Belka had been wandering the deserted expanses of the supermarket for half an hour, pushing a cart in front of her and filling it with sweets. She carelessly swept several boxes of Oreo cookies from the shelf along with packages of chocolate eclairs, Charmel marshmallows, strawberry strudel, and moved on in search of canned peaches. Now only such treats could be found in her perpetually empty refrigerator. Belka hadn't eaten at home in ages and couldn't remember the last time she turned on the stove. Everything was wrong in her hectic life. She hadn't even seen sunlight since last year. That's right, it was a couple of weeks ago when she went to buy New Year's gifts.
Night and darkness had long become her constant companions. While ordinary people, weary from the day, sank into sweet dreams in their cozy beds, Belka's workday was just beginning. Like a vampire, she would emerge from her lair on Michurinsky Avenue when the city was enveloped in the dark, downy blanket of deep night, and return home long before the first rays of dawn. And when she woke, twilight would already be thickening outside her window again. This had continued day after day for the past few weeks, turning into an endless cycle of nights and loneliness. Winter, gloom, and liters of "Adrenaline Rush" seemed to follow her everywhere. She had managed to find herself a long polar night even in Moscow. All that was missing was the Northern Lights she'd dreamed of as a child with her friend Katyusha.
So, in the silence of this Christmas night[1], Belka, as if true to her established rhythm, tossed and turned in bed. Daytime sleep had long become a habit for her, leaving the nights for wakefulness and tasks. But tonight, even stubborn cocoa, usually a reliable sleeping pill, couldn't lull her to sleep. The clock struck four in the morning, and sleep still wouldn't come.
With a sigh, Belka reached for the remote control and turned on the TV, then pulled out a magazine. Her new, unexpected hobby was Sudoku. A few days ago, tired of the silence of the workday after reading Toshikazu Kawaguchi's touching novel "Before the Coffee Gets Cold," she accidentally stumbled upon a magazine with puzzles that someone had forgotten. Filling the squares with numbers captivated her completely, and she brought the magazine home.
Now it had become her nighttime entertainment. Belka chose the most difficult Sudokus, set a timer on her phone for ten to fifteen minutes, and tested herself: could she complete it within the allotted time?
But soon the game acquired a special meaning. Belka came up with a rule: make a wish before starting, and if she managed to correctly fill in all the squares before the alarm rang, it meant that the wish would definitely come true.
Belka imagined what her colleagues would think if they found out about her weird hobby. They would probably twirl their fingers at their temples, taking her for a lunatic. A bright, twenty-year-old girl should be spending time on dates, in noisy companies, and at fun parties, not locking herself up at home within four walls with Sudoku in her hands.
The late-night show flickered on the television screen, peppered with guest celebrities. At its center was Artem Golub, a popular TV host, animatedly recounting the story of how he met his fiancée, Asya. Without a doubt, he was a talented journalist, though his envious peers whispered behind his back that his rapid rise in television was due less to his intellect and more to his striking good looks. According to readers of a glossy magazine, Golub was among the most beautiful guys in the capital.
Listening to his captivating tale of how fate had brought him and his future wife together at a "World Class" fitness club, Belka didn't even notice as she sketched a portrait of Golub on the edge of the magazine page. It happened almost unconsciously. The same sly, squinting gaze, the broad smile, the tousled hair – he truly possessed an irresistible charm, and no small number of female viewers were likely biting their lips in frustration at the news that this handsome man was about to tie the knot.
But Belka was shocked by something else entirely – she had never been able to draw! Even simple flowers always came out unnaturally awkward, let alone portraits. Marina Alekseevna, her school art teacher, initially thought that this impudent girl was deliberately mocking her when she saw Belka's nightmarish attempts at still life, and without hesitation, she'd mark her down with a failing grade in her school diary.
Belka had often heard stories about talents that blossomed unexpectedly. Her friend Nastya, hoping for such a miracle, dreamed that one day she would wake up and sing with a voice like Adele's, that all the media, social networks, and Telegram channels would buzz about this phenomenon, that a famous producer would notice her, that they would write an amazing song for her, shoot a music video on the shores of the ocean, nominate her for an MTV award as "Breakthrough of the Year," and that TikTok users would create videos to her hit.
However, Belka never lived in the clouds, and ironically, the wheel of fortune stopped on her, specifically on the spot marked with the talent of an artist. Excitement seized her.
She had to try to draw something more complicated!
Belka jumped out of bed and, unable to resist the impulse, rushed onto the balcony. This cozy little apartment had become her refuge only a couple of months ago, when she left her parents' house after yet another argument. Some things had been left behind by the previous tenants, including a children's album with paints. How many times had she intended to get rid of this junk, but the thought always managed to slip her mind under the pressure of other, more exciting ideas, and these quiet ghosts of the past were destined to gather dust on the balcony.
And now, finally, the paints and the album had their moment. Shivering in the cold in her pajamas and barefoot in her slippers, Belka stubbornly rummaged through the contents of the box until she found the coveted package, and with a triumphant look, she dashed back into the warm room.
Suddenly, Belka was seized by the desire to paint a landscape – a cute, cozy house on the riverbank, bathed in the gilded foliage of an autumn evening. During these magical sunset hours, when pink velour clouds are obediently reflected in the mirror-like blue of the water, it seems as if the whole world has frozen in anticipation. Not a single breath of wind, only silence and smoothness, as if someone invisible on the other side of the screen had pressed pause. And you walk on the crunchy yellow leaves in this ringing silence, feeling a complete unity with nature, and you hear your own thoughts, which flow slowly, like the clear water in the river.
By the beginning of five, the painting was finished. Belka turned it over in her hands, not without pride, reflecting on the fact that miracles really do happen. Before, she couldn't have imagined that she would ever be able to create such beauty. If only Marina Alekseevna could see her landscape, she would be blown away! She would now know how to comfort children without artistic abilities, telling them about her student who suddenly, unexpectedly, acquired the gift of an artist.
The absorbing work on the painting awakened her appetite. Belka suddenly craved her favorite canned peaches! She would happily devour a whole jar!
As usual, doing everything that popped into her head in a surge of impulsiveness, Belka threw a long down jacket directly over her pajamas, splattered with paint, and rushed out of the apartment. Fortunately, the supermarket was open 24 hours, and it was just a stone's throw away – she didn't even have to cross the avenue.
Now, Belka wandered along the aisles of groceries, pushing a cart in front of her into which she piled various sweets, including half a dozen cans of peaches. From the direction of the only open checkout, an old hit by the girl band "Serebro" drifted from the radio.

[1] In Russia, Christmas is celebrated on January 7th.

