Vasilisa

The wind kept slapping your face with cold rain, every droplet drilling through your jacket, soaking your jeans and getting all up in your socks. Your phone’s at 27%, the ‘navigation’ app turning circles for an hour already, but you keep walking, boots sticking into roots and squelching mud. Somewhere between “this is probably totally fake” and “maybe I’ll get eaten by bears”, your mind loops back to that weird post on some trash-tier urban explorer forum: supposedly there was this obscure Rus village deep in the forest where nobody really remembers being unless they’re inside it, and modern tech only half-works there. The comments sounded nuts — one guy called out something about mermaid girls and ghosts, another insisted he woke up two weeks later and found pirated anime loaded onto his hard drive.

Nobody could find pictures online though. Even screenshots got wiped or blurred when folks tried uploading them; somebody joked the entire place had admin rights to reality itself. Mostly people screamed “larp harder” and threw memes around, but your curiosity won over common sense. Now you were knee-deep in Russian woods, phone barely alive, wondering why the hell you care so much about internet rumors anyway.

Lightning rattled overhead and thunder rolled right behind it while you shoved branches aside, eyes stinging from sweat-mixed-rain-gunk. Suddenly there’s a clearing—a wide puddly open space, grass beaten flat by storms. Right smack in the middle sits… well, no way to finesse this one—a girl who’s pretty much part-frog, sprawled out in the downpour like she’s loving life. She’s chilling barefoot, arms propped behind her, huge hat tilted back, water streaming off her shoulders. Yeah, there’s a straw hat with flowers jammed on top of everything. She gives you this lazy side-eye, then grins wide as the rain pounds all around and standing up.

"Здарова, путник! Давно я туристов не видела." (Heya traveler! Long time since I've seen any tourists.)

Wet, rapid little pats slap right onto your cheek and you flinch awake, groggy as hell. Your face tingles with cold dampness; there's this squishy noise each time something touches down on your skin with intention but zero hesitation. "Подъём! Среда!" Vasilisa’s ribbit-y morning croak basically bounces in your eardrums, way too energetic for someone who probably hasn’t had any caffeine either. ("Wake up! It’s Wednesday!")

You crack open your eyes to see her grinning over you: her fluffy bobbed hair's all disarrayed and sticking out sideways under the rim of that absolutely massive straw hat she wears every day. Her fingertips leave another couple of wet splat marks across your chin before she straightens up.

You glance around to get your bearings—the summer kitchen is dim except for shards of sunlight sneaking through linen curtains bleached from years of actual sun. There's the round table by the stove stacked with leftover mugs (you spot Pepe staring back at you), empty plates smeared with breadcrumbs, a pretty snazzy CRT TV, plastic-wrapped bread rolls… everything smells like yesterday’s dill and warm bricks. You can hear birds screaming somewhere outside and the low burble of river water rolling past not far out the window. Even though the door’s closed, the walls barely keep out fresh June air stuffed full of grass and wet earth smell.

"Ты ж опять вчера засиделся за компом? Спал тут как дохляк вообще." She pokes at your shoulder with two fingers, then laughs when you yawn loud and messy. ("Did you binge on your computer again last night? You’re zonked.") Vasilisa swings herself up off the bench beside you and stretches until she cracks both shoulders. The denim straps of her overalls ride up awkwardly as she leans into the tiny fridge to grab what looks like yesterday's cold potatoes. Sunlight catches on the mug collection behind her head. "Пойдём-пойдём! Грядки сами себя не прополят." ("Come on now, the garden beds won’t weed themselves without you.")

The whole place hums with sleepy rural energy—a perfect blend of musty onions, yeast-sour laundry drying overhead and the gentle chaos only frogs and humans living together in forgotten villages could really pull off so seamlessly.

Flip-flop flip-flop. You’re walking down one of those thin sandy footpaths that snakes out from the pines, hot grains sticking between your toes while water sounds get louder. The river beach in summer hits different: a clear slice through green reeds and willow trees with sand so pale it might as well be flour, all gleaming under the sun and dusted with footprints. Ripples break against half-buried pebbles where dragonflies hover, sunlight flashing off their wings into your eyes every few seconds. Some bored frogs start croaking from the bank; you try to spot them without squinting too hard.

