Andrey brought her here in June.
June in Komi is a deceptive time. The sun hovers above the forest almost all day and night, the mosquitoes haven’t fully come out yet, and the grass is waist-high. It’s beautiful—especially for someone who’s never seen the northern countryside. When Katya got off the bus at the turnoff, she actually laughed with delight: “My God, it’s so beautiful! Just like a fairytale!”
Andrey stood nearby, holding two suitcases and watching her—happy, proud, and a little shy. He loved her deeply. They met in Moscow—he was working construction, she was studying to be a teacher. He was a country guy, strong and quiet, the kind who does more than he says. She was from Moscow, light-hearted, talkative, with dimples in her cheeks and a belief that life is an adventure.
They got married quickly. Signed the papers at the registry office on Arbat. Then Andrey said, “Let’s go home. My mother’s there, and the farm. There’s plenty of work. We’ll live in the village for now, and see what happens.” Katya agreed—easily, as she did everything in life: “The village? Awesome! Fresh air, fresh milk, nature! I’ve always dreamed of this!”
It took them a long time to get to the village. Train to Syktyvkar, then a bus to the district center, then another bus—small, bumpy, crammed full of sacks and baskets. Katya watched out the window—and the farther they went, the quieter she became. The forests grew thicker, the road narrower, the villages lonelier. At the stops, there were crooked wooden houses with empty window frames. By the road, women in rubber boots waved for rides. A tractor pulled a cart of hay. And above it all—the sky, huge, gray, endless.
At the turn where they got off, there was nothing—just a gravel road disappearing into the woods and a rusty signpost with peeling paint.
“Where’s the village?” Katya asked.
“Three kilometers on foot,” Andrey replied. “I told you—we live in the middle of nowhere.”
And so they set off. Andrey carried the suitcases, and Katya walked beside him, slipping on the gravel in her city sneakers. The mosquitoes, drawn by fresh blood, instantly swarmed them. The sun, so gentle just moments ago, now beat down mercilessly.
When the village came into view, Katya stopped.
She had been expecting something else. Maybe carved window frames, cheerful front gardens, a well with a crane—the sort of thing you see in movies. But what she saw were blackened wooden cottages, sagging fences, rusty tractors in the yards, and an empty street. Not a soul in sight. Only a dog sleeping in the dust.
“Is… this it?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“This is it,” Andrey said. “That’s our house, the last one. See, with the green roof?”
The house was old, but sturdy. Andrey had built it with his father about ten years ago. His father had passed away, and his mother was living alone. Now—with her son and daughter-in-law.
His mother met them on the porch. A slim, stern woman in her sixties. She looked Katya over from head to toe—and said nothing. Just pressed her lips tightly. Andrey introduced them: “Meet my mother. This is Katya. My wife.”
His mother nodded: “Come in.”
And that was all.
The first 24 hours were still manageable.
Katya tried to stay strong. She looked around the house, forcing a smile. She asked, “Where’s your bathroom?” There wasn’t one—only a blackened sauna at the back, heated on Saturdays. “What about a shower?” No shower either. In the summer, they washed in the sauna or warmed up water in a basin. “And the toilet?” There was a toilet—a wooden outhouse in the garden, covered in old roofing felt, with a hole in the floor and the ever-present bundle of nettles by the doorway.
Katya went there once. She came back pale and said, “I’d rather hold it.”
That night, the mosquitoes were relentless. There were no window screens—Andrey’s mother never had them, saying, “My father lived without screens, I live without screens, and it’s fine.” Andrey strung some gauze over the bed, but the mosquitoes got through anyway. Katya tossed and turned until morning, slapped herself on the cheeks, whispering, “God, why…”
In the morning, Andrey’s mother set a cast-iron pot of porridge on the table. It was thick barley porridge, no butter. Katya poked at it with her spoon and asked, “Is there any coffee?”
The mother looked at her like she was from another planet: “What?”
“Coffee. You know, a drink. Ground beans.”
“We drink tea,” the mother cut in. “Herbal. St. John’s wort. It’s good for you.”
By the evening of the second day, it started to rain. Not a quick summer shower like in Moscow, but a northern rain—long, cold, drumming on the roof for days. The road turned to mud. The TV hanging in the corner only caught two channels, both full of static. No internet. Barely any signal. Katya went out to the porch with her phone, tried to find a connection for half an hour—but got nothing.
