Chapter 1. Monologue of the Sky
The sky over the city darkened in mere seconds, as if someone above had decided to pull down heavy, leaden curtains that hid the last rays of the fading day. The air, only moments ago filled with the scent of asphalt and the distant sweetness of a blooming park, grew thick and damp, foretelling an inevitable storm.
And the storm came — not gentle and meditative, but furious, crashing down upon the avenues and narrow lanes with a solid wall of water that made shop windows tremble under countless strikes. It seemed as though nature herself had decided to do a great wash, wishing to rinse the city clean of its fatigue, disappointments, and the quiet sorrow of its inhabitants.
Artem pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine of his car, which had long since passed its prime. Silence filled the cabin, broken only by the steady drumming of rain on the roof and the soothing whisper of the wipers, now frozen in mute anticipation. The air smelled of worn vinyl, strong coffee from a thermos, and damp fur — traces of yesterday’s passenger and his large, restless dog.
He looked into the rearview mirror at his reflection — tired eyes, faint lines at the temples hinting at sleepless nights and days full of monotonous errands.
In recent years, his life had felt like running in circles: early mornings, endless delivery routes, and occasional side jobs giving rides to acquaintances — or to strangers whose lonely figures at cold, wet bus stops stirred something in his heart. He couldn’t just drive by; his heart, against all logic, remained soft.
And it was that soft, responsive place inside him that made him notice her that day.
She stood under a small umbrella that was clearly losing the battle against the downpour, at a bus stop in the heart of the city — at the crossroads of Mira Avenue and Autumn Street. Water streamed down the frayed fabric, forming a fragile watery barrier around her.
Her figure looked fragile and defenseless. Gray hair gathered in a neat but soggy bun. Old-fashioned glasses that framed a deep, thoughtful gaze. A coat — once sturdy and warm, now worn thin at the seams — still carried the memory of many winters. In her hands, pressed to her chest, she clutched an old imitation-leather handbag, from the half-open flap of which peeked the corner of a familiar yellow medical file.
She looked at the passing cars with such silent pleading, such quiet, almost desperate hope, that with every vehicle speeding by, it seemed a little warmth drained from her face. She didn’t wave, didn’t try to stop anyone — she simply stood there, as though waiting for the universe itself to send her a sign.
Something in Artem’s chest stirred. It had already been a rough day — several canceled orders, a long queue at the gas station, and at home a pile of bills that promised no comfort. Fatigue pressed on his shoulders like lead. But he couldn’t just leave her there, alone, under that furious sky.
He started the car, rolled closer, and lowered the window, feeling the splash of water from the street hit his face.
“Are you going far?” he called out, raising his voice above the roar of the rain.
The woman approached slowly, uncertainly, clutching her bag as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
“To Ozyorny Lane, if possible,” she said softly but distinctly. “Near the old clinic.”
“Please, get in,” Artem nodded. “I’ll take you — don’t worry.”
She froze for a moment, a trace of disbelief in her eyes.
“You… mean that seriously?”
“Of course. In weather like this, I wouldn’t wish waiting for a bus even on an enemy. It’s on my way.”
She carefully got into the passenger seat, as though afraid to disturb invisible spirits living in the car, and placed her bag on her knees. “Thank you,” she whispered faintly. Artem didn’t ask unnecessary questions; he sensed that this woman carried a quiet world of sorrow within her — one a stranger had no right to intrude upon.
He turned the wipers back on. They tapped like a metronome to their silent journey through the curtain of rain. Outside, the city blurred into gray-blue streaks, the glow of lamps and neon signs smearing into ghostly halos.
Only when the navigator signaled the upcoming turn onto Ozyorny Lane did she break the silence softly:
“Do you… have a family?”
The question was so unexpected that Artem almost smiled.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“You remind me of my boy,” she said, her voice trembling. “Only he… he hasn’t come to see me for a long time.”
Artem said nothing. He simply nodded, focusing on the road. Soon they stopped in front of a modest three-story building, its façade marked by the years.
“Thank you, young man,” she said as she stepped out, opening her poor, dripping umbrella once again. “You’re very kind. People like you are rare these days.”
He smiled warmly. “All the best to you.”
She nodded and disappeared into the dark of the entryway. For a few moments, the cabin still held a faint scent of lavender — and something bitterly medicinal.
Artem never thought to ask her name.
