Lately, Lisa hadn't been herself — not since that encounter with the fan.It was the one time I hadn't gone to pick her up from an event. I'd decided to stay home and cook dinner — a surprise, something special for us to celebrate together. Somehow, I'd had a feeling I should finish early and drive to the bar where her book launch was being held, but I ignored it. I checked the traffic on the navigator, saw it was bad, and stayed.
I thought she'd be happy to come home after a long day to her favorite dinner — steak with smooth mashed potatoes and demi-glace sauce, candles lit on the table. I imagined we'd drink mint tea afterward, and I'd draw her a bath with rosemary and orange-scented foam.
I still can't stop blaming myself for staying home that night — for not being there when it happened.
That guy — some deranged fanatic obsessed with a twisted idea of justice known only to himself — had been waiting for Lisa in the parking lot after the event. In central Moscow, it's rare to find a free spot in the evening on the liveliest streets, where music seeps from every door and the air smells of expensive perfume. The organizer had taken care of Lisa beforehand and given her a remote for the barrier gate to the private lot behind the bar. That's where she left her car.
The lunatic must have known what her car looked like — and how long the main event would last.
Lisa never lingers at signings or presentations. She always hurries home — to me. That night was no different. When she'd finished signing books, she said goodbye to the hosts and left the guests to keep celebrating without her. No one walked her out.
When she returned home, she slipped inside without a word, closing the door quietly behind her. And there I was — standing by the table like an idiot, holding a bouquet of her favorite blush-pink spray roses, candles flickering, dinner ready. I waited for her to take off that soft, fluffy coat she loved and come into the dining room. I wanted to surprise her.
But she surprised me first.
When she didn't answer my call, I set the flowers down on a chair and went to the hallway, calling her name again. Still silence. She hadn't even turned on the light. If it weren't for the white faux-fur coat, I might not have seen her at all.
Lisa sat on the little stool by the coat rack, her face buried in her hands. Even when I came close, she didn't look up, didn't say a word — frozen, as if she were locked somewhere far away inside herself. That's when I turned on the light.
She was covered in blood. Her hair. Her hands. The once-soft coat matted into clotted strands of dark red — deepest where the blood had already dried.
That bastard had doused her — right there by the car — with a bucket of animal blood. I tried to tell myself, and her, that it was just paint, but the stench in the air was unmistakable. It made the whole thing that much more horrifying.
My poor Lisa.
She told me, haltingly, that the man had been waiting for her in the parking lot, and before she could react, he'd poured it all over her. When I asked if she'd gotten a good look at him, her answer was vague. She shut down completely the moment I tried to ask if he'd done anything else.
The worst part was the silence.
My strong, radiant, extraordinary Lisa — for the first time, she was quieter than water.
A woman can keep silent for a long time only about one thing. She can carry the imprint of violence inside her for ten, twenty years — until the dam finally breaks.
I had a terrible feeling about what else that man might have done to her. I suspected — and I burned with rage. But mostly, I was angry at myself.
For not being there.
For not meeting her when she needed me most.
From that day on, I never touched Lisa without asking. I was terrified that even the smallest gesture — the familiar closeness we once had — might wound her all over again, might remind her of that monster's hands.
After that night, unspoken things began to hang in our home — and then came mourning, when her father died.
I managed to convince Lisa to leave the city for what was left of the summer. We rented a small cabin in a glamping park that one of my colleagues had praised to the skies. I hoped that trading the restless city skyline for a quiet landscape of pine and birdsong would do her good.
After finding some photos online that matched the description I'd heard at the office, I knew this was the place. Without thinking twice, I booked the last available cabin for the following week and crossed my fingers she'd approve of the plan.
Lately, Lisa had grown quieter with each passing day. Sleepless nights and endless thoughts seemed to have hollowed her out. She stubbornly refused to see a doctor, no matter how I offered to go with her. Nothing I said helped.
In the end, I went to see a specialist myself, describing what was happening at home and asking what I could possibly do for her. Lisa called psychologists charlatans, and psychiatrists—sadists. Once they got their hands on you, she said, they'd burn out whatever was left of your soul with cocktails of neuroleptics and God knows what else, all in the name of "making the patient's life better."
The therapist, a seasoned man with decades of experience, advised me to take her away for a while—somewhere isolated, far from the noise. To shield her from everything that triggered her anxiety, and if possible, give her a new, gentler setting. Considering the circumstances, glamping sounded perfect. Lisa was between semesters, and I could easily take time off between projects—or even work remotely if it came to that. The place had all the essentials: electricity, high-speed internet, heating, plumbing—all included in the rental.