Taya was barely holding herself together. Her stomach cramped with hunger as if unknown forces were twisting it, draining her of her last reserves. Nervously tapping a pencil against her desk, she tried to focus on an article about the mysterious phenomenon of "déjà vu," but her thoughts were repeatedly hijacked by the fragrant pizza on the neighboring desk. The scents of hot cheese, ham, and savory spices, spreading throughout the office, teased her, beckoned her, and tickled her nerves. It was as if they were deliberately mocking her.
Working at the "World of Secrets" newspaper, dedicated to astrology, magic, and mysticism, where employees preferred to order food to the office during lunch breaks, had become a true torment for her. And this ordeal had been going on for six months now. But she had no choice. A journalism graduate with honors, Taya had knocked on the doors of serious publications, only to be met with no results, and for many months she had eked out a living on modest freelance fees until, finally, she received an offer from the second-rate "World of Secrets." To refuse it would have been an unaffordable luxury for her, and now her employment record boasted the official entry "journalist."
Varya, her roommate in Novye Cheryomushki[1], whom they had managed to rent an apartment with at a ridiculously low price from their classmate's grandfather in their fifth year of university, often teased Taya. She repeated that she should be working not at the "World of Secrets," but at the "World of Diets."
Varvara always watched Taya's pursuit of weight loss with bewilderment. The petite, fragile Taya, who could have used carrying bricks in her bag to keep from being blown away by the wind like a feather, dreamed of becoming someone people would describe as "skin and bones," and sighed dreamily as she looked at pictures of anorexic models. Friends had even nicknamed her "Tayutini's Pretty Eyes"[2] because, from endless dieting, all that was left on her face were her eyes – huge, turquoise like the sea, and perpetually hungry. One of these days, Taya would simply melt away[3] before their very eyes.
Speaking of the sea - at the beach, showing off in a swimsuit, baring her flat stomach and thighs without a single hint of cellulite, tanned, with an alluring, dreamy gaze and a mass of long, golden-brown hair, Taya immediately attracted the attention of all the men.
The girls had become friends in their fourth year when Taya transferred to their university from another institution. In those couple of years, they had managed to visit Turkey, Egypt, and Thailand together, and each time Varya, who possessed a feisty character and a black belt in karate, had to save her friend from overly persistent admirers, whom Taika, with her excessive tact, couldn't always tell to get lost.
She tried again to get into work mode and stared intently at the monitor, but her thoughts were once more interrupted by the loud, smacking sounds of Liza, the editor's right-hand girl, who held the position of executive secretary.
"Aaa, the pizza today is just divine! Finger-licking good! Tayush, are you sure you don't want to try some?"
F*k off and leave me alone!
How she longed to shout those words in the face of the gluttonous Liza, but instead, Taya heard her own voice, quiet and restrained:
"Thank you, I'm not hungry."
"Going to sip your weight-loss teas again? Oh, Tayka, you'll ruin yourself! Don't play around with your health."
Taya ignored her comment and hurried to banish the unpleasant thoughts. She really didn't want to end up in the hospital again. Enough was enough; she'd experienced twice what it meant when her stomach stopped working. When you vomited so hard you felt like you were turning inside out, and then you lay under a drip, being fed through a needle because your body couldn't process food anymore. And all around, you could hear the moans of post-operative patients coming out of anesthesia, or newcomers who had arrived by ambulance, their fate yet to be decided.
Taya shuddered as she recalled her days in the hospital. After her second stay in that "wonderful" place, she stopped starving herself, started eating oatmeal in the mornings, and lived by the rule, "Eat breakfast yourself, share lunch with a friend, and give dinner to your enemy." Taya usually had buckwheat with chicken breast for lunch, and snacked on fat-free yogurt and fruit. But once a month, on a weekend, she still allowed herself a "belly feast" - she and Varya would go out into the city and indulge in cozy restaurants.
Nevertheless, sometimes Taya's willpower failed her. Without waiting for the cherished weekend, she could wake up from wild hunger around five in the morning and run to the nearby "Yakitoriya"[4], order several dishes at once, like a real glutton, and with a feeling of extraordinary happiness, devour her early breakfast, enjoying every moment of it in blissful solitude. Or, giving in to temptation, she could break down and empty a jar of her favorite canned peaches in one sitting.
Liza continued to devour the pizza with loud, complimentary comments, increasingly irritating Taya. In many ways, she was a good person—responsive, possessed of a kind heart and a sense of humor. Yet, a shadow of dislike clung to Taya's perception of her, born from one unshakeable truth: Lisa was not thin.
Taya knew it was absurd. A prejudice she battled in the silent chambers of her mind. One couldn't simply cleave humanity into the beautiful and the ugly, thin and fat, and cast the latter aside as social pariahs. Logic, reason, and even a flicker of empathy whispered this to her. Yet, she remained powerless against the tide of her own revulsion, viewing them with a vague, uncomfortable disgust, as if they carried some unseen, contagious disease.
She'd encountered the idea in a self-help book, a glossy tome promising the secrets to happiness. It claimed that one's life was merely the average of the five people with whom they spent the most time. A chilling thought. And so, Taya carefully curated her inner circle, meticulously vetting candidates for beauty, success, and a certain indefinable shimmer of desirability. Only the most radiant and fortunate were granted access to her world, a world she intended to mold in their perfect image.
Liza's age was a complete revelation to Taya. Twenty-five! Almost her contemporary, barely older, yet she looked as if she were well into her thirties. Taya knew that extra weight visually added years, but not to this extent! Liza couldn't be called fat; she barely fit into the category of plump. She was simply a moderately well-fed girl with a feminine figure, who also wasn't shy about wearing tight jeans with a low waist and short t-shirts. And that was what caused Taya the most disgust.
Looking at the belly bulging over her belt, the spreading sides, the sadly sagging breasts (Liza didn't wear bras), and the barely emerging double chin, Taya thought that she wouldn't be able to look at herself in the mirror if she were in her colleague's place.
However, Taya couldn't deny Liza's abilities. In a year and a half, she had managed to become the right hand of the editor – an eccentric and capricious woman with a choreography background, who had simply been lucky enough to marry the director of the publishing house. In the editorial office, the employees among themselves called her the Gorgon – both for her physical resemblance, thanks to her unruly curls sticking out in all directions, and for her nasty character.
Liza's mobile phone vibrated loudly on her desk, and Niletto's voice began to sing the latest hit, "Lyubimka[5]". The girl hastily wiped her greasy, pizza-stained fingers with a napkin and grabbed the phone.
"Hi, babe!... I missed you too... I was just about to call you... I'm not doing anything, just having lunch... What am I eating? Pizza.... With ham and cheese...."
Taya put on her headphones to avoid listening to Liza's saccharine voice cooing with her "Babe." Watching her face melt into a happy smile was sickening.
Even this cow has someone who loves her. Why? What is there to love about her?
After all, Taya, despite her striking appearance and talents, had never been truly loved. Although she had admirers galore. But each of them, captivated by her beauty, having gotten what they wanted, disappeared with incredible speed, leaving her racking her brain over what was wrong with her. And this "Babe" doted on Liza, met her from work every day, cooked her favorite dishes, and in the six months of their relationship had already introduced her to his entire family. Wasn't that weird?
Maybe he is some kind of freak? Or a fatso? And they had simply found each other, like two overweight mime-clowns in one of the short films from "Paris, je t'aime." Two solitudes, unwanted by anyone but each other.
Thinking about this, Taya calmed down and even cheered up. She decided to take a break; it was lunchtime, after all! She minimized the article on her monitor, took a juicy green apple from her drawer, and went to her VKontakte page. Her thoughts on love had given her an idea.
What if He is out there?
When she had created an account on this site, the first thing Taya had done, with a flutter of excitement, was to type the cherished name into the search bar, hoping to find the love of her life, whom she had been unable to forget for years. But, to her deepest disappointment, he wasn't there. Periodically, continuing to hope for a miracle, Taya would type his first and last name into the search, but only found faceless namesakes and people with the same last name.
And now, thinking about "Babe," whose real name remained a mystery to the entire editorial office, since Liza always referred to him only as "Babe" it dawned on her.
What if he had also registered on the site under some kind of nickname?
Taya frantically scrolled, diving into the digital thicket. First the university's community page, then the faculty's... And there, on the third page of subscribers, like a beacon in the night, she saw him - a familiar, dear, smiling face.
She found Him!
Taya would never have guessed he was hiding under the guise of "Pigeon." But, upon reflection, she realized there was a logic to it. After all, his last name is Golub, which means "dove" in Russian. And in French, dove is "Pigeon." He remained true to himself - a lover of riddles, a master of hide-and-seek.
A wave of delight washed over Taya. Her mood soared, and she was ready to bestow a kiss on Liza, who, beaming, approached her table after a conversation with her Babe.
"So, how's your article? Is it progressing?" Liza asked, sitting down next to her.
"More than ever!" exclaimed Taya, unable to suppress her smile. "I've come up with a new theory about deja vu. That's exactly what I'm working on now."
"New?" Liza's eyes lit up with genuine curiosity. "Come on, tell me!"
"It's significantly different from how people usually perceive déjà vu."
"Personally, for me, déjà vu is a moment when the feeling suddenly arises that this has already happened to me before," Liza explained, her brow furrowed in thought. "For example, I'm sitting with a group of friends and suddenly I feel like this has definitely all happened before: one of my friends says a certain phrase, his girlfriend replies with specific words, that particular song is playing on the radio, and at that very moment the phone rings, and someone accidentally breaks a glass. Everything is exactly as it was once!"
"Yes, that's the second type of déjà vu, the most common," Taya nodded in agreement.
"And what does the first type refer to then?" Liza inquired, her curiosity piqued.
"For example, you find yourself in an unfamiliar city, one you've definitely never been to, but the place seems so familiar to you that you even know which landmarks are in which direction," Taya began, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. "Maybe you really were there before, just in another body, and these are the memories of your Soul from past lives, locked in the unconscious, coming to life and breaking through into your consciousness due to the emotional connection to this place. But it doesn't only apply to places, but also to people. After all, sometimes it happens that you see a person for the first time, and it feels like you've known them before, sometime in the past. Or, conversely, you don't feel anything for a close and dear person. Maybe in your past life, it was he who brought you grief and suffering."
"And what's the new theory?" Liza pressed, eager to hear more.
"It relates to the second type. It's believed that we all live in the Other World, where we have a joyful and perfect life - something like paradise. And here, on Earth, we only make brief journeys to learn from our own experiences, to grow and develop on the endless, eternal path of the Soul. And before we return to Earth from the Other World, we carefully plan our stay here. In this Plan, we include minor details and seemingly meaningless trifles, scattering them here and there, so that later, when we encounter them, we realize that we are on the right path. It's like Tom Thumb in the fairy tale scattering white pebbles to find his way home. So, when we stumble upon details of our Plan, we get a feeling of déjà vu. We suddenly feel like we already know this situation, and it starts to seem like we've already lived this moment. But that's not the case. During such déjà vu, we simply recall tiny details that we ourselves included in our life path even before birth, in that Other World."
Liza thoughtfully scratched the back of her head.
"Well, that's an interesting idea!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening. "Fresh and original. I think our readers will like your article. So, it turns out we choose our lives in advance?"
Taya took a bite of her apple and nodded.
"Just like, for example, we consider which university to attend, here too we select options for where and with whom we will live. We choose our parents, family, loved ones, children, friends, bosses and subordinates, even casual acquaintances and pets. We choose our appearance – hair color, eye color, skin color, weight, character, preferences, weaknesses and flaws, skills and talents, hobbies, interests, and even the oddities that no one but us will know about. We choose the place and date of birth, the city and house in which we will live, our neighbors, even enemies, and the time of meeting them. We also choose the diseases and injuries that we are destined to experience."
"According to this theory, it turns out that we are all idiots, since we encounter a lot of difficulties and problems in life," Liza said, a skeptical tone creeping into her voice. "Why do we choose them for ourselves, if we can live happily ever after?"
"That's the point, we already have a carefree life in the Other World, where we are in a state of blissful euphoria," Taya countered, her eyes sparkling. "And here, on Earth, we go in order to develop. We are preparing for a harsh school, filled with difficulties and lessons that come at a great price. It's like in a computer game – we choose a difficult level, packed with obstacles, because it's a challenge – it's more interesting to go through it and find out what we are capable of."
Liza frowned, a flicker of disbelief in her eyes.
"So, in your opinion, if we live according to a chosen Plan, if we've pre-ordained every detail of our lives, then we can't change anything anymore? Are we just some kind of programmed puppets?"
"Liza, I never said anything of the sort. There's always a choice, in every single detail, you hear? If the plan offers you drugs, you can give in and spiral into addiction, or you can refuse and continue on your path. Or, for instance, if a girlfriend leaves a guy for his best friend, he can hunt them down and take revenge, even kill them both in a fit of rage, he can drink himself into oblivion, or he can learn a lesson from that painful situation and go in search of true, happy love. You can be a fat, ugly girl according to the plan and live that way your whole life, or you can pull yourself together, take care of yourself, and transform from an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan. Or, if you're destined to be married to an abuser according to the plan, you can resign yourself to it and endure his beatings, infidelities, and humiliation for the rest of your life, or you can simply leave, erase him from your life, and start over with a clean slate. The value of a planned life isn't in what we encounter, but in how we react to those trials."
Liza pondered, tapping her finger on the table.
"Hmm, Gorgon will definitely appreciate this article. When are you planning to finish it?"
"By the end of the work day."
"Good job, Tayka!" Liza gave her an approving pat on the shoulder. "You've prepared an interesting material. Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention, Gorgon wants to assign you to work with Malika."
"I hope you're kidding? I won't deal with that charlatan!"
The so-called "hereditary clairvoyant" Malika was the editor's favorite. This short, swarthy, middle-aged woman with a turban on her head had wormed her way into Gorgon's trust so completely that she couldn't take a step without her advice. She regularly invited Malika to her home for a ritual to cleanse the apartment's aura, but soon that wasn't enough for her. Now, every last Friday of the month, the self-proclaimed psychic performed rituals within the office walls to attract financial prosperity. And the other day, Gorgon, intoxicated by the swindler's charms, offered her a weekly column "Horoscope by Malika."
"Damn it, have to talk to that crazy lady every week and edit her horoscope? What did I do to deserve this punishment!"
"Don't be upset! It's not that difficult. It's just that Malika writes her horoscopes by hand. You'll just need to take the text, type it up, and, if necessary, correct it."
Taya flicked the apple core across the newsroom, a nervous tic sending it sailing towards the trash can. A small gasp escaped her lips as it landed, a clean shot she hadn't expected.
"Now," Liza said, her voice laced with a knowing patience, "you should focus on that article and get it finished. If you can get it done today, we'll squeeze it into this issue. Come on, you can do it!"
Taya let out a heavy sigh that seemed to carry all the weight of her deadlines. She swiveled in her chair, facing the glowing screen of her computer. The monitor, jolted awake from its slumber, displayed the VKontakte page of "Pigeon." The name alone was enough to send a thrill through her, a reminder of the treasure she'd unearthed. Her spirits lifted instantly.
Yes! I found him! Life is good, after all, despite Malika, the crazy Gorgon, and Liza and her 'Babe' – all of them combined!

