like a bridge. From above, it looked like a regular asphalt road, but a small section of it separated the stream from the village, forming a sort of miniature dam beneath the bridge. Through it, water trickled down in a tiny waterfall, feeding the stream near the ruined shack. Under the bridge, the water spread out wide, but it wasn’t deep—probably just above my ankles. I climbed onto one of the rocks under the bridge and pulled a roll and a yogurt from my backpack. I wanted to sit in the cozy shade of the bridge and have a little snack, watching the sunlight dance across the leaves, just starting to turn with autumn’s yellow tint, and the gnarled branches of a fallen tree. It fit perfectly into this scene—the shack slowly dying under the weight of time, the tree decaying day by day. Nature knew how to craft incredible stories; I didn’t need to strain myself. All I had to do was open my eyes and look to see the story of yet another forgotten place.
I jotted down a few notes in my notebook for a future story and, after finishing my roll, climbed out from under the bridge. I crossed the road to the other side, toward the small lake. I liked capturing ordinary, colorful landscapes too. Rivers and lakes always added beauty to the frame. Taking a deep breath of fresh village air, I scanned the lake, mentally noting what to capture on camera. After taking my shots, I walked closer to the shore and spotted an ancient-looking grandma with a fishing rod. I greeted her, asked about her catch, and then inquired about the ruined house. The old woman smiled, revealing a mouth with several missing teeth.
“Oh, child, there were legends about that house even when I was knee-high to a grasshopper,” she said, turning her attention back to her fishing float but continuing her story. “Before the war, a witch lived there. Her hair was light and curly, as I recall, and her eyes were black as coal from a stove. She didn’t do any evil; she even healed folks with herbs, at least those brave enough to ask for her help. But people didn’t like her anyway. Witchcraft always scares the ignorant. My mama strictly forbade me from going near the witch’s house, told me not to even poke my nose in that direction. But who can keep kids in line? A little group of us would go there—me, my younger sister, a friend with her brother, and a buddy of his. We loved hiding in the bushes and secretly watching the witch sort through her herbs, hang them to dry, or grind something in a small mortar. In the evenings, we’d build a fire by the stream, bake bread and potatoes, and tell each other made-up stories about our witch. We had so much fun. And then the war came.”
“Did a shell destroy the house?” I asked, since she’d gone quiet.
“Oh no, dear!” the old woman seemed to snap out of her thoughts. “The witch’s house survived. The sad story happened after the war. A family moved to our village—a man and his wife, three little kids, and a girl almost of marrying age, about 15 or 16 at the time. She and I became fast friends since we were the same age. Turns out, she was an orphan, living with her aunt’s family as more of a servant than kin. She worked hard for everyone, looked after the little ones, and got no thanks for it—just a bench by the stove to sleep on and barely enough food. Her name was Vesta Luchina, I remember it clear as day, such a beautiful, resonant name, not like my plain old Katya Bilokon. And the stories she told me! About house spirits, forest creatures, and other worlds. Vesta swore she’d been to those worlds herself as a child, before the war, when she lived right here in the witch’s house. She claimed the witch was her mother. Said her father had left them, and her mother gave her up to an older sister who was married but couldn’t have kids of her own. Later, the aunt had children and stopped loving Vesta like her own. I wanted to believe her story, but I didn’t remember any kids in the witch’s house, and I was too scared to ask my mama. My grandma said she’d seen someone visit the witch with a child a few times, but she might’ve made that up. By then, she couldn’t even remember her own name when I started asking questions. Vesta looked like our witch—same light, curly hair and dark eyes—so eventually, I decided she was telling me the truth. I don’t know if it was true or not, but let’s say it was. At some point, Vesta ran away from her aunt and started living with the witch, helping her with healing and gathering herbs and berries. By then, I wasn’t hiding anymore; I’d visit the house openly and even went inside. It was a regular little place, just with herbs hanging everywhere, jars of all sorts of ingredients, and beautiful handmade crafts. One day, I came to visit, and it was empty—no Vesta, no witch-mother. For a whole week, I kept going back to that house, but there wasn’t a trace of them. I thought my friend had left me, and it hurt so much. Only on the eighth day did they show up again. I scolded Vesta for leaving without telling me, and she spun this wild story about another world she and her mother had supposedly traveled to. In that world, magic hummed in the air, and people lived happily. She dreamed of moving there for good and even invited me to come along. I just laughed. How did she get there, I wondered. She told me their shack had this strange ability to transport people between two worlds. I pressed for details, but she just said I had to believe and, if I wanted, I could go with them. But I refused. I already had a fiancé, and I didn’t want to go anywhere. Besides, I didn’t believe in her fairy tales, even though I loved hearing a good story. Vesta disappeared again, sometimes for a week, sometimes a month, over the next 15 years, until she finally left for good with her witch-mother. That was in 1968. We sat at my house over tea and pies with her, her young daughter, and her son. Vesta said she wouldn’t be back for a long time and invited me to come with her again, but I refused once more. I never saw my Vesta after that. The house started falling apart; vandals and time helped it crumble. No one ever claimed the witch’s land, afraid it was cursed. And that’s the whole story, dear. What did you say your name was?”
“Aurora.”
“What a lovely name,” Grandma Katya said with a warm smile, but then she froze. She studied me with an intense gaze, as if examining something, and then said something odd: “You know, you remind me of Vesta somehow. If you had brown eyes and longer hair, you’d be the spitting image of her! I’d bet my life on it!”
“Oh, come on, Grandma Katya, you’re making that up,” I said with a smile. The things old folks come up with. I pulled a bag of candies and marshmallows from my backpack and handed it to her. “Here, take this as thanks for the fascinating story. I travel to villages all the time looking for stories about abandoned houses, and yours is the most interesting I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” Grandma Katya said, gratefully accepting my little gift. “I’m just telling the truth.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, I don’t need anything. I’d just love to see Vesta one more time. If you ever meet an old woman who looks like you, tell her Katya Bilokon still remembers her and is waiting for a visit.”
“Sure thing,” I said with a smile. These grannies are such a funny bunch, always spinning tales. But I loved spending time with them.
After saying goodbye to Grandma Katya, I returned to the witch’s shack. Now I saw it in a different light. In the golden glow of autumn, it truly seemed to radiate some kind of enchantment. And the most magic of all seemed to emanate from the locked door. I had to find a way inside. Circling the shack, I spotted a small hole in the wall near the ground. The only window was boarded up. And, darn it, something compelled me to crawl through that hole. I barely squeezed inside and found myself in a small bedroom. Turns out, the door was blocked by a heavy wardrobe. There was enough light in here because the ceiling was riddled with holes. So, I could’ve gotten in from above too. I took a series of decent shots, deeply moved by Grandma Katya’s story. I could almost feel the magic in this little room, as silly as that thought seemed to me. Come on, what kind of magic? I’m a grown woman! But no, my heart still believed.
After finishing my shoot, I sat on a wooden bed covered with an old, colorful rug and pulled out a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of tea from my backpack. After eating, I slung the backpack over my shoulder again and leaned against the wall. Despite the decay and dampness, it felt cozy here. A tiny, sheltered world far from everything else. Lost in thought, I didn’t notice when I drifted off to sleep.
I woke up abruptly, startled by a loud noise. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, I realized it was the rumble of thunder. A storm? Where did that come from? The sky had been clear all day. I looked up to check the sky through the hole in the ceiling, but there was no hole, no sky, and no familiar room. I was in a completely different place!