To my surprise, Lisa didn't need much convincing. She wrapped up her local errands quickly and started packing that very night, ready to leave as soon as morning came. I insisted she double-check her list and helped her cancel or reschedule what was left of her appointments. It was a good thing, too—she nearly forgot the one thing no anxious writer should ever leave behind: her laptop charger.
We asked the neighbors to water the plants while we were gone, then loaded the car and drove toward the outskirts of the city.
I watched Lisa as we drove. The farther the highway carried us from Moscow, the lighter her expression became. For a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of the woman I had fallen in love with—not the pale shadow left behind by everything that had happened. First that fanatic. Then her father's funeral...
I was afraid to touch her. I knew that when Lisa was ready, she'd tell me everything herself. Until then, the best thing I could do was give her space—and safety. No matter the cost.
It was strange, though. When we stopped at a roadside diner, she flirted with me—clumsily, shyly, like she used to when we'd just met. For an instant, I almost gave in. My guard slipped, if only for a heartbeat. Still, I managed to steer things back to our comfortable routine, though every brush of her hand sent fire racing under my skin.
I was losing my mind from wanting her. From missing her, even when she sat right beside me—close enough to touch, yet lost somewhere far away inside her thoughts. Lisa had always been the kind of woman who could spark life in you with the lightest touch of her cold fingertips.
That moment in the diner—just a fragile flicker of warmth between nights of sleepless silence. It would probably vanish again by tonight, unless the quiet magic of this new place could somehow work a miracle.
And a miracle was all I could hope for, while Lisa kept refusing every kind of help that might actually save her.
She slowed down as the car turned off the main road, and the world outside shifted into a sea of trees. We were almost there.
I plugged my phone into the audio system and put on a playlist I'd made just for the trip — a mix of our favorite indie rock songs. Lisa recognized the first one right away and began tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, nodding along to the familiar rhythm.
I lowered the window, and a rush of summer air filled the car, fresh and wild.
"This music needs air," I said aloud — half to Lisa, half to myself — and leaned into the wind as it whipped across my face.
The glamping park was deep in the woods. At the entrance stood a guard booth beside a larger administration building and a parking lot for visitors. Lisa stayed behind to park while I grabbed our passports from the glove compartment and went inside to check us in and pick up the keys.
The main building opened into a spacious hall with high, vaulted ceilings that stretched up toward the roof. A large stone fireplace glowed softly in the center, surrounded by heavy wooden tables lined in a row with matching benches. Hunting trophies hung on the walls — antlers, taxidermied heads — and I quickly looked away. I'd never understood the need some people had to decorate their homes with dead animals, as if cruelty could somehow pass for taste.
I wandered across the floor, searching for a reception desk, but strangely, there wasn't a soul in sight. Not even another guest. Did this place just die out on weekdays? It was summer, after all, and according to the website, there'd been only one cabin left when I booked ours. So where was everyone? The silence felt oddly misplaced — as though the place itself were holding its breath.
I took a wrong turn and found myself in a bright hallway lined with tall display cabinets. Behind the glass, rows of old, yellowed photographs stared back at me — faces of unfamiliar people dressed in odd, old-fashioned clothes. Every single one wore the same solemn expression. The longer I looked, the stronger the uneasy chill that crept up my spine.
They used to say that if you smiled for the camera, it would steal your soul. I was ready to believe the opposite — that if you stared long enough at one of these photos, it would take yours.
I shook my head. There it was again — my imagination running wild. The same problem that kept dragging me back to therapy, over and over. It started with a single thought — a simple what if — and before long, vivid scenes would start flashing through my mind, blurring the line between what was real and what wasn't. I could spiral into panic in minutes, my mind conjuring the worst possible outcomes until fear spilled over, severing the last threads of reality.
I'd always thought this sort of thing happened only to artists, to writers and dreamers like Lisa — not to someone like me, a programmer to the bone, a man who found comfort in logic, in code, in the clean certainty of structure. But no. In our relationship, I was the one who had weekly calls with a therapist, drowning in endless self-analysis, trying to silence whatever it was inside me that kept getting in the way of living.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I jumped and turned sharply toward the sound, my nerves already on edge. A woman stood in the corridor — mid-fifties, maybe sixty, with silver hair cut in a neat bob that framed her pale, fragile face. There was something about her that faintly reminded me of Lisa — maybe the delicacy of her features, or the quietness she carried.
Her skin had long lost its natural color, a ghostly pallor half-hidden beneath too-bright rouge and thick, black eyeliner. A soft shawl was draped around her shoulders, and a heavy wristwatch hung loosely on her thin wrist — an object that looked far too solid for such a frail frame.
The hall was so still that the ticking of her watch seemed to echo faintly off the walls, each beat marking the slow, steady passage of time.