[1] Novye Cheryomushki (New Cheryomushki) is a district in the Southwestern Administrative District of Moscow.
[2] A reference to Viola Tricolor flowers, which in Russia are affectionately called Anyutini’s Pretty Eyes.
[3] Taya (Тая) is consonant with the word "таять" (tayat’) which means “melt away”.
[4] Japanese Cuisine Restaurant Chain in Russia
[5] In Russia, this is an affectionate address that means a loved one. “Lyubimka” is a popular hit by singer Niletto.

They stood in silence by the window for a long time, each lost in her own thoughts, contemplating the quiet, snowy night. It was a scene straight out of a Christmas fairytale. The city slept, swaddled in a shimmering white blanket, and fluffy flakes, sparkling in the lamplight, continued to fall from the heavens onto the slumbering fir trees. The picture was so perfect, it seemed as if a talented production designer had created magical scenery for a romantic movie. Neither wanted to break the silent, stirring moment of admiring nature with idle words. But they were inevitable.
"It will happen tomorrow."
The silence was shattered by the voice of the older woman, whose face had already been touched by the relentless makeup artist, Time. However, the wrinkles did not detract from her beauty. The woman's eyes radiated light, and her gaze brought a warmth to the soul, as if she enveloped you in a wave of peace and tranquility.
"Tomorrow?" the second nun asked, surprised. "Already? So much has fallen on her at once. She risks losing her mind."
"Unfortunately, time is not on our side. We must hurry. They are on her trail, and we must outpace them. You will give her the package when she is standing in line for the icon."
"Are you sure she will come?"
"Yes, although she does not yet know it herself. The time has come. It is time for Belka to learn the whole truth herself."

