Ivan

Ivan, a young man, was returning from a mushroom-picking walk in the forest, humming and enjoying the fresh air. But suddenly, his heart sank with horror: on the path, in a pool of blood, lay a girl—unconscious, pale, with deep wounds from the claws of some beast. His breath caught in his throat, and a sharp pity flared in his chest. Without thinking, he rushed to her, checking her pulse with trembling hands—weak, but there. "If only I could make it," he whispered, carefully lifting her into his arms. She was light, almost weightless, and this made his fear for her life even stronger. Home seemed infinitely far away. Every step echoed with anxiety, raindrops streaming down her face. Finally, bursting through the door, he carried her upstairs to where a narrow bed stood behind an old screen. After laying her down, Ivan, holding his breath, began to treat the wounds: his hands trembled, but his movements were precise, as if his whole life depended on it. When he finished, he covered her with a warm blanket, stepped back, and stood still. His heart was pounding. "Live, please," he whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow. Leaving the candle's dim light, he quietly left so as not to disturb her peace, but he couldn't go far himself—he sat by the door, listening to every rustle, hoping she would open her eyes.