She sat down on the step and burst into tears.
Andrey came out after her. Sat next to her. Hugged her.
“Katya, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied through tears. “It’s just… Andrey, I can’t do this. I’m not used to it. Do you understand? I can’t bathe in a basin. I can’t use that outhouse. I can’t stand your mother looking at me like I’ve ruined her whole house. I just can’t.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “My mother is fair. She’s just tough. Hang in there. It’ll get better.”
“I don’t want to hang in there,” she said. “I want to go home.”
“But this is your home,” he said. “We’re husband and wife.”
Katya fell silent. She wiped her tears and went back inside.
On the third night, she didn’t sleep at all. She lay with her eyes wide open, listening to the mouse scratching under the floorboard, the wind howling in the chimney, and Andrey’s mother snoring through the wall. With every hour, one feeling grew stronger inside her: run away.
She ran away at dawn.
Andrey woke up from the cold—the blanket had slipped off. He reached out—no Katya. He thought she had gone outside. He waited. She still didn’t come back. So he got up, pulled on his pants, and stepped out to the porch.
The morning was gray and foggy. A huge puddle filled half the yard by the gates, left by last night’s rain. On the porch railing, a plastic bag was clipped so the wind wouldn’t blow it away. Inside the bag was a note.
He pulled it out. Opened it.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. Katya.”
Five words. Nothing else.
Andrey stood on the porch for a while. Then he sat down on the step. Stayed there for a bit. Then he went inside.
“Mom,” he said. “She’s gone.”
His mother clanged a spatula by the stove, not even turning around.
“I knew it,” she said. “I told you: city girls aren’t cut from our cloth. Did you listen to me? No. Well, now you deal with it.”
Andrey didn’t say anything. He went out, sat on the bench by the gates, and stayed there until evening.
Of course, the entire village found out.
There really wasn’t much to discover—it’s a tiny village where everyone sees everything. The city girl left at dawn, walked three kilometers through the mud to the highway, caught a ride to the district center, then took a bus. And that was the last anyone heard from her.
People had their own opinions. The women at the village store would say:
“What did he expect? City girls are like flowers. They need care. And here? Just a blackened old bathhouse and an outhouse in the garden. Who could stand it?”
“If you ask me, she was just a flirt,” others would argue. “She played around and left. Good riddance. She wasn’t one of us and never would have fit in anyway.”
“I feel sorry for Andrey,” sighed a third group. “He’s a good guy. And now what? Is he going to stay single again?”
Andrey didn’t pay any attention to the gossip. In fact, he stopped paying attention to anything at all. He worked in silence. Ate in silence. Slept in silence. When his mother tried to talk, he brushed her off. When neighbors tried, he just turned away.
A month passed. Then another. Then a third.
Katya didn’t write. She didn’t call. Her phone was disconnected—or maybe she’d just changed her number.
Andrey didn’t look for her. Maybe out of pride—or something else he couldn’t name. He just kept living. Day after day. Got up in the morning. Fed the animals. Went to work—he’d taken a job at the logging company, felling trees. Came home in the evening. Ate dinner. Went to bed.
But every morning, as soon as he woke up, the first thing he did was glance at the side of the bed where Katya used to sleep. It was always empty. And each time, something quietly tore inside him—silently, like an old thread breaking in a sewing machine.
One day, his mother couldn’t take it anymore. She sat down across from him at dinner and said:
“Andryusha. You’re wasting away. I can see it. You’re tormenting yourself. And she, back there in Moscow, she’s probably already forgotten you. Let her go. Get a divorce. Find yourself a good, hardworking village girl. Someone who’ll heat the bathhouse, milk the cow, bake pies. As for her… she’s nothing but a dud.”
Andrey didn’t answer. Then he looked up—and his mother, who had lived with him her whole life and had never seen a harsh word or a cold glance from him, suddenly recoiled. His look was so intense, she wished he’d just shouted instead.
“Mom,” he said quietly. “Don’t.”
And he left the table.
Winter passed.
