If

  fate had pushed them to flee together, and somehow led them to that

  remote village where springs were cool and early, perhaps it was no

  coincidence.

  The magical taiga forest, where dense pinewoods alternated with

  open clearings of damp meadows and small emerald marshes born from

  the thaw, surrounded it like a wreath of wild green. Fresh grass

  spread across the bare patches of land still marked by recent snow,

  and the air carried the clean scent of wet earth and awakened sap.

  Her aunt was waiting in the old wooden dacha that had once been

  her home as well. The roof leaned just as it always had, moss

  clinging to its corners, and the chimney exhaled a thin ribbon of

  blue smoke that vanished into the pale sky. Her face was red and

  weathered by wind and cold—the face of someone who had lived long

  outdoors in harsh conditions.

  — You look beautiful! — she greeted her, kissing her and

  holding her tightly. — If only your mother could see you…

  — I’m sure she’s watching us from somewhere — Ksenia

  replied, offering a faint smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

  The woman then turned to Sasha with open curiosity.

  — And… this handsome young man, who is he?

  Ksenia hesitated for only a second.

  — He’s… a friend.

  — He must be a very good friend — her aunt added with a

  knowing smile — because you’ve never brought anyone to the

  village before.

  The words lingered in the air like stove smoke. And then the

  feeling struck her—the sense that time had stopped in Kalmanka,

  that the outside world had no jurisdiction there. As she crossed the

  threshold, the floor creaked beneath her boots, and every room

  returned a fragment of her childhood: the window from which she had

  watched storms roll across the lake, the black iron stove where her

  mother warmed beet soup, the old wardrobe scented with resin.

  She recognized every corner, but she also felt what was missing:

  dreams that had never come true, promises life had diverted onto

  other paths—and her mother.

  And now she was there. She wasn’t entirely sure why. Beside

  someone she barely knew… and yet she felt that fate had woven

  something silent between them. Everything was so strange and…

  wonderful?

  — I’ve come to see Mariya — she finally said, turning back

  to her aunt.

  Her aunt set the kettle down on the table.

  — She still lives in the dacha deep in the forest. Though hardly

  anyone goes near her anymore. You know how she is.

  — Do you think she’ll remember me?

  — She will. Mariya doesn’t forget. Not people… nor what the

  forest whispers about them.

  Sasha sat at the kitchen table and accepted a cup of strong, thick

  coffee served in a mismatched mug. From there he observed the room:

  hand-embroidered curtains, an old clock marking the seconds with

  infinite patience, the yellowed photograph of Ksenia’s mother

  hanging beside the door. And her father?

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Through the window, the lake was visible. The ice had almost

  completely withdrawn, leaving floating plates that brushed softly

  against one another. The water was a deep emerald green, reflecting

  the young birches just beginning to bud.

  — It’s beautiful — Sasha murmured.

  Ksenia watched him for a few seconds. Was he as good as he seemed?

  Perhaps he, too, sensed something different there—an ancient

  stillness, a promise.

  The wind stirred the branches, and for a moment the forest seemed

  to lean toward the house, as if listening.

  Mariya. The shaman. The woman who, they said, spoke with the free

  spirits of the taiga.

  A slight shiver ran through Ksenia. She knew that if she crossed

  the path leading to that hidden dacha among the pines, nothing would

  ever be exactly the same again.

  And for the first time in a long while, she was not sure she

  feared it.

  The path to Mariya’s dacha cut into the forest like an old scar.

  It was not visible to just anyone; one had to know it—remember

  where the ground grew softer, where a birch leaned over the peat,

  where the roots formed a kind of natural step. Ksenia walked without

  thinking, as if her feet obeyed a memory older than her own will.

  The valley opened below, cradled between gentle hills covered in

  pine and larch. There, the elements were not abstractions. They were

  presences.

  The earth breathed beneath the thaw—dark, fertile, heavy with

  the thick scent of returning life. Each step pressed her boots

  slightly into the warm mud, as if the ground wished to hold them, to

  recognize them. That soil kept bones, seeds, promises. It kept names.

  Water descended in clear threads from the slopes, feeding the lake

  that beat at the center of the valley like an ancient heart. Cracked

  ice floated in irregular sheets, and the sound of breaking water

  carried something ceremonial in it, like a distant drum marking the

  passage of time.

  The air was cold and clean, filled with resin and moisture. It

  moved among the trees with almost conscious intention. It was not

  merely wind—it was breath. It carried whispers indistinguishable

  yet vibrating against the skin. Sasha felt it at the nape of his

  neck, as though someone had spoken his name without sound.

  And fire… fire waited in Mariya’s dacha.

  The house stood at the forest’s edge beside a small inlet of the

  lake. More humble than her aunt’s, older. The logs, blackened by

  winters, seemed to have absorbed centuries of smoke. From the chimney

  rose a straight column that did not scatter, despite the wind.

  Mariya stood at the door when they arrived.

  She did not seem surprised.

  Her graying hair fell loose over a dark shawl embroidered with red

  and ochre threads. Around her neck hung a small carved piece of

  bone—perhaps elk, perhaps older still. Her eyes did not merely

  look. They pierced.

  — You have returned.

  It was not a question.

  Ksenia felt something settle inside her chest, like a piece

  sliding perfectly back into place.

  — I have.

  Mariya stepped aside to let them enter. Inside, fire burned in a

  low iron stove. It was not merely a domestic fire; it had been

  arranged with intention. Four stones surrounded its base, aligned

  with the cardinal points. On a wooden table rested bowls of lake

  water, damp earth, feathers, and a lit candle whose flame remained

  steady.

  — This valley does not forget its own — Mariya said as she

  closed the door. — Here, the ancestors walk with the thaw.

  Sasha exchanged a glance with Ksenia but said nothing. There was a

  density in the room that commanded respect.

  Mariya took a handful of earth and placed it in Ksenia’s hands.

  — Your mother ran barefoot on this soil. Her mother too. And

  before them, other women whose names you do not know, yet whose blood

  you carry. When you step on this ground, you do not walk alone.

  Then she guided her toward the bowl of water.

  — Look.

  The reflection trembled slightly, as if breathing. For a moment,

  Ksenia thought she saw another outline behind her own face—a

  superimposed feminine shadow.

  The air stirred, and the flame bent toward them.

  — The elements are memory — Mariya continued in a low voice. —

  Earth keeps. Water remembers. Air carries. Fire transforms. When one

  of our own is lost, the valley calls them. And if they return, they

  must decide whether to listen.

  A deep shiver passed through Ksenia. It was not fear. It was

  recognition.

  Outside, the lake cracked as a great sheet of ice broke apart. The

  sound echoed through the valley like something ancient—almost

  human.

  Mariya lifted her gaze.

  — Your ancestors know you have come. Now you must know why.

  The silence that followed was not empty. It was absolute. As if

  the entire valley awaited her answer.

  Some returns are not coincidence.

  And when the valley calls your name, ignoring it may no longer be an option.