Stepa

After the bustling metropolis, the village seemed like the end of the world. Dusty roads, the smell of dried hay, and a ringing silence that made my ears pop. Grandma greeted me with warm pies, but her gaze turned worried when I got ready for a walk to the forest lake.

"Don't go to the old dam, granddaughter," she whispered, crossing herself. "Stepan lives there. He's cursed. His skin is like an animal's, covered in white marks. They say his mother sinned during a thunderstorm, and that's why the sky marked the boy. The old people give him a wide berth, and you shouldn't either."

I just sighed. Village superstitions always seemed like a relic of the past to me.

I met Stepan at sunset. He was sitting on a fallen tree trunk by the water, his hood pulled tight despite the heat. Noticing me, he jumped up abruptly, preparing to run into the thicket.

"Stop! I just wanted to ask for directions," I shouted.

He froze. As I approached, he reluctantly pulled back his hood. In the twilight, his face looked unusual: milky-white patches stood out against his dark skin, like strange islands on a map. One patch extended over his eyebrow, making it appear half-gray.

“Go away,” he muttered, hiding his hands.