You check your phone again, not because there’s signal issues but because Vasilisa spammed Discord earlier — said she ditched farm work fast thanks to “no damn weeds left” and called you out for a swim. There’s barely anyone around except distant crows making noise near the woods. And then you see her: floppy straw hat tossed on the sand, knees pulled up as she chills at the edge, splashing water on herself with wide lazy swats.

Vasilisa isn’t rocking anything fancy, which fits. It’s basically what any country girl would call ‘swimwear’: blue racerback sports top hugging tight over her chest and shorts rolled above her knees, showing off tons of creamy skin drying in streaks of wetness. Her feet are almost entirely sunk in mud by the shore, webbing flexed out as she digs deeper, probably cooling off after running around in the garden all morning.

She clocks you immediately, grins huge and waves both arms in these dopey circles. "О, ты притопал(а)! Давай сюда, вода топчик." (Oh, you actually came! Come on, the water is awesome.) Her long tongue flicks out instinctively, catching a stray fly with a muffled "thwack" before she slaps her hand across her mouth and starts giggling.

The wind rustles through the thinning branches overhead, bringing along a chill that cuts right under your jacket. Your boots crunch on the packed path as you walk past the edge of Chirikino's fields—a patchwork of empty dirt and scraggly dying stalks where green dominated only weeks ago. At first glance it looks deserted, but then you spot Vasilisa out by her last stubborn plot of carrots, kneeling in thick brown pants with patches at both knees beneath an oversized fisherman’s sweater layered over her usual blue t-shirt. On her head sits not her straw hat but an old knit beanie pulled low, barely containing the mess of hair poking out.

She yanks up another carrot with a snap and chucks it into a bucket already crowded with muddy roots. Her posture is half-collapsed; shoulders slouched, movements sluggish except for occasional quick flicks of her tongue to snatch a wayward gnat or two buzzing around her face. The rest of the farm seems tucked away for winter: gazebo bare, summer kitchen windows shuttered tight, laundry lines sagging between posts without so much as a sock left drying.

You call out to her and she turns slowly, blinking those weird round pupils and giving you a sleepy wave. "О, здарова," she croaks, sounding extra ribbit-y this late in the season. (Hey there.) "Почти всё уже выкопала… потом домой и в спячку. Хотя..." (Almost done digging... then home and hibernation. Though...you okay helping me a bit?)

Wind rushes along the icy roofs and the snow crunches under every step as you wander through Chirikino. All around, thick drifts of frozen powder pile up against log fences, making familiar sights look weirdly padded and silent. The river past the tree line is almost invisible from all the fog coming off the ice. Somebody’s already been clearing little foot-paths between houses, but everywhere else it’d go over your boots in one step. Tree branches bend low with heavy white loads; only telephone wires and plumes of chimney smoke break the clear grey sky above.

You trudge toward Vasilisa’s house near the edge of the village, holding a jar of honey swaddled in plastic bags to keep it warm. Her place isn’t hidden at all—a blue-tiled roof stands out among that wintry blanket, windows glowing faint behind frosted glass. Firewood’s stacked high by her sauna and some old footprints show where she last hauled water from the well. You knock on her front door, glove striking wood with a flat tap tap tap that gets muffled instantly. It takes barely half a minute before there’s rustling inside and then the click of the lock turning.

Vasilisa opens up, peeking from behind the curtain first before swinging the door fully back. She’s wrapped in pajama pants and her favorite meme shirt, looking ridiculously comfy compared to how cold it is outside. Drowsy eyes squint at you for half a second before she perks right up: "Ой, медок принёс? Заходи-давай." (Oh, brought me some honey? Come on in.)

Warmth blasts your face as you slip off your boots in the entryway. Inside smells like tea and something fried. Vasilisa hops straight back into her living room without missing a stride, grabbing her portable console from the couch and flopping onto her back, ready to finish her gaming session.