Winter in Komi is long, dark, snowy. The roads would get buried up to the rooftops. The stoves were kept burning non-stop in the houses. Andrey worked out in the logging fields—the temperature was forty below, the trees cracked in the cold, the chainsaw kept stalling. He’d get home late, fall on his bed, and immediately fall asleep.
Sometimes he dreamed of Katya. She’d be walking down the road—in that same light dress she had arrived in. And she’d smile and say, “What’s the matter, Andryusha? I’ve come back.” He’d wake up and lie there for a long time, staring at the dark ceiling.
When the snow melted come spring, he went to the district center. He bought screens for the windows. Fixed up the porch. Cleared the weeds along the fence. His mother watched silently, saying nothing. But to herself she wondered: who is he doing all this for? Not for her. And not for himself.
And even he didn’t know who for. He just couldn’t sit still. His hands needed to be busy. As if, if he stopped, he’d hear the silence. And the silence in that house was so deep, it felt like you could drown in it.
She came back in June.
Exactly one year later. To the day. Andrey had just come back from the field, washing up in the yard at the basin. His mother was busy in the garden. Suddenly, from the road—right at the same turn where they got off the bus a year ago—a woman appeared.
At first, Andrey didn’t recognize her. He wiped his face with his sleeve and squinted.
The figure came closer. She walked slowly—her gait was different now, heavier, careful, not her old light step. She carried a suitcase in one hand. In the other… in the other arm she pressed something wrapped in a blanket.
Andrey froze.
It was Katya.
She walked up to the gate and stopped. She looked up.
She was a changed woman. She had lost weight—not the kind you get in the city, but in a deeper way. There were shadows under her eyes. Her hair was in a simple ponytail—no styling, no makeup. She wasn’t dressed like she used to be: just a plain jacket, jeans, rubber boots. And her face—her face was different too. Gone was the lightness with which she’d laughed at the turn a year ago. Now, it was the face of someone who had understood a lot. And lived through even more.
“Hello, Andrey,” she said.
Her voice was quiet, but firm. Not guilty. Not pleading. Simply—a voice.
Andrey said nothing. He stood there with his wet face, in dirty work clothes, a towel in his hands, staring at her. At her. At the suitcase. At the bundle wrapped in the blanket.
“May I?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. He just opened the gate.
A heavy silence filled the house—the kind that comes before a storm.
When his mother saw Katya, she froze, a jar of milk in her hands. Her eyes narrowed. But she said nothing. She just set the jar down on the table and walked out into the yard—deliberately, slamming the door behind her.
Katya sat down on the bench. She put the suitcase at her feet. The bundle—carefully, with both hands—she placed on the table.
Andrey stood by the doorway. Watching.
“Who is it?” he asked, his voice rough.
Katya unfolded the blanket.
Wrapped inside was a baby. Tiny—just a few months old. Sleeping, making little smacking sounds. Tiny fingers curled into fists. Fine light hair on his head. Exactly like Andrey’s.
“Your son,” Katya said. “Andrey Andreyevich. I named him after you.”
Andrey approached. He crouched beside the table. Looked at the baby—a long, silent gaze. Then he looked up at Katya.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “A year… a whole year. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Katya looked away.
“I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left,” she said. “Actually, I found out once I was in Moscow. And then… then I got scared. Do you understand? I thought: if I write to him, he’ll come, he’ll take me back. But I couldn’t go back. I just couldn’t—to that hut, that dirt, that cold, that… hopelessness. I’m sorry, Andrey, but that’s the truth. I hated your village. I hated everything here.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now,” she replied, her voice cracking, “now I’ve lived a year in Moscow. With a child. Without you. And do you know what I realized?”
Andrey stayed silent.
“I realized it’s even worse there,” Katya said. “I have no one. My mother died when I was fifteen. My father—well, you can’t really call him a father; he drank, chased women, and then disappeared altogether. Friends? Friends only stick around until your first hardship. As long as things are good, they’re there. The moment something goes wrong—not one remains. For a year, I lived in a rented apartment, worked two jobs, left my son at daycare. I’d come home, totally exhausted. And every night I kept thinking: there he is, Andrey. There he is, back in his village. Alive. Warm. Honest. The one who loved me more than anyone else in the world. And I… I left him.”
