Since dawn, thick snow had been falling steadily—slow and heavy, as if someone above was carelessly dumping bags of flour over the land. A lone car crept along a buried country road, a tiny dot in the frozen white expanse. Inside, the windshield wipers squealed back and forth, tires crunched against the ice, and a baby’s soft wails occasionally broke the tense silence.
Igor clutched the steering wheel, his fingers bloodless from the grip. His eyes stayed locked on the barely visible path ahead, which seemed to disappear into the storm. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. Beside him, Tatyana sat slumped in silence—her shoulders heavy, mouth set tight, eyes blank. She wasn’t just tired—she looked hollow. They’d moved to the countryside hoping for a fresh start, for Tatyana to heal.
“Should we turn on the radio?” Igor finally said, still watching the road.
“What for?” she replied flatly. “To drown out our child’s crying?”
Igor exhaled through his nose.
“Here we go again…” he muttered, louder this time. “I’m doing my best. Driving through this storm. In your car, which is always on the brink of collapse…”
“My car?” Tatyana snapped. “Because you spent our last money on cigarettes?”
The baby began to cry again. Igor’s hands twitched on the wheel.
“Perfect. We move here, hoping for a new beginning, and you’re already blaming me for everything. Could we just… not fight? Until we at least arrive safely?”
“Stop talking,” Tatyana whispered, pressing her forehead to the icy window. A tear rolled down her cheek.
The car skidded slightly around a bend, but Igor managed to keep control. Soon, a crooked old house appeared beyond the trees—faded blue, slanted, like it had been forgotten by time.
“There it is,” he said, pulling over at the edge of a snowy field.
There was no road ahead—only mounds of snow and uneven ground.
Tatyana stepped out slowly, the baby bundled tightly in her arms. Her steps were unsure, as though the ground itself couldn’t be trusted.
She walked a few feet—then stumbled. The snow was deeper than it looked. She cried out and dropped to her knees, clutching the baby protectively.
“What are you doing?” Igor hurried over and took the child from her arms. “Careful! Are you hurt?”
“Don’t yell…” she murmured. “Just don’t jostle him…”
“I know how to hold a baby,” he snapped, helping her up. She didn’t respond, just leaned into him, her eyes rimmed with red.
The house welcomed them with a groan. The steps creaked, the lock stuck, and the door had to be forced open. A gust of cold air blew snow into their faces.
“Come on, old wreck,” Igor muttered, struggling with the key.
At last, the door gave way. Inside was pitch dark.
The stench of mold and damp hit them instantly. Under the flashlight beam: burlap sacks, bits of rope, and heaps of dust coated the room like a film of time.
“God…” Tatyana whispered. “Are we really going to live here?”
“For now,” Igor said. “We’ll clean it up. Slowly.”
He grabbed a broom and began sweeping. Each board creaked underfoot; every sound echoed like it belonged to a sinking ship, not a home.
“This’ll be the nursery,” he said. “The radiators work. Windows are good. The walls are solid.”
“What about the ceiling?” Tatyana asked, glancing at the moldy corner. “And that?”
“We’ll clean it. Dry it out. Just hold on, Tanya. For our son.”
She didn’t reply. She curled up on the couch, still wearing her coat.
The house began to warm slightly. One wall still held a picture: the Nutcracker wielding a sword, surrounded by mice.
“There’s your bodyguard, Dimon,” Igor joked, hammering a nail into the wall. “The Nutcracker’s watching over you.”
Night fell suddenly. The world outside went quiet and gray. Then—faint, muffled whining.
“Igor… did you hear that?” Tatyana asked.
“Mice, maybe,” he replied.
“No. It sounded like someone crying. Outside.”
He stepped out.
There, nestled in a snowbank, was a dog—brown, filthy, eyes tired and full of quiet sorrow. She was trembling, her tail tucked, her breath shallow.
“What’s wrong with you?” Igor crouched. “You’ll freeze out here.”
The dog looked up calmly. Like she’d come with a purpose.
“Come on,” Igor coaxed, motioning her inside.
The dog trotted in and headed straight for the nursery. She froze by the crib.
“What the hell?” Tatyana cried. “Get her out! She’s too close to the baby!”
“She’s harmless,” Igor insisted. “She’s just cold.”
“I don’t want her near him,” Tatyana said.
Igor nodded. “If she does anything wrong, I’ll take her out. Just give her a chance.”
She said nothing. That night, she slept curled around the baby, the dog curled at the foot of the bed—still and silent.
By morning, sunlight poured in through the windows. It lit the frost like stained glass. A rooster crowed outside. The house smelled of wood and something new—something warm.
Tatyana woke first. She rubbed her eyes and realized her chest felt clear—no coughing. Quietly, she peeked into the nursery. The baby slept peacefully. The dog lay beside him, still as stone.
“You’re still here…” she whispered. Her eyes had softened.
In the kitchen, Igor was cracking eggs, sunlight glowing on his sweater.
“Breakfast! It’s a celebration,” he said. “We have a chicken now.”
Tatyana raised an eyebrow.
“A live one?”
“Yes. From old Misha across the ravine. Got some eggs too.”
She sat down. Lada—quiet and calm—lay at her feet.
“What did you name her?”
“Lada. Like my grandma. She was kind.”
“My grandmother,” Tatyana corrected. “When were you planning to tell me?”
“Just did. Scrambled eggs, tea, and a little family truth.”
She sighed.
“Sometimes I feel like you make decisions like you don’t have a family. The chicken. The dog. The name.”
“You’ve been through so much. I didn’t want to pile on,” Igor said.
“And letting her sleep by the crib? That’s not piling on?”
“It scared me too. But maybe she’s the only one who accepted us here.”
Later that night, Lada growled low in her throat, staring at the corner of the room. Tatyana shook Igor awake.
“She sees something,” she said. “Look at her.”
“Probably a mouse,” he whispered. “Or nothing.”
“Nothing?! She’s guarding like a soldier.”
Igor touched Lada’s back. She didn’t move. He led her out of the room.
“If you keep this up,” he muttered, “you’re sleeping in the barn.”
She obeyed, calm.
Days passed. Snow fell, porridge cooked, the baby cried, and Lada watched.
One bleak morning, Igor found a chicken’s torn body outside. Feathers. Blood. Tracks in the snow.
“Lada…” he breathed.
She stood nearby, muzzle red, still.
“What have you done?”
Tatyana saw.
“I told you!” she shouted. “She’s dangerous! What if Dima’s next?”
“Maybe it wasn’t her—”
“She has blood on her! Either she goes, or I do.”
Later, Igor loaded her into the car and drove her to the bridge. She didn’t resist.
The house felt colder without her.
That night, something scratched behind the walls. Then—a crash.
Lada burst in, snow-covered. Barking wildly.
They ran to the nursery. The crib was overturned. Sheets flung. Lada had something in her mouth.
A huge rat. It fell to the floor, dead.
“She’s been protecting him all along…” Tatyana whispered.
Kneeling, she cradled Lada’s face.
“Forgive me. Please.”
Lada exhaled and rested. Calm. Her purpose fulfilled.
“It’s grandma,” Tatyana murmured. “She came through her. Protected him.”
Igor stepped outside to bury the rat, then returned, sat beside Lada, and whispered, “Thank you.”
The house was quiet again. The blizzard had passed. The dog lay peacefully by the crib, the loyal guardian of a new beginning.
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