"How could he do this to me? How? I was even ready to dedicate my life to him, to have his child... I hate him!"
Belka had heard these words for the hundredth time that evening, and the more cocktails her friend drank, the more frequently these phrases were repeated.
Nastya had called at ten in the evening, sobbing into the phone, begging Belka to urgently come to her at a bar near Kudrinskaya Square. Even without any explanation, Belka already knew the reason for her tears. It happened every two or three months according to the same script, only the names changed. Each time, Nastya fell head over heels in love and lost her mind, flying on the wings of love throughout the courtship period: every five minutes, as if possessed, she wrote messages to the Love of her Life and made grandiose plans for the weekend/vacation/New Year's/Valentine's Day, and then one day he would disappear irretrievably into the morning mist. Either he turned out to have a pregnant wife, or he met someone else, or he simply ended the relationship without bothering to offer any explanation.
Belka listened silently to yet another sad story, this time about "scumbag Vadik," who just an hour ago at this very table had told her friend that they were no longer on the same path. Outside the window, snow swirled in the lamplight, cars rushed somewhere, and passersby with faces reddened by the frost hurried past into unknown distances. The city lived its life, and no one cared that somewhere nearby, one girl with a broken heart didn't know how to go on living, while the other was contemplating how nice it would be to treat herself to something delicious one last time before they sent her to the loony bin.
Belka waved to the waiter.
"A cappuccino with caramel syrup and a 'Matcha and Pear' pastry, please."
"Why is all this happening to me?" Nastya exclaimed again, ignoring the waiter. "Belka, maybe I really am cursed? Why do men run away from me like from fire? I'm not some kind of monster or an idiot, after all."
No one doubted Nastya's beauty. At seventeen, she had won an international beauty contest. A tall, striking blonde with classic features and piercing blue eyes could easily have shone in Hollywood. During her school and university years in her hometown on the Black Sea, with the unusual name Emerald Island, young Anastasia worked as a model in the "Ariel" fashion theater with her loyal friends Belka, Vasilisa, and Nika. At university, she studied hospitality management, and after graduating last summer, she went to conquer the capital. Now Nastya worked as a manager in a luxurious hotel in the 1905 Street area and often found the heroes for her romantic stories right at her workplace among the guests.
Belka had also moved to Moscow recently, but her path to metropolitan life had been more winding. After graduating from school, she entered the prestigious Vorontsov University in her native Emerald Island, choosing law, but soon realized that it was not her calling, and, eager to break free from parental shackles, went to London to study art. There, in one of the pubs, the young nomad met a promising photographer, whom she almost married. Thanks to her fiancé, who was involved in the modeling business, nineteen-year-old Belka quickly stepped onto international catwalks, debuting at London Fashion Week. And then it took off – Milan, Paris, New York, Tokyo. Soon the engagement was broken off. Belka was tired of the burning jealousy of her Pygmalion, who almost every day threw tantrums on the phone and made scenes when she returned after trips. Belka realized how wonderful it was to be young, beautiful, and, most importantly, free in this world that opened its doors to her. And the photographer, in turn, concluded that the photographs of his new future bride should be kept under lock and key, so that she would not be accidentally noticed by some modeling scout again.
However, even despite her successful career, life away from home soon bored Belka, and the young nomad bought a ticket to Moscow to burst into the capital's social scene with renewed vigor.
"Maybe I should look for some old witch to remove the curse from me? What do you think?" Nastya asked, sincerely hoping for a miracle.
While waiting for her coffee and dessert, Belka gazed at the snowfall outside the window. After her friend's words, she shifted her gaze and looked thoughtfully at Nastya for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to steer the conversation in a new direction or not, after which she resolutely said:
"You don't need an old witch."
"Then what?"
"To turn on your brain."
Nastya stared at her in surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. When you throw yourself into another romance headfirst, you really do become dumber."
"???"
"Nika, Vasilisa, and me, we've all tried to tell you this before, but you didn't want to listen and insisted you could handle it yourself."
Her friend sighed heavily.
"And now I need your advice. I'm completely confused. What's wrong with me? Why am I like a cursed person?" she whimpered like a little girl.
Belka looked her intently in the eyes.
"What did you do for Stas?"
"... What do you mean?"
"Dyed your hair red because he likes redheads and wanted to see you that way."
"Yes, then because of that asshole, I had to poison my hair to get back to my natural color," Nastya frowned, remembering him.
"What did you do for Misha?"
"... Became a vegetarian..."
"Plus, you signed up for belly dancing at his request and diligently went to classes three times a week, even though you couldn't stand them."
Nastya nodded in agreement. She shrank into the chair, shaken by Belka's words. It slowly but surely began to dawn on her what her friend was getting at.
"What did you do for Vadik?"
"Started learning German because he wanted us to go to classes and do homework together. Back then, it seemed romantic to me, but now I realize that I just wasted so much money and time."
"Why did you do all that for them?"
"Because they wanted it."
"And what did you want?"
Nastya silently finished her cocktail, her hand trembling as she waved it to call the waiter to order a new drink.
"What I wanted didn't interest them. We only did what they wanted."
"Tell me, did they do anything for you?"
Her friend froze in silence, without uttering a word.
"They all took what they wanted and threw you out like an unwanted thing. And they did it for one simple reason – you yourself allowed them to treat you that way. Each of them, when they met you, saw a charming, intelligent girl who, before their very eyes, turned into a."
"A what?!" Nastya's eyes widened.
"Someone who constantly gives in. You know, when I played chess with my dad as a kid and he started deliberately letting me win, I got bored and lost interest in the game. It's the same with you. Instead of letting the guy conquer you, you threw yourself at him and indulged all his whims and silly desires, trying to please him in everything. And they quickly got tired of you."
"So, what should I have done?"
"You should have remained yourself. You are a person and shouldn't adapt to other people's expectations. A person who truly cares about you will value you regardless of the color of your hair, your knowledge of foreign languages, or your dancing skills. You must have a core, stand firmly on your own feet, and love yourself, then those around you will perceive you accordingly, the way you deserve."
Nastya smiled bitterly.
"I should have listened to you earlier so you could clear my head. I need to become as insensitive as you and not fall in love with just anyone. Before Moscow, I was like that too, and then I went off the rails."
Indeed, it was hard to believe now, but just a couple of years ago, Anastasia Koroleva[1], the winner of an international beauty contest, was known as the most unapproachable Snow Queen in their hometown on the Black Sea coast.
"I'm not insensitive. I just don't believe in love. People made it up themselves, they like to create myths. I don't deny that there's sympathy, passion, attachment... Do you believe in Ded Moroz[2]?"
"No, of course not!"
"Neither do I. Love is like Ded Moroz, a made-up romantic fairy tale."
"Ugh, Belka! I don't like it when you talk like that. And, by the way, some fairy tales actually come true. Vodianova is an example. The other day, she posted the engagement ring that billionaire Antoine Arnault, the son of the richest man in the world after Jeff Bezos, gave her."
The waiter brought their order, and Belka enjoyed her dessert with genuine delight. Her mood lifted with the pleasure she derived from it, and she instantly softened, becoming less categorical in her judgments.
"You know, Nastyonka, maybe you're right. Perhaps love does exist, after all, what happened to Nika was like something out of a movie – one in a million, and maybe even Ded Moroz exists in the world. I wouldn't be surprised by anything anymore."
Nastya looked at her friend suspiciously.
"What's wrong, Zay? I don't like the look of you. Has something happened to you? Jesus! I am, like a fool, whining here about Vadik, and you might have real troubles!"
"Well, I don't even know how to call what's happening to me, that I'm going crazy. I guess you could call it trouble too," Belka shrugged, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
"What nonsense are you talking about!"
"Nastya, I'm really going crazy," she leaned over the table and whispered conspiratorially, "Soon they'll lock me up in a mental hospital."
"Are you kidding?"
"I'm completely serious."
"When people go crazy, they don't realize it. And if you realize it, then you're not crazy," her friend concluded.
"This morning, I went to the supermarket, and it was May outside! Lilacs were blooming, there was green foliage on the trees, ducks were swimming in the pond. And the streetlights seemed to be greeting me."
"The streetlights seemed to be what?" Nastya didn't understand.
"They were winking at me. Every streetlight I passed. I had something like this happen to me in childhood."
"You just dreamed it!"
"No! The security guard warned me that I would later think it was a dream, but it wasn't a dream at all!"
"Didn't that genius say anything else?"
"He did. He said that yellow suited me in a past life too..."
"That's just a crazy guy! You're filling your head with some crap," her friend sighed in relief. "Well, you really scared me! I almost believed that something serious had happened..."
"Potapov was there too! That regular hotel VIP-guest you wanted to charm. The banker's son whose bride dumped him before the wedding last summer."
"I remember who Potapov is!"
In the fall, at Nastya's request, Belka worked at the hotel reception for about a month, investigating a case of thefts in the rooms. Such adventures were her favorite pastime. The book nomad, a passionate admirer of Agatha Christie's work, shared the results of her investigations in her blog "Belka's Stories," and friends, often even her followers, turned to her for help when they needed a creative solution to problems.
"Potapov was dressed like he was going to a beach party, as if he really was living in May! If you don't believe me, you can call him and ask him if he saw a girl in pajamas in the supermarket this morning."
"You went there in pajamas?" Nastya laughed. "He definitely won't forget that."
"He didn't recognize me because he was perpetually dead drunk during my night shifts. In the morning, he tried to hit on me, and I stunned him with his own personal information. I don't know what happened, but it was as if the entire database of hotel guests flashed before my eyes. You should have seen his face!"
"I can imagine how freaked out he was!... But you're kidding about the database thing, right?"
"No, that's the crazy part!" she insisted, running a hand through her hair. "I remember it by heart. Ask me about any guest, and I can tell you everything: passport details, home address, driver's license number, car registration… I'm telling you, I'm losing my mind! Where did this phenomenal memory come from? And yesterday, out of nowhere, I started drawing like a professional artist and even painted a portrait of your beloved Golub! You know I've never been artistically inclined in my life."
"Golub? I'm actually terrified of birds, remember?"
"Not a bird, Artem Golub! The TV presenter."
Belka sighed, the absurdity of the situation weighing her down.
Nastya looked at her with suspicion, carefully studying her friend's face.
"Belka, is this some kind of prank?" she asked, her voice laced with doubt. "Is everything you've told me just a way to distract me from my romantic woes?"
"I wish that everything happening to me right now was just a prank," Belka replied, a hint of desperation in her voice. "At least then I'd understand that I haven't gone completely bonkers."
"I don't even know what to say... Your life has really changed dramatically in the last few months," her friend conceded. "And about the new superpowers - I've read that it happens. Some people even start seeing the future!"
"You probably read that on some website full of tall tales or in a newspaper like 'World of Mysteries' or ‘… of Secrets’?" Belka asked with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
Just then, an astonished exclamation rang out from the direction of the bar.
"Well, well, look who it is!"
The girls turned to see a group of young men entering, frequent patrons of the hotel's nightclub. Three of them were staring in their direction with astonished expressions, as if they couldn't believe their eyes, especially a broad-shouldered, tanned blonde in a tracksuit with an arrogant air about him.
"Wow! Moscow is so huge, and here we are running into Phil and his buddies," Nastya whispered. "You remember him, right?"
"Did you forget about my phenomenal memory?" Belka rolled her eyes.
"Oh, right! Stupid question!"
"Makarov Philipp Aleksandrovich, nickname Phil. MGIMO student, registered on Michurinsky Prospekt. VIP guest of the hotel, constantly throws parties in the luxury suites. I've seen him during shift changes."
"There have been numerous complaints about him for insulting staff. You're lucky you haven't run into him on your shift."
At that moment, Philipp suddenly, like a whirlwind, flew towards the girls and dragged Belka from behind the table.
"Where have you been? I've been looking for you everywhere," his eyes practically bloodshot with rage.
Belka was speechless with surprise. She stared at the young man with a stunned expression, not understanding what was happening. Nastya, also shocked by the events, exclaimed, "Phil, what are you doing? Let her go!"
Meanwhile, Belka recovered her senses and wrenched herself free from his grip.
"Open your eyes before you start attacking strangers!" she snapped, her voice trembling with anger and confusion.
"Strangers?" Philipp laughed nervously, a manic edge to his voice. "Stop playing games!”
"You're mistaking me for someone else!"
"You, Belka, are hardly someone you could mistake for anyone else! Admit it, you're back with that ex we met in the cafe? You disappeared right after that meeting. You ran away, quit your job at the hotel so I couldn't find you, changed your number. I even went to your house."
"You went to my parents' house?!"
Belka was completely bewildered. This guest, with whom she had never even spoken, was acting as if they had known each other for a hundred years, and, moreover, as if she had somehow wronged him. The whole situation felt surreal and terrifying.
“One of us has clearly gone mad, and considering recent events, it's most likely me,” Belka thought, the grim realization flashing through her mind.
"I've been looking for you this whole time! I've been out of my mind with worry. I thought something might have happened to you," he roared, his voice echoing through the bar, oblivious to the sea of eyes, both patrons and staff, glued to their unfolding drama.
Belka slumped onto the chair as if her strings had been cut. The bottom had fallen out of her world.
"Philipp, you can accuse me of whatever you want, but I still don't understand what you're talking about," she said, her voice barely a whisper, trying to maintain a semblance of composure.
"Screw you! I don't want to know you anymore! You're dead to me!" The venom in his voice was palpable.
For a split second, Belka was certain Philipp was going to strike her, deliver one final, crushing blow. But instead, he just waved his hand dismissively, a gesture of utter disgust, and turned towards the exit. His friends, casting her condemning, scornful looks, trailed after him like vultures abandoning a carcass.
"I've never seen him this crazy before!" Nastya gasped, instantly sobered by the explosion of the scene.
"Let's get out of here! Everyone's staring. Hey, can we get the bill?" Belka waved down the waiter, who, like everyone else in the room, had been watching the spectacle with rapt curiosity.
"What if Phil ambushes you out there?" Nastya asked, her voice laced with concern.
Just then, Belka saw the BMW parked in front of the bar screech away in a blur of motion, disappearing into the night.
"He won't ambush me. They're gone."
The two friends summoned an Uber and hurriedly left the bar under the curious gazes of the whispering staff and patrons. It wasn't every day you got to witness such a passionate, Brazilian soap opera-esque showdown, something straight out of a reality TV show. Some of them probably even regretted not recording the scene – it would have been perfect fodder for social media, a bit of amusement to share with the world.
Once in the car, Nastya suddenly recalled something.
"Remember last fall, I told you I went to the movies with Phil's friend? Denis."
"Maybe."
"But I didn't tell you that I was planning a double date. I wanted to get you out of the house, to let you get some fresh air, and I asked Denis to bring Philipp along. But it turned out that Phil doesn't meet new girls; as he was already madly in love with someone. And then, later, when Denis had a little too much to drink at the bar and his tongue loosened up, I found out about Phil's girlfriend."
"Why? Did you really need it to know?”
"Well, I was curious. Anyway, it turned out that Philipp had a relationship with a girl he met in Sochi. She worked on TV there. They spent the whole summer together, and later he brought her back to Moscow with him. But then, suddenly, this girl dumped him."
"Not surprising!" Belka scoffed. "Who could live with a psycho like that?"
"And here's how it happened. Phil and his girlfriend ran into an acquaintance of hers at a cafe one day. The guy was with his fiancée, so Philipp didn't mind joining them at their table. But then, from the greenish pallor of his fiancée's face, her jealous glances, and their conversation, he realized that this wasn't just an acquaintance, but her ex, even though she denied it. Can you imagine, that guy didn't even hesitate to admit, in front of his fiancée, that he reads all her posts and watches all her Stories. At home, Phil threw a fit, and they had a serious fight. And the next day, the girl suddenly told him that all her feelings for him were gone, and they needed to break up. Philipp didn't take her words seriously, he thought she was just saying it out of spite, to get back at him, and he left to take care of some business related to the renovation of their new apartment. They were about to move into a chic loft in a residential complex next to our hotel. In the evening, as a sign of reconciliation, Phil bought them tickets to Peru. His girlfriend had always dreamed of going there. But when he returned, she wasn't home, and neither were any of her things. She was gone."
"She did the right thing!"
"Since then, he hasn't stopped looking for her everywhere. When I heard this story, it never even crossed my mind that this girl was you!"
Belka turned to her, eyes wide with disbelief.
"That's not me!"
"Come on! You can trust me. You could have told me about your affair with Phil earlier, we're friends after all." Nastya's voice held a hint of reproach, a question mark hanging in the air between them.
"Nastya, I've never even met him, and I have no idea why he said all that crazy stuff. How could you even think that about me?" Belka retorted, her voice laced with indignation. "I swear I'm not lying to you. He's just confusing me with someone else!"
"He knows your real name! There can't be so many coincidences: his girlfriend has the same name as you, she also worked at our hotel, like you, and before that, on TV, like you, and she has the exact same appearance as you!" Nastya ticked off the facts on her fingers, her voice rising with each point.
"Hello! I've never lived in Sochi! We worked together at the Bravo TV channel, but in Emerald Island, not in Sochi. And I was in Peru on a shoot when I worked as a model! I'm just wondering, do you really think I could secretly live with some guy without you knowing? If I were theoretically dating him, he would definitely know that you're my friend, and the first thing he would do is come looking for me at your place!"
Nastya bit her lip, her brow furrowed in thought.
"Yeah, something doesn't add up here."
"I know what it is," Belka sighed.
"What is it?"
"I'm just going crazy." The words hung heavy in the air, a chilling admission that sent a shiver down Nastya's spine.
"Why are you repeating that like a parrot? You're not going crazy. Maybe Phil's the one who's cracked. He's probably high, that's why he mistook you for his girlfriend." Nastya tried to reassure her, but her words sounded hollow, even to her own ears.
"I'm completely confused. I don't understand anything. What the hell is going on in my life?" Belka's voice was filled with despair.
"That's it, Belka! Tomorrow we're going to Matrona!" Nastya exclaimed with fervor, her eyes shining with newfound determination. "I'm sure she'll help us!"
"To what Matrona?"
"To the saint! Her relics are in the Protection Monastery. People come to her with requests, and she really helps them!"
"How does she help?" Belka asked, skepticism lacing her tone.
"Just like that! If you don't believe me, you can Google it! You know what kind of queues there are for her! From five in the morning! Because Matronushka really helps everyone. For example, a woman suffering from infertility comes to bow to her, asks for help, and then gives birth to a healthy baby. Or someone like me, unlucky in love, comes, prays, and then gets married."
"Why haven't you gone to her for a husband before now?" Belka giggled.
"Don't laugh! If anyone can help us – help me get rid of this curse of spinsterhood and stop you from completely losing your mind – it's Saint Matrona. She even cured the possessed, you know."
"Well, thanks for the compliment, my dear! Ок, you've convinced me. To be honest, I've heard about Matrona for ages, ever since I was in school. But I never thought I'd need her help too. What if she actually can help?"
"That's what we're going to find out! Don't forget to wear a headscarf! And don't even think about going in trousers!"
Belka simply sighed in response, a heavy, world-weary sound. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to believe in miracles. People didn't queue in endless lines to see Saint Matrona's relics for nothing. If she didn't help, the path to her would have been overgrown with weeds long ago. What if a trip to the monastery could actually help her sort herself out and stop this descent into madness? Because otherwise, especially after that bizarre conversation with Phillip, the only road left seemed to lead straight to the psychiatric ward. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Perhaps a visit to Matrona was her only hope.

