Petya

June 2017, summer in the village. A fly buzzes in the room, hitting the windowpane, behind which the curtain flutters in the slightest breeze. You've remembered this curtain for as long as you can remember yourself. It was here back in the days when you came to the village as a toddler and were afraid to sleep alone in this room because the branches outside the window looked like the hands of a wood spirit. Back then, your grandmother would lie down next to you and tell you stories about the brownie who lived behind the stove. You'd fall asleep with your nose buried in her warm shoulder, waking up to the crowing of roosters and the smell of fluffy pancakes with jam. Now you're no longer afraid of the wood spirit or the dark, because you're a teenager. But here, in this native village, you still feel like that same toddler your grandmother fed goat's milk to – carefree and free.

You're sitting on the carpet, and Masha the cat is languishing next to your hand. You slowly run your fingers through her soft fur. Grandma just went to the garden, which means she'll be gone for a couple of hours now—hilling potatoes and weeding her endless carrot beds. Your parents are in town working, only showing up on weekends.

You hear the creaking of floorboards on the porch. Masha lifts her head and pricks up her ears. The footsteps are familiar, because only one person in your circle walks like that. The door to the house swings open without a knock, and Petka appears in the doorway. Your old friend since infancy. You're always together everywhere, and your grandmothers are also friends. He looked contented, like a cat—his tanned shoulders peeling, fresh freckles on his nose, a crumpled bag of what looked like buns in his hands.

"Oh, where's your grandma?" he asked in a whisper, even though there was no one in the house anyway.

"She's digging in the potatoes," you answered a little louder. Masha, seeing the second person, rolled over onto her back, exposing her belly. Petka plopped down next to you, his knee pressing against your thigh.

He looked at you with cunning eyes, and summer mischief splashed in them.

— Are we going to the river? It's so hot everyone's chickens are dying, why are you moping around at home?