— Anna, I can’t comprehend what happened to him. He didn’t even pull me close,» Yuri said, running a hand over his temples as he stared at the closed door of his son’s room. «It’s as if… he’s a stranger.
«Enough,» Anna flinched, as if struck by sudden pain. «You speak as if this isn’t our Dania who returned. What absurd thoughts?»
Outside, the summer noon shimmered with sunlit glints, flooding the kitchen with a golden glow. Three weeks without their son felt like an eternity.
They had eagerly awaited his return from camp, imagining him bursting into the house—cheerful, tanned, brimming with new experiences. Anna had even baked his favorite chocolate cake. The aroma still lingered in the air, mingling with a heavy foreboding. Yet Daniil returned as a silent replica of himself.
Just a few hours earlier, they had been standing by the gate. Yuri leaned on the railing, while Anna shifted her weight from one foot to the other, gazing into the distance. When the bus stopped, she rushed forward, ready to enfold her son in an embrace. However, Daniil got off last, unhurriedly.
His hair was tousled—not from active play, but as if from lying down too long. His gaze was fixed on the ground.
«Danyechka!» Anna spread her arms wide, but her son only gave a brief nod.
He didn’t rush toward them. He didn’t light up with a smile. He didn’t even ask about his beloved aquarium fish, which he had missed so dearly. He simply walked past silently, carefully placed his backpack in the hall, and went upstairs.
Even the dog, joyfully bounding toward him with a wagging tail, failed to elicit any reaction.
«Maybe he’s simply exhausted,» Yuri remarked, though his voice trembled with worry.
Now, three hours later, Daniil still hadn’t come out of his room. He hadn’t tasted the cake, nor unpacked his belongings. He just lay there, turned away, his face directed at the wall.
Anna quietly ascended the creaking stairs. The wooden boards groaned beneath her feet, as always. Pushing the door open a crack, she saw her son—a fragile figure bundled in a blanket, despite the stuffiness of the room.
«Sweetie, maybe you’d like a snack?» she said, lowering herself to the edge of the bed. «I baked your favorite.»
Daniil barely shook his head, without turning around. Anna cautiously touched his shoulder—he flinched, as if from the contact of red-hot metal.
«Aren’t you feeling well? Should we call a doctor?»
«No.»
His voice cracked, like shattered glass. One word—and it held so much emptiness that it clenched Anna’s heart.
Even the dog, who had joyfully dashed toward him with a wagging tail, received no response.
«Probably he’s just overexerted himself,» Yuri said then, though a note of anxiety lingered in his tone.
Outside, evening settled over the village as gently as a fog. Dogs barked, and somewhere an accordion played—the ordinary sounds of their quiet street. But inside, the house was mute.
By nightfall, rain began to fall. Large drops pounded against the tin eaves. Anna sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of coffee in her palms.
Fragments of thoughts swirled in her mind—perhaps he’d caught a cold? Maybe it was a case of first love and rejection? Or a conflict with the other kids? But her heart whispered that something far more dreadful had happened.
In the morning, when Yuri left on business, their neighbor, Valentina Petrovna—a gaunt, upright woman with a piercing gaze—knocked at the door.
«Anya, has your boy returned?» she asked as she entered the kitchen, leaning on her cane. «I saw how you greeted him.»
Anna nodded silently while pouring tea.
«And he…» Valentina hesitated, searching for the right words. «Did he have a good rest?»
«I don’t know,» Anna admitted honestly. «He barely speaks.»
Valentina pressed her lips together as if hesitating, then placed her wrinkled hand on Anna’s arm:
«Forgive an old lady’s bluntness, but your Dania… it’s as if he hasn’t returned as himself. Like he was replaced.»
Those words struck like a knife. What Anna had feared even to think, the neighbor now voiced aloud. And it became unbearably frightening.
«Maybe we should ask him directly?» suggested Yuri. «What happened at that cursed camp?»
Anna shook her head: «He withdraws even more when I try.»
That evening, Daniil came to dinner on his own. He sat at the table, mechanically bringing the spoon to his mouth. He flinched when Yuri dropped a fork—the clink of metal sounding like a gunshot.
«Sorry,» said Yuri, and something in his voice made the boy lift his eyes.
For the first time in days, Daniil truly looked at them. His pupils were dilated, as if he still saw something horrifying that wasn’t in the room. «There’s nothing to tell,» the words fell into silence like a stone in water. «No complaints allowed. They were angry. They laughed.»