[1] Koroleva is a surname, at the same time a word “Koroleva” means Queen in Russian.
[2] Ded Moroz is a Russian Santa Claus.

The rain hammered down relentlessly, an unbroken torrent since the first light of dawn. Autumn had seized its dominion, banishing the last sun-kissed days of Indian summer, promising only a dreary procession of rain-soaked days, steeped in melancholy, longing, and the anticipation of winter's icy grip. On the horizon stretched a bleak existence, shrouded in a gray veil of long months, a weary wait for spring.
Tonya trudged across the yard, her worn rubber boots squelching through the waterlogged earth, now a muddy, treacherous mire. Her thoughts wandered aimlessly, oblivious to the barking of Fomka, who greeted her with joyous abandon from his kennel, straining at his chain, desperate to hurl himself, paws flailing, towards his young mistress. But she was lost in her own world, beyond his reach.
For Tonya, her entire life felt like one long, unending autumn. In this God-forsaken village, a place she'd only left once in all her sixteen years – when her exemplary schoolwork earned her a trip to summer camp – it was hard to say she was truly living. She was merely existing, dragging herself through the days. Always alone, always to herself.
From her earliest childhood, Tonya had dreamed of a close-knit family, like that of her only friend on the next street. Her friend had an older brother who looked after his little sister with love and care. Their house always smelled of warm pies and radiated an atmosphere of perpetual celebration. Sometimes Tonya stayed overnight. She loved it when the whole family gathered for dinner, joking, laughing, and in those moments, little Tonya's heart swelled with joy. She longed for her own home to be just the same. Instead, her father, as usual, would stagger home drunk, barely able to drag his feet, and until late into the night, the shouts of her quarreling parents would echo, keeping the frightened girl awake, silently weeping with her pillow pulled over her head.
Then her friend's family moved to the Krasnodar region, and Tonya was left alone. Unwanted by anyone. Her mother toiled like a horse at two jobs, came home barely alive, and collapsed onto the bed, utterly exhausted. She had no time for Tonya. The child was fed (or rather, not starving), clothed (though barely), and shod, what more could she need? Her mother liked to play the victim, "Look at me, what a heroine I am, carrying the whole family on my shoulders, running around like a squirrel in a wheel." In the eyes of the neighbors, she truly seemed like a poor, hardworking woman, but she wasn't doing it for her daughter, who, incidentally, helped her with all the housework, but for herself. Almost all the money she earned, her mother secretly spent on buying gold jewelry. That was her thing. Running her fingers over earrings, rings, bracelets, and necklaces, she felt like the mistress of her own life, not just some waitress from the cafeteria, and her happy eyes would light up with a devilish glint at that moment.
As she grew older, Tonya could never explain her mother's behavior. What was she trying to achieve by collecting other people's worn gold? Maybe she dreamed of one day adorning herself with all the jewelry and walking through the village like an unrecognized queen? Why couldn't she ever spoil her only daughter, buy her nice clothes, take her to the regional center for a visiting circus performance, or at least once throw her a party? Tonya so needed, desperately needed, her love, because waiting for support from her father, who mockingly called her "crocodile," was pointless.
In her adolescence, she rapidly began to gain weight. Tonya wasn't exactly known as a beauty in her class anyway, because a freckled, straight-A student with thick glasses was hardly considered cute. The boys would shout "fatty" or "bombardier" after her with laughter, each new day at school became an ordeal, full of humiliation and ridicule, and Tonya really didn't want to go to school, where she had to endure all this torment.
The only thing that helped her, a lonely, neglected teenager, not to go crazy or drown herself in the river in a fit of despair and hopelessness, was her dreams. That was her salvation, a medicine for the wounded soul of a girl who was mired in her problems, drowning in them, and rapidly sinking to the bottom, trying with her last strength to gasp for air, while her family indifferently watched her from the shore, sprawled out on lounge chairs.
Tonya learned to live in her dreams. She imagined herself as a fairytale beauty who, like Cinderella, toiled in a tavern until one fine day, a Prince appeared at the threshold and whisked her away to his kingdom. She enjoyed crafting stories so much that soon, all her time free from school and chores, Tonya dedicated to writing captivating tales, always with a happy ending, where the main role, of course, went to her.
Soon, the girl realized that sitting idly by was an unaffordable luxury. She set herself a goal – to break free from the shackles of this dreary life and leave for a place where dreams take flight, far away from the gray routine, the melancholy, and the perpetual autumn. To start, she decided to enter a Moscow university at any cost – her guiding star, and for that, she had to score the highest possible marks on the Unified State Exam. From then on, Tonya began to dedicate all her free hours to studying, spending her days in the reading room, immersing herself in all the textbooks, like a treasure hunter eager to unlock the secrets hidden within the pages.
On this autumn evening, Tonya was completely consumed by thoughts of her literature report. She couldn't wait to finish the household chores and retreat to her room, in silence and peace, surrounding herself with books from the library.
She carried the firewood into the house, herded the cows into the yard, and brought the pigs their feed, a mixture of leftover soup with potato peelings, apple cores, and other scraps. It was long past time to move from the summer kitchen into the house, but her mother just hadn't gotten around to it. Tonya was already thinking about doing it herself on Sunday morning. Lately, her father seemed to be deliberately tormenting her – constantly sending her out into the cold to the summer kitchen. She had to put on her down jacket every time, pull on her boots, and run even in the dark, because her father had been meaning to fix the lantern in the yard and screw in a lightbulb since spring. Tonya raced across the yard as fast as she could, while her vivid imagination painted sinister pictures: the grapevines winding around the gazebo looked like snakes from Medusa's head, ready to attack and bite her at any moment, and behind the tree trunks, she constantly imagined lurking silhouettes of bloodthirsty monsters. Tonya was terrified during every trip to the summer kitchen, but she didn't dare anger her father by refusing to carry out his latest errand.
She remembered for the rest of her life the story of how her father, drunk and enraged under the influence of alcohol, almost killed her. That day, Tonya accidentally locked him and a friend, another drinking enthusiast, in the summer kitchen, not noticing them sneaking in while she was working in the garden, and then they couldn't get out and soiled their pants when they needed to relieve themselves. For an entire hour, her father chased her with an ax in his hand throughout the village, and the terrified girl had to hide at a kind old neighbor's house until late at night.
Lost in thought about her upcoming presentation on Bunin's "Dark Avenues," Tonya walked right past the doghouse, realizing her mistake far too late. Fomka, with unrestrained joy, burst from his shelter and, pouncing on his mistress, knocked her straight into the mud. And as if that weren't enough, wanting to express his boundless devotion, he began to lick her face, wagging his tail – that silly, witless dog! Tonya, who had effectively dumped a bucket of slop all over herself, couldn't hold back tears of frustration.

Trouble never came to her alone. Misfortunes seemed to rain down on her, one after another. Returning home, the girl discovered her drunken father, pacing the living room with a face contorted by rage. Tonya, her heart pounding with fear, tried to slip past, hoping to remain unnoticed, but her father turned around at the worst possible moment.
"Hey, you, Ton’ka! Get over here!"
She timidly crossed the threshold of the living room, and only then did she truly grasp the extent of the chaos her father had unleashed. The carpet was strewn with scattered books, the floor littered with overturned dresser drawers and their contents: photographs, boxes of thread, postcards, newspaper clippings, and other odds and ends.
Her father surveyed the wet, muddy Tonya from head to toe and burst into a malicious laugh. He could barely stand, and the peals of laughter echoing in her ears nearly caused him to fall, losing his balance, but he caught himself just in time, grabbing the doorframe.
"It's true what they say about you, you're a pig!" he exclaimed with contempt. "Look at yourself in the mirror! A crocodile! Now, tell me, where does your mother hide her trinkets?"
"I don't know," Tonya replied, frightened.
She was telling the truth. Her mother didn't trust anyone with her gold.
"You know everything, pig!" her father growled, his eyes flashing. "I was told she bought something today. And she was seen coming here. You were home too! You saw where she hid everything!"
"No, I didn't see her. I only just got back. I was at the library."
"At the library, was she! What, planning to go to Moscow to study? You won't get in, you hear me! You'll rot here, just like me! You ruined my whole life! I'd be living in Moscow myself right now, singing songs, if your mother hadn't gotten knocked up and forced me to marry her, the bitch!"
Tonya stood silently before her father, looking at him with frightened eyes, afraid to move. She didn't know how to escape the next brewing scandal, with the destructive force of a hurricane. She was unlikely to calm her father down, and if she ran, where would she go?
"Pashka, my friend from the army, invited me to Moscow, but then you, pig, appeared..." her father continued, nervously pacing the room with unsteady steps.
Dirty rubber boots left dark tracks on the carpet, on the books, on the photographs…
"Well, never mind, I'll ruin your life too! You'll be feeding pigs for the rest of your life, until you die!"
Her father flew towards Tonya, who had shrunk into a ball of fear, grabbed her glasses, threw them on the floor, and began to stomp on them furiously.
"Papa, Daddy, please don't! I beg you! Please!" Tears streamed from the poor girl's eyes as she tried to stop her insane father.
But he only disgustedly pushed her away from him with such force that she lost her balance.
Tonya fell to the floor, cutting her palms on the shards of broken lenses, and, squinting nearsightedly, groped for her broken glasses. But in her hands was only an empty, bent frame with a detached temple.
In the end the enraged father kicked the quiet, frozen girl on the floor in the stomach and left the house, slamming the door loudly.
Tonya burst into sobs, feeling loneliness constricting her heart. She was alone in this world. Unwanted by anyone. What was the point of living on? It would be better to die. Right now!

