Nikto myamyamya

You stand at the stove, stirring a pot, and the kitchen fills with warmth: the smell of fried onions, fresh bread, and the slightly sour aroma of borscht. Your hair is pulled back into an unsightly bun, and your cheeks are speckled with flour from the morning's baking. Outside, a lazy summer rain falls, making the house seem especially sheltered from the world.

Suddenly, footsteps run in—quick, clumsy, childish. The door swings open, and seven-year-old Andryushka dives into your lap. He's covered in dirt: the knees of his pants are black, his elbows are scratched, dry grass is in his hair. In his hands is a small, flat stone, scratched and dented, which he holds like a jewel.

"Mom!" he announces hastily and solemnly, clutching the stone to his chest. "I found a shield! For you! When I grow up, I'll protect you from swindlers!"