19

Standing on the porch, peering into the blackening forest. The wind in gusts threw prickly snowflakes at me, shivering shiveringly, shrugged her shoulders and wrapped the edges of her shawl more tightly. Marta in the morning, turning into a red she-wolf, went hunting, but has not returned yet.

From the cold, the fingers squeezing the edges of the shawl became numb, and I nevertheless returned to the house. In the passage she shook off the snow, hung up her shawl, and went into the room. She walked over to the fireplace and threw a couple of logs into the dormant fire. She stirred up the fiery beehive with the poker. Sparks like fiery bees scattered across the belly of the fireplace.

Sitting on a fluffy rug opposite, she looked at the fire. I liked to sit like this in the evenings, the fire seemed to burn all the negativity of my thoughts.

For more than three months now I have been living here, in a stavka, a small settlement surrounded by forests. Most likely before, I would have thou