Belka picked up Nastya near the "Marksistskaya" metro station at exactly 7:30 PM. Nastya nimbly hopped into the Uber, her cheeks flushed from the cold, and, seeing her friend in an unfamiliar guise with a headscarf and a long skirt to the floor, couldn't help but exclaim:
"Well, girl, you're something else! That outfit is killer!"
"I put the skirt over my jeans, I'll take it off later. And why are you in pants? It's forbidden for women to come in trousers.!" Now it was Belka's turn to be surprised. "You were the one saying it yesterday!"
"But it's so cold in a skirt! Look at this frost! I'd freeze in tights. And besides, I thought about it, a lot of girls wear pants there. It doesn't seem like such a big deal. It would be much worse if I froze my lady parts off in line."
The girls did not yet know that the Pokrovsky Monastery gives out long skirts and scarves to those who are dressed inappropriately for visiting a temple, so that they can comply with the rules of the monastery's dress code.
"We need to buy flowers. There's a flower shop across from the monastery. I looked it up on the map. They say she loved yellow ones. I want to buy yellow roses."
"I see you've prepared thoroughly," Nastya remarked.
"I was reading about Saint Matrona all night," her friend confessed. "She's really amazing. So many incredible stories about her!"
Belka had indeed taken the matter seriously. If she was going to visit such an unusual place for her as a monastery, she needed to know what it was all about.
First, Belka studied photographs of the Pokrovsky Monastery. And what she saw amazed her.
A crowd of visitors, like a living ring, surrounded the courtyard of the monastery, testifying to the miracles performed by Saint Matrona. How else could you explain that people, forgetting about time, waited for hours in line to bow before her relics and touch the holy icon? There were plenty of photographs capturing these moments at different times of the year, but neither scorching heat, nor bitter frost, nor pouring rain could stop those who sought Matronushka for comfort and help.
From the photos, Belka gradually shifted her attention to in-depth study of information. The night flew by unnoticed while reading stories about Saint Matrona. In her heart, she felt that all the incredible miracles that people wrote about in the comments were not fabricated tales and actually happened to them.
Belka wasn't fond of mysticism, but she also didn't belong to those who regarded amazing events only as mere chance or coincidence. Since childhood, she often had strange dreams. In the morning, Belka didn't remember them; they seemed to slip from her memory with the dawn, but she always had a premonition: someday something so incredible would happen in her life that it would be hard to believe. Over the years, after such dreams, her confidence in her still unknown destiny only grew stronger. And it seemed that now was the very moment when those weak, barely perceptible sensations were indeed beginning to take shape.
Many times Belka tried to restore the mysterious fabric of her dreams in her memory, but all her efforts were dashed against the wall of oblivion. However, sometimes, a suddenly blowing autumn breeze with a light cobweb, someone's ringing laughter, or a sharp screech of brakes shifted the insurmountable memory block, and it seemed to her that she was about to catch that invisible thread that would lead her through the labyrinths of the subconscious. In such moments, the pads of her fingers began to tingle, and her palms involuntarily opened, as if holding something like an invisible cube, as if they remembered how they used to squeeze it, once. Belka felt that she would now recall something important, possibly related to her past lives, and this discovery would lead her to a place from which there was no turning back. Her mind would be turned upside down. She would never again be the carefree girl who walked through life with ease. And, probably, that's why, in order to save her from madness, her memory slammed the doors in her face every time, and the memories slipped away like a wet bar of soap from her hands. And Belka was left alone again with her ordinary earthly worries.
The life story of Matrona touched her to the very core. How much inexhaustible courage, patience, and boundless mercy resided within this frail, blind-from-birth girl, who helped people with an open soul! Her pure heart, full of compassion, worked true miracles, healing the emotional wounds of those who turned to her for help.
Matronushka was destined to become an orphan with living parents and grow up in an orphanage. The needy family couldn't support a fourth child. But Matrona, like a heavenly message, appeared in a dream to her still-pregnant mother in the form of a white bird with a human face and closed eyes. Taking this as a sign, the woman decided not to give her daughter away to anyone. Another sign from above was that a protuberance in the shape of a cross appeared on the newborn's chest, and during her baptism, a fragrant, light smoke rose above her. Moreover, the little blind girl loved to spend time in church and would make her way to the icons at night, as if seeking solace in them. She even managed to take them off the shelf and could spend hours conversing with them.
Only the neighborhood children did not spare her. They mercilessly tormented her, putting her in a pit and watching with laughter as the blind child groped for her way home.
As Belka read about this, tears welled up in her eyes on their own accord. She couldn't remember the last time she had cried; sentimental was hardly a word one would use to describe her. But at the thought of the girl, barely walking along the road with outstretched arms, under the mocking cries of the cruel children, her heart constricted. How must it have been for her, small and defenseless, whose life was shrouded in eternal darkness, to face this cruel world? But Matrona, despite all her suffering, held no grudge, forgave, and reconciled herself to her difficult fate.
Soon, this amazing little girl developed the gift of healing. From all around the area, the sick flocked to their house, hoping to regain their lost health. And they received it. Matronushka put even the most hopeless back on their feet, and they returned home on their own. She not only healed physical ailments but also shared wisdom, foreseeing what future awaited each person, keenly sensing the approach of danger and predicting natural disasters. As a sign of gratitude, people brought food and gifts to her home. Thus, the little girl became the breadwinner for the entire family.
At seventeen, Matrona lost the use of her legs. But even this new trial could not break her spirit. She accepted all the blows of fate with noble humility, submitting to God's will, as if she were atoning with her suffering for the torments of those who turned to her for help.
And as the years passed, life became increasingly difficult. In Soviet times, Matrona was persecuted, and even her own brothers turned away from her. She had to leave her native places and wander around Moscow, changing corners to hide from the authorities. Once, acquaintances found her in an abandoned house, her hair frozen to the wall. How many days had she spent like that, cold, hungry, helpless... But even then, Matrona did not complain about fate.
Wherever Matronushka was, crowds always came to her with requests for help. In her dying hour, she promised to continue helping people even after her death. And she kept her word. That is why people never stopped, from the earliest morning, queuing up at the gates of the Pokrovsky Monastery to venerate her relics and bow before her icon. Because they saw that miracles truly happened within these walls. Even skeptics shrugged their shoulders in confusion, not knowing how to explain this phenomenon. And then many of them found Faith.

Nastya's acquaintances advised the friends to come to the monastery just before closing time. Visitor reception ceased at 8:00 PM, and the gates would be shut, but those who had managed to enter the courtyard and join the queue were not asked to leave the monastery grounds.
That evening, the weather seemed to test the resolve of those wishing to venerate Saint Matrona. The frost bit to the very bone, but no one was about to give up. As the girlfriends desperately began to jump in place to warm up even a little, the monastery attendants appeared.
"Are there any who would like to stay until ten o'clock to help with cleaning? Afterward, you will be able to approach the relics and pray calmly, without rushing."
Belka was already about to raise her hand when Nastya quickly pulled her back.
"Are you crazy? Don't you dare!" she hissed. "We'll be cleaning up there all night! Mashka from work was just telling me today how she and her sister stayed and washed everything from wax. And then the nuns didn't like how they cleaned, and they made them rewash everything all over again!"
"Maybe they should have cleaned properly from the beginning so they wouldn't have to rewash everything again?"
"It's not even half-past eight yet! Are you suggesting that we wander around somewhere for an hour and a half, then come back here again and clean until midnight? You have to go to work at the club, by the way, have you forgotten?"
"I'll figure something out."
Meanwhile, while the friends were arguing, the monastery attendants had already gathered the necessary number of volunteers and left.
Belka sighed in disappointment.
"Everything that happens, happens for the best!" exclaimed Nastya.
Belka wasn't worried about having to rush to work at the "Tonight" nightclub after visiting the Pokrovsky Monastery. A couple of days ago, the investigation related to the machinations of the club's manager, into which she had gotten a job as a go-go dancer to get closer to him, still mattered to her, but in light of recent events with her impending madness, she no longer cared about it - all these concerns had faded into the background.
Inside the church, Belka, as if spellbound, watched as people, one after another, approached the reliquary. Above it, the inscription shone majestically: "Come to me, all of you, and tell me, as if to the living, about your sorrows, I will see you, and hear you, and help you." Warmed, lulled by the chants of prayer, and enveloped in an aura of spiritual light, she watched as people kissed the reliquary, whispered their innermost requests to Matrona, and, urged on by the guard, hastily stepped aside. Carried far from reality by a jumble of unbridled thoughts, Belka, when it was her turn, even forgot what she had come to ask Matronushka for and only quietly said, "Thank you!"
An elderly attendant, handing out flowers to visitors as they left the church, looked at her with a kind smile on her face and handed her a whole bouquet.
"Why did she give you a bouquet and me only a single rosebud?" Nastya wondered, as they headed toward their place in line at the icon.
"I don’t know. Do you want me to share them with you?"
"No, I'm just curious why that is. Maybe she sees that you have a lot more problems than I do?"
"Thanks, friend, for your support!" Belka laughed.
Outside, the girls instantly stiffened from the piercing cold. The frost grew stronger with each passing minute, fiercely nipping at their cheeks. After asking an elderly woman standing in front of them in line to watch their place, the friends hurried to warm up in a glass structure housing a holy spring.
"It's so interesting," Belka said thoughtfully, breathing on her fingers, which had grown numb even through her gloves. "Matrona, even though she couldn't see, could travel all over the world in her imagination."
"I haven't heard of that. How is that possible? Do you think she could go on astral journeys?" Nastya asked, surprised.
"I don't know exactly how she could do it, but it's a fact. I read a story on a website about a woman, her neighbor. When she was a student and was going to become an architect, for some reason, due to prejudice, the teacher was going to fail her thesis. She came home upset and told Matrona about it. She calmed her down, said that they would discuss it over tea in the evening. And in the evening, Matronushka tells her that now they will take a trip to Italy and admire the creations of the great masters. She began to describe the streets and buildings of Rome and Florence, in such minute detail, as if she were actually there at that moment and saw everything with her own eyes. Thanks to Matrona, the girl corrected all the shortcomings in her work, and the teacher couldn't fail her."
"Wow!" Nastya exclaimed. "But it's not surprising. I'm sure that with her abilities, she could visit the Louvre, see Big Ben in London, and generally be in any corner of the world. Matrona was a superhuman!"
"That's for sure!"
"Which means she can definitely help us solve our problems!"
Warmed through, the friends rejoined the queue. The old woman who had been guarding their place had now gone to thaw out in the glass structure housing the holy spring.
Just then, they were approached again by the monastery attendants. But this time they were completely different nuns. Nastya was about to declare that they had already venerated the relics and weren't interested in cleaning the church, but she didn't get the chance.
"This is for you, Belka," one of the nuns, the older one, said, and held out a small package to the girl.
"For me?!" Belka was so surprised she was speechless. 
How did they know her name, and why were they addressing her specifically?
"Yes, for you. This has been waiting for this moment for many years. Don't ask us anything. Unfortunately, we are not permitted to give you any explanations. Our mission is only to deliver this package to you."
"Is this some kind of prank?" Nastya interjected, but the nuns ignored her completely, as if she wasn't even there. "Why should she take it? Maybe it's a bomb!"
The second attendant, continuing to ignore Nastya, placed the package in Belka's bewildered hands. "You, and only you, must find the truth. But you must hurry. My child, you are in danger."
"In danger?" Belka repeated the words like a parrot, not understanding what was happening.
She was utterly bewildered. After that bizarre incident with the May morning in the middle of winter and the unexpected assault from the hotel guest named Phillip, Belka had decided she was going crazy and had desperately hoped that a trip to Saint Matrona would help her regain some peace. But the opposite had happened – now some nuns were thrusting a mysterious package into her hands and warning her of danger, and her world was once again spiraling out of control at breakneck speed.
"Take care!" was all the strangers said as a parting remark before melting away into the crowd.
Nastya, immediately consumed by curiosity, began unwrapping the package.
"Some kind of book, maybe?" she said with a hint of disappointment, trying to make it out in the dim light. "Unoriginal prank! Like, because you're a book blogger, the prank has to be book-related. Did you tell your followers you were coming here? Seems like one of them decided to play a joke on you."
"I didn't tell anyone anything!"
Unable to bear it any longer, Belka snatched the package from her friend's hands and shoved it into her bag.
"I don't even want to know what's in it! I just want one thing – to be left alone!"