"There used to be a village here," she said at last, her voice flat and colorless as she came closer. "Before the glamping park. I decided to keep the photographs of the people who once lived in this place — along with their stories."
The last thing she said came out strange — weighted, almost meaningful. Her gaze drifted across the old photographs, as though she were recalling something long buried. Something best left forgotten.
"Have you managed to keep many of them?" I asked.
She shrugged, then shook her head faintly. Her eyes closed for a moment, and she swayed, bringing a hand to her temple. Instinctively, I stepped forward, ready to catch her.
"Are you all right?"
"No, no," she replied quickly, blinking herself back into focus. "It happens sometimes. Don't mind me."
I gave a skeptical grunt, looking her over from head to toe. Elderly people never admit when they're unwell — that much I'd learned. I'd seen it in my parents, year after year, as their memory dimmed and their health began to crumble, stealing away what little strength they had left. It was as if pretending that nothing irreversible had yet arrived could somehow trick fate itself. But time doesn't play along. It slips through your fingers like dry sand, impossible to hold — not with persuasion, not with money, and certainly not with lies.
"I'm Elena," the woman said at last, extending her hand. I shook it politely. "Owner of the glamping park. You must be one of our new guests…"
She arched an eyebrow, pausing pointedly, as if to remind me it was my turn to introduce myself. Truth be told, all I could think about was how I'd call an ambulance in this maze if she suddenly fainted — my phone was still in the car.
"Yes, that's right. Mark," I said quickly. "My girlfriend and I just arrived. Could you tell me where to find the reception desk?"
"With your girlfriend," she repeated, squinting at me. "Not your fiancée?"
"No," I answered curtly. "So, where do I get the keys?"
Elena smiled softly, adjusting the shawl on her shoulders.
"Ah, young people. Everything's different with you now." She turned and took a step forward. "Come, I'll show you around."
"I'd appreciate that."
Good thing Lisa hadn't overheard that comment — she'd have launched into a full-blown argument. She never tolerated condescension from anyone older, firmly believing it her duty to set boundaries for every stranger who tried to lecture or, worse, to judge her.
I, on the other hand, had a soft spot for the elderly and allowed them a little more leeway. It must be unbearably hard, I often thought, to watch the world change beyond recognition — to see the familiar dissolve while everything new feels alien. The beliefs you've lived by for decades recede, making room for a reality that has no place left for you, a spent relic of a bygone age.
All that remains is to remember how things used to be, retelling stories of "better times" as if that might somehow justify what was once done — actions shaped by circumstance and the narrow frame of what was then acceptable. It must be painful to watch others live more freely, while that freedom never belonged to you. The world spits you out like a piece of chewing gum that's lost its flavor. So if I could, I preferred to leave old people in peace.
As we walked, Elena showed me the shared spaces available to all residents. Inside the main building was a small museum — a room filled with objects once belonging to the settlers of the old village that had stood here before the park. Through the glass display I caught a glimpse of aged documents and handwritten journals, along with countless photographs. I made a mental note to return later, to study them properly and record a few details on my tablet.
I'd always been drawn to small, forgotten stories — the intimate ones, the quiet ones — while the grand, tangled narratives of history left me cold. Touching something obscure, something nearly lost, always left a strange mark on me. It was as if, for a brief moment, you became the bearer of a fragile flame — one that might flicker out at any second, unless you gave it air, unless you helped it catch and burn anew.
I saw it as our generation's duty to preserve whatever fragments we could still reach, if only to avoid repeating the same mistakes. How many stories, how many lives, have been erased completely — simply because the last person who remembered them was gone?
Whenever I could, I tried to digitize small traces of the past — to record testimonies, memories told by witnesses or their children, and store them carefully in a growing cloud archive. I dreamed of the day I could finally stop worrying about money, free my time, and dedicate myself to that one real ambition: a website — a vast archive of every rare, forgotten oddity I'd ever stumbled upon, just to give them all another chance to survive on the canvas of history. Along with the people who once lived them.
We live only as long as we are remembered.
And I wanted memory to stop depending on something as fragile and unexpectedly mortal as a human being.
Following Elena down the wide corridor, I caught a glimpse through one of the open doors — a library. She said nothing as we walked toward the front desk. A brief tour wouldn't have hurt, I thought. But apparently, the moment I'd mentioned "girlfriend," Elena had written me off.
Through the half-open doorway, I glimpsed tall bookcases packed tight with heavy volumes and caught a faint, intoxicating blend of scents: printer's ink and yellowed paper. I hoped there might be a sofa or two inside — maybe I could bring Lisa here sometime. Her new novel had been giving her trouble lately; perhaps the quiet of an old library would stir her inspiration.
