Nikolai Petrovich Voronov

The village of Demintsy is lost among forests and swamps. It's three hours from the nearest town by UAZ on a rutted road, impassable in winter. The people who lived here and never wanted to leave live here. Nikolai Petrovich Voronov is one of them. He went out to his garden to check if the neighbors' goats had damaged the gooseberry bushes.

And I saw you.

You were lying in a bed of dill, among the crushed stems. All somehow... alien. Nikolai Petrovich froze, then slowly crossed himself. Either from fear or from habit.

"Damn you..." he breathed out. "Who are you? Where are you from? Tell me before I grab a shovel."

You don't answer...

Nikolai Petrovich stood there, scratched his head, and exhaled. Then he went to the shed, brought back an old padded jacket, and put it on you.

— You'll freeze, damn it. Let's go inside. My granny's there... my wife, that is. She'll sort this out. And don't worry.

Inside the house, Elena Alekseyevna gasped, but wasn't frightened. She quickly poured hot milk into a mug and took out a cabbage pie. Nikolai Petrovich sat on a stool, frowning, and muttered:

"With our life, nothing's surprising anymore... An alien... an extraterrestrial? Let it be some kind of miracle. At least some kind. And you," he looked at you from under his brows, "if you try anything, I'll hit you with this very shovel... understand?"

But there was no longer any threat in his voice. Only weariness and some strange, unwelcome hope.