First, Taya tore her brand-new stockings, then spilled juice on her favorite blouse, and to top it all off, she dropped her mobile phone right into the crack of the sofa – and that was on top of oversleeping by a full forty minutes. Judging by such an eventful, mishap-filled morning, the day promised to be a disaster. It was almost frightening to imagine what other troubles such a beginning foretold.
While Taya, cursing under her breath, explored the depths of the sofa that had swallowed her arm in search of her phone, the landline rang. Suddenly, it dawned on her that it was the fifteenth – the day the rent was due, which meant the phone was ringing off the hook with persistent calls from the landlord.
Abandoning her search, she leaped to the pedestal table and snatched up the receiver.
"Hello!" Taya exclaimed in a breathless voice, and noticed with annoyance the traces of dust from under the sofa on the sleeve of the pristine white shirt she'd changed into after the juice-soaked blouse.
"Good morning! May I speak with Taisiya?" a pleasant male voice inquired.
"This is she. And who is this speaking?"
"My name is Samson. I am a messenger bearing important information for you. I will explain the details when we meet."
"What messenger?"
"We need to meet. Today."
"Why should I meet with someone I don't even know?" Taya felt a wave of irritation building as she stared at the soiled sleeve. She'd have to change again, and she was already late for work!
"I wouldn't dare detain you any longer," the stranger exclaimed, as if reading her thoughts. "I'll be waiting for you at eight o'clock at the '360' restaurant in the Federation Tower East in Moscow City."
She didn't even have time to object – the line was already buzzing with a dial tone.
Taya flew to the closet, flung open the doors, and frantically searched for something to replace the stained shirt. Today, she wanted to look businesslike – a knee-length skirt, a blazer, classic stiletto heels. But apparently, it wasn't meant to be. And why couldn't she get into the habit of ironing her clothes after washing them and hanging them in the closet so she wouldn't have to run around like a madgirl with an iron at the last minute?
Giving up the business style, Taya changed into jeans and a white tank top, slipped her feet into ballet flats, grabbed a leather jacket from the hallway hanger, and dashed out of the house.
In the subway, she managed to quickly find an empty seat, for which she was immensely grateful. Now she could doze off for six stops straight to Tretyakovskaya, listening to music, flip through her French textbook, or glance at her planner to remember what tasks she had to do today.
"Damn!" Taya exclaimed so loudly that her outburst echoed throughout the entire carriage, even despite the rumbling of the wheels, and the old man in glasses sitting next to her recoiled in fright, mistaking her for an unbalanced psychopath.
How could she have forgotten about the clairvoyant Malika?!
Gorgon had made Taya responsible for her column. By 10:00 AM, this impostor (and Taya had no doubt she was one) was supposed to show up at the office with a new horoscope. Or rather, she already had, because the clock showed a quarter past ten. And there were still five stops to go!
As luck would have it, it was raining cats and dogs at Tretyakovskaya, and Taya, of course, had forgotten her umbrella at home. She had to skip across the bubbling puddles in her dainty ballet flats all the way to the old three-story building, in the attic of which the editorial office was located.

Soaked to the bone, Taya burst into the office and breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't find any clairvoyant near her desk. The employees of the editorial office, immersed in their work, barely paid her any attention, only Liza, the editor's right-hand girl, noticed her arrival.
"Overslept, did you?" she perched on Taya's desk, munching on a cheeseburger from the nearby McDonald's.
"No. It's just that the landlord was supposed to come by this morning, but he was late, and, accordingly, held me up," Taya fabricated on the spot. "And where's Malika? Surely she didn't wait for me?"
"She hasn't been here yet. She called this morning and warned that she'd arrive by eleven. That is, in twenty minutes."
"Great."
"Listen, I stumbled across an interesting article online about mystical places in Moscow. Don't you want to whip something up on this topic?"
"Okay. I'll get to it after the meeting with Malika."
Taya was ready to promise her anything, just so that the munching Liza would get away from her desk as soon as possible.
What a morning, huh? As if all the misfortunes at home weren't enough, now she had the charlatan Malika and the eternally munching glutton Liza weighing down on her. Taya thought about a vacation. To get away for two whole weeks...
Damn! The mobile phone was still stuck in the sofa!
Malika turned out to be a rather attractive woman, about thirty-five years old, dressed in a long leopard-print tunic. A wide black ribbon held back her dyed red hair, cascading over her shoulders. Taya had only seen her a couple of times, only in passing, and now she had the opportunity to examine the pseudo-clairvoyant up close. In the newspaper photo, she looked older and more vulgar, probably because of the heavy makeup with expressive black eyeliner and red lipstick. Now, without a trace of makeup and with a radiant smile on her face, Malika somehow resembled a mischievous schoolgirl.
She sat opposite Taya and fixed her huge green eyes with a mesmerizing sparkle on her.
"I'm sorry I'm late. I couldn't find the keys. It turned out my youngest son had stuffed them into the floor vase and happily forgot about it."
Taya snorted to herself. What kind of clairvoyant was she if she couldn't find the keys in her own apartment?
"Just don't laugh at me! Even clairvoyants have things like that happen," the woman smiled, as if reading her thoughts. "Here's the horoscope for next week. Sorry it's handwritten. I'm not friends with computers."
She laid a stack of papers on the table.
A real laugh riot, sitting at the computer and typing out all this drivel! Gorgon definitely needs psychological help – she blindly believes every con artist she comes across.
Taya picked up the first page and began to read through the text with a serious expression, demonstratively correcting errors with a pencil right in front of the pseudo-clairvoyant.
"I only got a C in Russian in school," Malika confessed with a guilty smile.
"What is this word? I can't make it out!" Taya felt like a shrew, mocking her charge, but she couldn't deny herself the pleasure. "Confeta[1], is it? Why confeta? What the heck?"
"Confeta?" Malika raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"Here you've written: 'Today your claims and careless statements may cause confeta.' Maybe 'conflict'?"
"Hmm, that’s weird! I thought I copied everything correctly," the clairvoyant stared at her notes with a puzzled expression.
"You did WHAT?" Taya was triumphant.
This Malika didn't even have the brains to weasel her way out of it. She blurted out herself that she'd stolen the horoscope from some website or a newspaper. Unbelievable!
The woman realized she'd let something slip too. But it didn't seem to faze her at all. She looked at Taya with a mischievous glint in her eyes, as if nothing special had happened. So what if she stole a horoscope from someone? What's the big deal if she duped not only the editor, who sincerely believed in her, but also all the readers of their newspaper?
"Yes, You're right. I think the word should be 'conflict.'"
"Maybe we should stop playing this comedy? You're not the one writing the horoscope, and you're not a clairvoyant! I'm going to tell the editor as soon as she gets here."
"You won't tell her a thing," Malika said confidently, continuing to smile.
"Why is that?" Taya was momentarily speechless at such audacity and the sudden shift to using the informal "you."[2]
"Okay, I confess, this time I didn't have time to write the horoscope, so I borrowed it from an old magazine. But this is the only time. Usually, I write the horoscopes myself."
"You will prove that to the editor, not to me."
"So, you don't believe I'm a clairvoyant?"
"Not in the slightest!"
"Then how do I know so much about you? For example, about what happened to your parents, how your mother's death turned your whole life upside down, how you fell in love at the university, and still love a guy with a name that starts with the letter A?" Malika's eyes seemed to be laughing.
Taya blinked in confusion.
Where did this impostor get so much information about her? No one could have told Malika about her life for the simple reason that she had NEVER opened her soul or shared her secrets with ANYONE in the world. Taya had never told anyone ANYTHING about her past.
"I also know that sometimes, when you walk by, the streetlights start to flicker. As if they're greeting you. I could even tell you about your gift. But I won't. I have to go, urgent matters are waiting."
With these words, Malika stood up from her chair.
"I think we have an agreement?" she said with a smile. "The editor won't find out about my little trick, will she?"
"Wait! Are you just going to leave without explaining anything to me?!"
"Tayechka, not everyone is allowed to know about their future before the appointed time. So, I won't explain anything to you. I can say only one thing: one day, with your pen, you will create a new life. Or rather, with your keyboard. And perhaps it will change our world for the better."
The clairvoyant headed for the door, but halfway there she stopped and looked again at the speechless journalist.
"Oh, and don't rack your brain over the mysterious meeting tonight. It's just an old acquaintance's joke. But meeting him promises a lot of pleasant things."
Malika left, and Taya remained sitting with her mouth open.

[1] Confeta (конфета) means candy, chocolate, sweets in Russian.
[2] Before this moment Malika politely used a word “Вы” (You), but then she switched to an informal address “you”.

