In the winter of 2018, Daria Stepanova lost her mind. It wasn’t a gradual process, like the erosion of soil or the withering of plants. Rather, it happened suddenly, like a rush of wind over deep trees or a burst of lightning high in the blue summer air.

If I were you, I wouldn’t knock on that door. I wouldn’t even walk on that side of the road where that house is, not on Halloween night in any case.

The room is bright from the cold, electric lighting. An exposing, stripping light that allows no shadows or soft hues. Its presence simultaneously useful and intruding.

In January, summer gathers below the balcony. In the garden, her arms, the trees. She sits by the window and listens to it whispering in the night.

Winter came early that year. The gravel was crisp beneath my steps and small white clouds formed in my breath.

In a small town nestled between rolling hills and a frost-kissed river, Christmas was more than just a holiday; it was a magical tapestry woven with the threads of tradition and the warmth of community.

I remember waiting every morning for a sleepy, yellow bus to appear at the end of my street—wind-swept, rain-washed, bathed in the sunshine.

It was well past midday when she reached the airport. Taxi drivers gathered in batches smoking and chatting in a mixture of exotic languages, Swahili, Hindi, Mandarin. 

It was an afternoon like any other at the small café nestled in the far corner of a library where Dana sought refuge on most days from the damp, cold air of the city’s late autumn.

Tiny specks of dust are twirling on the mellow edges of a late-summer afternoon, pirouetting their delicate finery in rhythm with shuffling of feet and rustling of papers.

It is an ordinary afternoon. A bunch of workers in neon vests and corona masks are hammering pieces of timber into the neighbour’s deck. Their tools make teeth-clenching noises.

I can still see it. A square with its stern-looking sculpture — the bronze horseman, clad in long-forgotten military regalia, his sword raised permanently at the distance.

They wanted the strongest reaction. Something real. Visceral. As real as death. What could be more real?

They were standing next to each other, waiting for her bus to arrive.

Pavel Kovac did not like his father. He did not like his father’s raw laughs, confident manner, broad shoulders, and how he made everyone around him feel small.