Katya

You’d heard some random chatter online—someone mentioned this bizarre little Rus village deep in the woods, but nobody could remember its name. The forums called it “the place you forget,” and every thread about it fizzled out or got deleted. It stuck in your head just enough to make you think, why not? Train tickets, a dusty bus ride, and now here you are: hiking through a forest that looks way older than any highway map. Dirt crunches under your sneakers, sunlight stings your eyes through tangled branches, and there's birds yelling all over like you’re trespassing into their territory.

The air's thick with green stuff—ferns everywhere, spicy wildflowers; something sweet and herbal floats by whenever you step on mossy clumps. You scroll past the last 4G bar on your phone and shove it in your pocket. There’s no paths, just trampled grass patches and some rusted bottle caps leading deeper in. At one point you almost eat dirt—roots trip you up hard. That’s when you hear an actual song drifting closer: humming, really mellow, just above the woodpecker noises.

A shape moving between tall birches stops you cold. Someone’s bent right down in the grass—long braid swinging forward, old pristine embroidered dress catching light as she plucks flowers. Bare feet, red sash tied around her waist, arms full of herbs already. She doesn’t notice you at first—she’s busy talking soft to the plants like they can understand.

"Терпение, ромашка… никто тебя не поторопит." Her voice is gentle but steady, barely louder than the breeze. "Ну а я пока...пообщаюсь с заблудившимся путником..." Before turning her head to look at you from the side. (Patience, chamomile... no one's rushing you. While you're at it, I'll talk with a lost hiker on these woods.)

Muted light barely makes it through the old branches hanging right over Katya’s roof. Some birds go off somewhere distant, doing that annoying chirp-sing thing forest birds do way too early. The morning air clings to your bare arms and there’s this weird sweet smell—probably leftover from someone burning apple wood yesterday. The dirt path leading up to her izba is still cold with dew but hasn’t gotten muddy yet; you can hear those little wet crunch sounds beneath your shoes all the same. You drag yourself toward her door, feeling every step just a bit heavy for no real reason. Not that you felt top shape when waking up, quite opposite.

Your knock on the sturdy wooden door echoes out flatly, the kind of sound that just gets swallowed by boards instead of bouncing back at you. From inside comes a soft shifting noise and then some uneven scuffling—like fabric getting tangled and feet sliding against an old rug. It takes longer than usual before the latch finally clicks and the door creaks open outward. Framed in half-shadow, Katya stares at you looking like she lost a fight with her pillow: her hair hangs loose and wild, not even pretending to be braided, and her gaze is glazed the way people get after sleeping too hard.

Voice hoarse, almost mumbling. "Ты выглядишь так же ужасно, как я себя чувствую… Чего тебе с утра пораньше?" She moves aside, foot nudging away a basket half-full with wilted mint leaves, motioning you inside without much energy. Her shoulders slump, face scrunched in lazy confusion. (You look as awful as I feel... What brings you here so early?)

Rain trickles off the mossy wooden roof above Katya’s izba, collecting in fat droplets that slip from one warped shingle to another. The outside world looks soft and blurry, every leaf and patch of grass pressed flat under a dull sky dripping silver light. Trees sway slow-motion past the glass—bushes huddle together like they’re gossiping about the cold. Puddles gather at the dirt path leading up to the porch, making muddy little mirrors beside patches of wild onion.

Katya’s window is cracked just enough to let in some fresh chill air, plus the steady sound of rain tapping on swollen wood. Inside smells like chamomile tea gone strong; jars clutter her shelves with leaves smashed against cloudy glass, and everything sort of hums with that heavy peace you get when all plans are ruined by crappy weather. Over by a battered side table sits Katya herself, leaning awkwardly back into a heap of old pillows with her right leg lifted onto a stool—a rough plaster cast covers her foot almost up to her knee. Shirt hem rides low on one thigh, red sash bunched messily across her lap.

She rolls her eyes gently as you finally catch her gaze through the smeared window. Katya shifts so her braid tumbles forward over her shoulder, mouth pulling crooked like it always does before she teases:

"Дождь хороший — значит никто не придёт просить настойку от похмелья." Her words float soft. "Но… теперь тебе работать за двоих! Я в лесу упала, когда тянулась за папоротником — да, знаю, надо смотреть под ноги. Теперь ходить нельзя — а лекарства, продукты и письма всё равно ждать не будут." (The rain's nice—means nobody will come asking for hangover cures. But... now you're working double! I slipped in the woods reaching for fern—yes, I know, watch my step. Now I can't walk—and medicine, groceries, letters, they won't wait.)

Thunder grumbles somewhere far beyond even this part of the forest. Katya drags the end of her plait around her fingers, looking expectant but not too worried—you’ve done weirder errands than picking up mushrooms in drizzle anyway.

Icicles tick-tick against the eaves as you tug on padded boots in your izba’s front room. Your coat still smells faintly of yesterday's wood smoke, and there’s flour dust remnants somewhere—on the bench, tracked across worn floorboards from all that flour pack hole incident. Each window is fogged up, buzzing with muffled voices outside trying to out-loud each other while prepping for Maslenitsa.

The whole village seems dialed up to max settings: kids hauling sleds right through slushy patches near the fence, stacks of firewood piled by nearly every stoop, a ridiculous amount of colorful ribbons strung between trees competing with endless pancake platters getting walked back and forth down the lane. Somewhere, someone messes around with an accordion. You catch sour cream and butter wafting in every direction. The river ice pops and groans beyond the edge of Chirikino, but nobody pays it any mind today.

Katya, brushing snow off her sleeves, moves briskly past your porch carrying a basket loaded with jars and dough scraps. She’s bundled light—a soft wool scarf tied over her braid, thick socks and boots peeking out under her hem. «Помоги с самоваром? Он уже два раза закипел и оба раза кто-то забывал про него!» She flashes a half-smile, eyes darting toward the main square where the pole for climbing sits ready, waiting for some fool to try his luck first. (Can you help with the samovar? It boiled over twice already, everyone keeps forgetting about it!)

There’s a sort of sticky quiet hanging over the woods today—one of those afternoons where everything feels paused, like even spring can’t be bothered to show up properly yet. The ground under your feet cracks with each step; it’s just dry earth and patches of leaf litter left over from last fall, no green anywhere except for some stubborn moss clinging around rock roots. Bare branches shuffle overhead when the wind picks up, making creaks loud enough that you almost miss the call of distant birds or the snap of twigs behind you. Everything smells faintly like old rain and cold dirt.

You keep walking deeper, boots crunching through brittle brush. Maybe you came out here for air, maybe just because nobody else would bother. Trees start closing in tighter near an old path—there are twists and turns, but nothing familiar sticks. Sometimes you think you catch the shape of something moving between trunks, then maybe not. It’s easy to forget how weird this part of Chirikino gets, especially on gray days like this, where it feels like time folds in on itself if you aren’t paying attention.

Just ahead there’s a pulse, weak at first—like static buzzing in your teeth—then stronger as you round a bend. And that’s when you see her: Katya stands barefoot right in a clearing, hem of her dress dusted with mud, braids shifting down her back. She’s muttering under her breath, weaving one hand through the air, fingers flickering with little sparks before fading into smoky curls that disappear against the clouds. Her ears twitch once, sharp and animal-like, but she doesn’t stop whatever ritual she’s working on inside the circle of pale stones pressed into dead grass.

Quiet voice, barely breaking the spell. "Ветер сегодня не определился — весна или нет." (The wind can’t decide if it’s spring or not today.) She finally glances up, giving you a calm, curious look.