The silence of our walk was broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards. It ended in a large hall on the ground floor, where the doors opened out to the street. Once again, I was greeted by that unpleasant display of hunting trophies — antlers and mounted heads glaring down from the walls. The fireplace, in such a setting, lent not warmth but a deliberate eeriness to the place.
"This is our dining hall," Elena said, lifting her hand with the delicate grace of a ballerina as she gestured around the room. "You're welcome to use it at any time — along with the kitchen. Many guests who stay through the end of the season come here seeking a bit of company."
"Doesn't look like anyone's seeking it today," I remarked.
"Come back toward evening," she replied with a faint smile. "It'll be different then."
"Maybe sometime next week," I said, forcing a polite grin, though the thought of drinking tea beneath a mounted deer head made my stomach turn.
"This way, please — to the reception desk," Elena folded her hands neatly in front of her and nodded to the side.
I turned, inhaled a little too sharply, and let out a startled "oh." For a moment I couldn't believe my eyes.
The front desk — a massive piece of dark wood — stood just to the left of the entrance, half-lost against the backdrop of the dining hall. The grotesque menagerie of taxidermy had so thoroughly caught my attention earlier that I'd missed it entirely. I felt like a complete idiot. Though, to be fair, if someone had been behind the counter at the time, I wouldn't have missed it at all.
"Is it staffed around the clock?" I asked.
"Yes and no," Elena replied, stepping behind the desk and opening a small cabinet on the wall. "You won't usually find anyone here during the day. But if you need assistance, you can call one of these numbers."
She pointed to an old rotary phone — the kind with a circular dial and numbers from zero to nine. It was just like the one that had almost faded from my childhood memories. No one used anything like that anymore. Progress had swept away the cords and wires of landline phones, leaving only mobile connections washed up on the shore of modern life. Some companies still kept the old models in their offices, though seeing one here — in a trendy "glamping" complex — was almost absurd, like finding my grandmother's relic in a spaceship.
Above the rotary dial, a white sheet of paper was taped on with four phone numbers and brief notes explaining which to call in different cases. I made a mental note to take a photo of it later, just in case, so I wouldn't have to trek back to the main building.
Elena soon set a registration form and a pen before me. I filled it out from memory — my personal information, the rental dates, the rate — and signed at the bottom before sliding the sheet toward her across the counter.
At some point, she had slipped on a pair of glasses and was now peering intently at the computer screen hidden behind the high counter. Her brow furrowed as she battled the stubborn miracle of modern technology, trying to confirm our payment.
I watched her struggle for a while, debating whether to offer help, mostly to escape the oppressive stillness of the hall. But she triumphed before I could say anything.
"Here," she said at last, handing me a key. "Cottage Thirty-Seven, on Green Street."
I nearly choked on a laugh when I heard the name.
"Do trams run down that street, too?" I asked, half-joking—then immediately caught the look she gave me over the rim of her glasses, which had slid to the tip of her nose. Clearly, Elena had missed the Max Frei reference.
"Of course not," she replied, her tone dry and deliberate. Gathering a stack of papers, she tapped them sharply against the desk to align the edges. "This is a glamping site, not some urban settlement."
"Right. Of course," I said, stifling a laugh that turned into a cough. I made a mental note to tell Lisa about this delightful coincidence later—she'd appreciate it. Any writer, after all, is first and foremost a reader. And Lisa especially needed a breath of fresh air through words not her own.
Taking the key, a map of the grounds, and a printed copy of our payment receipt, I wasted no time leaving that wooden mausoleum stuffed with dead animals.
Lisa had parked the car around the side of the building, closer to the main road, and I hurried toward her. Sliding into the passenger seat, I unfolded the map.
"We've got Cottage Thirty-Seven, on Green Street—"
I didn't even finish the sentence before Lisa flinched back from the map, eyes sparkling with amusement. Her grin was all the answer I needed. Of course she'd caught the reference to The Labyrinths of Echo.
We both laughed at the happy coincidence before leaning over the map again.
"Ugh, it's quite a walk from here to Green Street," Lisa muttered, unimpressed. She pressed the button beneath the steering wheel, and the engine purred to life—smooth and feline, like a wild cat feeling a gentle touch for the first time. "I say we drop off our stuff first, then come back and park here."
"You think we can do that?"
She shrugged, glancing around the empty lot.
"I don't see any signs saying we can't. Are you sure there wasn't parking right by the cottage in the photos?"
"Nope."
"Well, nothing to be done then," she sighed, shifting into gear. The car eased forward with feline grace.
At the last moment, I caught sight of Elena emerging from the front doors, hurrying down the steps and looking straight at us.
"Go, go! Or she'll make us carry the bags ourselves!"
Right on cue, the car leapt forward, the acceleration pinning me to the seat. I grabbed the door handle on instinct, as if that could save me.