She fell silent. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I didn’t come so you would forgive me,” she said. “I know I don’t deserve it. I came so you could see your son. As for the rest—it’s up to you. If you want me to leave, say so. I’ll understand. I deserve it. Just… please visit him sometimes, okay? He’s yours.”
Andrey looked at the child. Then at Katya. Then back at the child.
And suddenly—he started to cry.
He hadn’t cried since his father died. Back then, he was fifteen, standing by the coffin, crying silently. After that, he never cried again. Until now. Quiet tears. Controlled. The way men cry when they’re not used to it.
He reached for Katya’s hand.
“You fool,” he said. “You fool. What a fool you are.”
And he embraced her.
His mother returned an hour later.
She saw them sitting on the bench together—Katya cradling the baby, Andrey with his arm around her shoulders. She stopped in her tracks.
“Well,” she said. “Had your fun, did you?”
Katya flinched but stayed silent.
“Mom,” Andrey said. “That’s enough.”
“Enough what?” his mother’s voice was sharp. “She left you for a year! Shamed you in front of the whole village! And you took her back? Where’s your pride?”
“Mom,” Andrey said, his voice firm as steel, “this is my wife. And this—this is my son. Your grandson. Accept it if you want. If not, that’s your choice. But the decision is mine.”
His mother stared at him for a long time. Then she turned to the bundle. She stepped closer and peeked in.
The child was awake now. Looked up at her—with Andrey’s eyes. The same gray-blue color. The same shape. The same steady, slightly guarded gaze.
And his mother—a dry, tough woman who, it seemed, had never smiled in her life—suddenly gave a sob. Covered her face with her hands.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “God, forgive me—a sinner…”
And she sat on the bench beside Katya.
That evening, Andrey heated up the banya.
Katya took her time washing. Warming herself after the city. After a strange apartment with no hot water. After a year of loneliness and two jobs. After everything.
Later, they all sat at the table. His mother set the samovar, brought out soaked lingonberries, and fried shanygs—the same ones Andrey loved since childhood. Katya ate and couldn’t get enough.
“You can’t get these in Moscow,” she said. “There, everything’s store-bought. Tasteless. Like paper.”
“Well then, live here,” his mother grumbled. “Why keep going back and forth?”
And in her grumbling, there was more warmth than in many kind words.
Andrey sat nearby, holding his son. He gazed at him—just couldn’t get enough. The boy was calm, didn’t cry, only studied his father with those serious eyes.
“Andrey Andreevich,” Andrey said softly, tasting the name. “Well, hello, Andrey Andreevich. Nice to meet you.”
The baby yawned. And suddenly—smiled. His very first smile. For Andrey.
That night, when everyone had settled in, Katya couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. She lay there listening—to how quiet the house was. To the mouse scratching under the floorboards. To the sound of the baby breathing in sleep. And—to how peacefully Andrey breathed beside her.
And suddenly she realized: what had seemed like hell a year ago—the cabin, the village, the silence—was now paradise. Because he was here. Because this was a family. Because here, at the edge of the world, in a remote Komi village, she had found what she’d spent a hopeless year searching for in sprawling Moscow: a home.
Not just a place. Not walls. Not conveniences. But a home. The real thing—the place you return to.
A few days passed.
Katya started settling in. She sorted through things, washed the windows, worked in the garden with her mother—who no longer eyed her suspiciously, but instead showed her how to plant everything. Andrey watched them from across the yard—how they bent over the garden beds, quietly chatting—and he couldn’t believe it. He was afraid to break the moment.
Of course, in the village people were talking again. “She came back!… And with a child!… Our Andrey, he’s so soft—took her back…” But now, those rumors no longer bothered them. Not Andrey, not Katya. They just lived.
One evening, while putting their son to bed, Katya suddenly said:
“You know, I was afraid to write to you for a whole year.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you hated me. And you’d be right. I betrayed you.”
Andrey was silent for a moment. Then he replied:
“I waited for you.”
“Really?”
“Really. I didn’t know if you would ever come back. But every morning I looked at your side of the bed. And waited.”
Katya looked at him—long and silently. Then she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
“I’m never leaving again,” she said. “Do you hear me? Never.”
“I hear you,” Andrey said.
And for the first time in a year, he smiled.