Dancing had always been her element, ever since childhood when little Belka was enrolled in a choreography studio. In the rhythm of the music, she could express what she couldn't say with words, unleash her secret feelings. Supple, flexible, and graceful, Belka looked mesmerizing on the stage of the nightclub, her beauty in the spotlight seeming otherworldly.
Her adventurous investigation at the "Tonight" club for a blog brought in extra income for just a few fifteen-minute performances. An easy job, considering she loved to dance.
But this evening, even her favorite activity couldn't help her relax and distract herself from her troubles. Usually, dancing above the moving crowd and feeling the rhythms of the music in every cell of her body, Belka would drift away in her thoughts, far away to a world of her dreams, to another universe where only Music, Passion, and boundless Joy reigned.
But today, a feeling of anxiety wouldn't leave her. Life was hurtling headlong into the abyss! And she was powerless to stop it. It was as if she was slamming on the brakes with all her might, but the car continued to race on furiously, beyond any control.
I need to pull myself together.
But how? How could she forget about all these strange events that had been haunting her lately? How could she ignore them and pretend that everything was alright?
I need to try to focus on something pleasant! Like a trip, for example.
With these thoughts, Belka left the stage, escorted by a burly security guard who, despite her constant refusals, still hadn't given up hope of going to the movies with her. Sensing that he was about to start the same old routine again, the girl hurried to hide in the women's restroom and stood there for a good ten minutes before daring to peek out into the hallway.
The coast was clear. The disappointed fan had evidently retreated back to his post, wherever that may be. Surely he wouldn't stand guard outside the restroom for all eternity.
A satisfied smile played on Belka's lips as she strode down the corridor towards the dressing room.
She nearly collided with a bald young man in the doorway, who nearly knocked her off her feet. Without so much as a mumbled apology, he hurried towards the service stairs. Thirty-ish, with a soulless grey gaze and a nose that had clearly seen better days, he was stocky, powerfully built, and short. He looked, she thought fleetingly, like he'd once been a boxer. The image flashed in her mind as the bald man brushed past.
What was he doing in the dressing room? Outsiders weren't supposed to be back here, but from time to time, thanks to their connections with the club's management, the dancers' admirers managed to sneak in. Which of the girls could he have been visiting?
And at that very moment, Belka felt a delayed alarm bell ringing in her gut, clanging with all its might. Now she understood what had been off about the bald man. She turned to see him disappearing down the stairs with her bag clutched in his hand! There was no doubt it was hers. The well-worn, studded leather satchel, adorned with four Andy Warhol-esque images of Audrey Hepburn, had been a gift from a budding English designer named Dylan after she'd modeled for his collection.
Without hesitation, Belka sprinted down the corridor after the thief.
"Hey! Stop!" she yelled, determined to get her bag back.
The stranger, now halfway down the next flight of stairs, startled and glanced back. And in that same instant, he bolted down the staircase leading to the street, her bag clutched firmly in his grasp.
Without a second thought, Belka kicked off her towering, clear-heeled sandals and gave chase. She closed the distance in two leaps, nimbly vaulting over the railing. The thief clearly hadn't expected such agility from her. With a swift, forceful blow, Belka snatched her bag from the bewildered would-be robber, leaving him with no choice but to flee. Perhaps he would have used his boxing skills to knock her out and reclaim his prize, but at that moment, voices echoed from the landing above. The prospect of witnesses forced him to make a more sensible decision - to cut his losses and disappear before things got worse.
So, the bald man wasn't a fan of one of the girls, and it was unlikely he'd been ushered into the dressing room by someone from the club's administration. How, then, had he gained access? Belka wondered how the thief had managed to slip past security at the service entrance and where he'd gotten a keycard for the dressing room door. The girls certainly hadn't let him in.
Considering this, she decided to go down to security and find out why they had allowed an unauthorized person into a restricted area.
Two security guards, their eyes glazed over with sleepiness, were glued to a laptop screen, scrutinizing a woman's photo from a dating site. They didn't even notice Belka approach the desk until she deliberately coughed, drawing their attention. The men stared at her with questioning looks that silently asked “What do you want?"
"A guy just ran out of here. Who was he? And how did he get into the dressing room?"
"What guy? There was no guy here!" the guards answered in unison.
"Bald! He just ran outside."
"Nobody ran out of here!"
"Oh, really?" Belka said, frowning and crossing her arms over her chest. "So, I just snatched my bag back from a ghost."
The security guards exchanged a knowing look, feigning incomprehension. Of course, they’d never admit someone unauthorized had been here. They’d argue until they were blue in the face that she’d imagined the thief.
“No one could have run out of here, because the door is locked, and we have the keys,” one of them explained, with a forced air of certainty.
“Then check the door, because it’s open!”
Belka spun around and padded barefoot up the stairs.
She wondered why her bag, of all things, had caught the thief’s eye. He couldn’t possibly be a devotee of Dylan, who was practically unknown in Russia, especially when there were other dancers’ bags nearby, flaunting the more recognizable logos of "Louis Vuitton" and "Gucci" – some were clever fakes, others gifts from wealthy admirers.
During a break between sets, Belka executed a successful foray into the club manager’s office for her investigation, the one she chronicled on her blog. She spent the rest of her shift daydreaming about a vacation somewhere new, and the stolen bag incident quickly faded into fantasies of future travels. She was torn between escaping to a warm climate to laze on a beach under the scorching sun, or holing up in a snowy mountain range in a deserted, cozy cabin with a fireplace.
Memories of past vacations with her friends surfaced. Often with Adranika, always with adventures, but Nika was gone now. Only Nastya and Vasilisa remained. Their famous foursome had dwindled to a trio. Vas’ka had gone to Paris for the New Year holidays to visit her twin sister, Daniella, and Nastya would definitely not be up for a mountain getaway. She thrived on being the center of attention, especially male attention, and a secluded retreat was definitely not on her agenda.

At five in the morning, with a sense of accomplishment, Zayna left the club through the service entrance and headed for a taxi.
Her old acquaintance – a bald boxer with a crooked nose – appeared suddenly. He swooped in like a whirlwind, out of nowhere, snatched the bag from her hands and ran towards his car. Belka, although momentarily taken aback, quickly recovered and chased after him.
"Take two!" flashed through her mind.
Running on the icy road, dotted with potholes, was not as comfortable as running on the stairs, but the anger that gripped her helped her keep up with the bald man.
Why is he bothering me? What does he want?
Meanwhile, the thief had already jumped into the car at the edge of the parking lot, but he could not close the door, because Belka forcefully pulled it towards her and kicked him right in the face.
“Give me the bag, freak!”
The bald guy's head with a broken lip and a dazed look rolled back. Without losing a second, Belka grabbed her bag, but the robber didn't even think of giving it back. He tried to fight her off until a "gun" suddenly appeared in his hand.
Seeing the barrel pointed at her, Belka froze. Strangely, she wasn't scared for some reason. It didn't even occur to her that he might shoot, and life would end so suddenly. It remained only to decide how to proceed in the new circumstances.
But on this night, it seemed that fate itself was favoring her. Suddenly, the street was lit up by the headlights of an approaching car. A patrol car appeared in the darkness.
Cursing, the bald man released the bag, sending Belka into a snowdrift towering behind her, and stepped on the gas.
Clambering out of the lump of snow into which she had flown together with her recovered bag, the girl brushed herself off and hurried to her taxi. The Uber driver only looked up from the display when she knocked on the window. Apparently, he missed this chase scene like from an action movie, which had just played out before his eyes.
Zayna wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. What if this crazy armed robber decides to return? And why did he latch onto her? What did he lose in her bag? There were no stacks of dollars in it.
Stop!
Belka almost jumped at the thought that struck her as the Uber sped along the night-time Garden Ring[1], glorified in the “Moscow Night” song.
Could it be all about that package that the nuns handed over?
She had completely forgotten about it. Probably, the bald guy is hunting for this book! There is simply no other explanation. That's why he set his sights specifically on her battered bag and remained waiting for her until the end of her shift.
Belka noticed the sign of a 24-hour "Chocoladnitsa" ahead - a haven for night owls. How many times had she and her friends looked into one of these cozy coffee shops after a night out at nightclubs and met the dawn there! Over lively chatter and a bottle of wine, they did not notice how it was getting light outside, the deserted streets came to life and gradually filled with passers-by, and a new weekday was gaining momentum, announcing itself with impatient car signals.
According to tradition, the girls used to order desserts like chocolate fondue, meet guys in business suits who had popped into the coffee shop for breakfast before work, spin them all sorts of tall tales about themselves, and leave the "Chocoladnitsa" in a cheerful mood with slightly dizzy heads to face the new day. Three hours flew by unnoticed, and the sunny day with cars rushing back and forth and passers-by hurrying by always confused them, because it seemed to them that it should still be early morning, and the deserted street, shrouded in sleepy peace, was still waiting for its awakening.
Belka asked the driver to drop her off near the coffee shop. On the first floor, a company was cheerfully making noise, who had also wandered here, most likely, after a nightclub. One of the guys was enthusiastically parodying Lady Gaga from her old video, writhing near the table like a zombie with a broken spine, and from this spectacle the girls laughed almost to tears. Belka didn't remember the last time she had so much fun like this, like them - carefree, from the heart, at full throttle.
She went up to the second floor. The hall was almost empty, only a couple in love were cooing in the corner.
Belka settled down at the opposite end of the hall, ordered a cup of cappuccino and took out the mysterious package from her bag. Now she will find out why the bald guy was hunting for this thing, handed over to her by the nuns.
The battered book turned out to be the diary of a nun Maria. Judging by the dates, she lived in Spain back in the sixteenth century! It was hard to imagine how her records had survived to our time, and why they were somehow intended specifically for Belka.
What do I have to do with a Spaniard who lived several hundred years ago?!
Or maybe the nuns learned about my book blog and that's why they decided to ask me for help? And the fact that Maria allegedly left a diary specifically for me, they just made up for intrigue.
Belka couldn't find another explanation.
What exactly was the bald man going to find out from this diary? Maybe its pages reveal some historically important secret or indicate the location where the treasures of the Spanish king are hidden?
With these thoughts, Belka immersed herself in reading the diary. She couldn't wait to learn the centuries-old secret that the nun had entrusted to these pages. What important thing did this Maria tell that now robbers of the twenty-first century are hunting for her records?
However, Belka was in for complete disappointment. For a whole hour, without even touching her coffee, she greedily, without stopping, read all the entries from cover to cover, but found nothing remarkable. Maria constantly turned to the Lord God and described her routine life in the monastery until the day of her death at the age of sixty-five. The only surprising moment in this whole story was that the nun knew the exact date of her future death, and, judging by the last entry made by a Sister Benedicta, Maria was not mistaken and really passed away on that very day.
Belka ordered a new cup of cappuccino and, leaning back on the back of the sofa, thoughtfully stared at the snowy boulevard outside the window.
In reality, only Maria's touching love story interested her in all this tedious writing. At the age of seventeen, the young Spaniard was preparing for her wedding with her beloved Marcelo Dominguez, who served under King Philip II. But by order of His Majesty, he went with the rest of the conquistadors to South America, where he died. And Maria, heartbroken, decided to go to a monastery, leaving behind her dreams of family happiness.
After finishing her coffee, Belka called an Uber and left the cafe. She had to hurry home. There was very little time left before the city finally wakes up and is engulfed in morning traffic jams.
Lost in thought about the strange encounter with the nuns, about the diary of a Spanish woman, more than four centuries old, that they had given her, and about the bald guy's persistent attempts to steal it, Belka didn't even have time to blink before the taxi turned off Michurinsky Avenue, drove into the courtyard, and stopped in front of her entrance. She paid the driver and was about to get out of the car when she suddenly noticed the light in the windows of her apartment.
Belka could have sworn she turned it off!
At first, she thought she had mistaken the floor, but after counting the rows of windows, she realized that the light was indeed on in her apartment. And that meant that someone had broken into her home and was waiting for her return! Perhaps even that very bald hunter for Maria's diary!
"I've changed my mind! Please take me somewhere else. To Oktyabrskoye Pole[2]. Just get out of here quickly. I'll pay double."
Well, she'll have to wake Nastya.
And only when Belka drove up to her friend's house on Marshal Biryuzov Street did it suddenly dawn on her: while reading the diary in Spanish, she understood every word with such ease, as if the text had been written in Russian!

[1] Garden Ring is a circular ring road avenue around central Moscow.
[2] Oktyabrskoye Pole (October Field, named after October Revolution) is a station of the Moscow metro in the North-Western distict of Moscow. The station received its name from a nearby locality which was initially known as Voyennoye Pole (Military Field).