Anna held her breath, afraid to scare away the rare moment of openness. Yuri slowly placed his hand on the table—closer to his son, yet without touching him.
«Who, Dan?» he asked quietly. «Who was angry?»
«Sanych. And also Vera Nikolaevna,» the boy murmured, lowering his eyes to his plate. «They said I was a wimp. That kids like me spoil the troop.»
His voice was monotonous, like a worn-out record. Nausea overwhelmed Anna. «Those are the counselors?» she asked.
Daniil nodded. Outside the window, raindrops began streaming down once again.
«I didn’t want to go into the water that day. It was icy. Sanych called me a coward. Then he locked me in the storage room,» the words rushed out, as if a dam had burst. «It was dark there. And there were spiders. I knocked, but no one came.»
Yuri’s hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles turning white, yet his voice remained calm: «How long were you there?» «I don’t know. It felt so long. Then Vera came and said it was necessary for me to become a man,» Daniil looked up, tears glistening in his eyes. «And then they took away my phone.»
«And they said that if I told you, they’d post a video of me crying. And everyone would laugh.»
A wave of fury overcame Anna. She rose, walked around the table, and knelt before her son.
«This will never happen again,» she said firmly, locking eyes with him. «Never. Do you hear me?»
That night, for the first time in days, Daniil burst into tears—loudly, hysterically, his wet face buried in his mother’s shoulder.
He spoke, choking between sobs: how they forced him to finish burnt porridge; how they terrorized him with loneliness—»nobody loves you, not even your mom willingly sent you there»; how Sanych made the whole troop stand at attention under the scorching sun if someone didn’t tidy up.
«I tried to hold on…» Daniil sniffled. «But I just couldn’t.»
«It’s not your fault,» Anna repeated softly. «Never your fault.»
The next morning, Anna and Yuri went to the camp while Daniil stayed with Valentina Petrovna. Before they left, he took a crumpled sheet from his backpack—a pencil sketch depicting huge, twisted faces of adults filled with rage and small, huddled figures of children under desks.
«I was drawing at night,» he whispered. «When I couldn’t sleep.»
The camp looked idyllic—lush with greenery, with neat buildings and bright posters. The director, a plump woman with a dulled gaze, recited memorized lines:
«We employ only professionals. Everyone has a pedagogical background. Perhaps your child is simply too emotional?»
«Emotional enough to return with bruises?» Yuri slammed photos on the table—photos showing dark stripes on Daniil’s thighs. «And he draws this?»
When the drawing was placed next to the photo, the director paled.
«I will personally get to the bottom of this,» she declared. «But children sometimes imagine things…»
«No!» Anna leaned forward sharply. In her, there was no trace of fear or uncertainty—only icy determination. «Listen. My son couldn’t meet my eyes for a week. He jumps at the sound of falling dishes. He cried all night, recounting how your ‘educators’ broke him. And now I ask: what are you going to do? Because if nothing is done—I’ll take further action.»
She didn’t shout; there was no need.
A ray of sunlight pierced the curtains in the psychologist’s office. Marina Viktorovna—a specialist with a warm voice and calm demeanor—handed Daniil a box of miniature figurines.
«Show me what it was like there,» she gently requested. «Not in words. Arrange them as you feel.»
This was their fourth session. The boy no longer shrank from harsh sounds. He could now maintain eye contact.
Slowly, as if overcoming invisible resistance, he chose a large figurine of a man and placed it in the center. Then he selected a small figurine of a child, setting it on its side in the corner.
«And now show me what home is like,» the psychologist said softly.
Daniil paused, then took three figurines—a man, a woman, a boy—and placed them close together, almost touching. And then—unexpectedly—he added a dog. His red Baron, whom Yuri had rescued from the street three years ago.
«They’re all together,» he explained. «And no one hurts anyone.»
At home, Anna recounted this moment to her husband. Yuri silently gazed out the window—there in the yard, Daniil cautiously tossed Baron’s ball. The dog dashed through the fallen leaves, stirring up golden whirlwinds.
«They called from the prosecutor’s office,» Yuri finally said. «Our report has been accepted. And three more—from other parents.»
Anna nodded. Two weeks had passed since their visit to the camp. Two weeks of calls, documents, and endless discussions. Sometimes she felt like she was drowning in it all, but every time she saw her son fall asleep peacefully, she knew it was all worth it.
A scandal erupted at the camp. The director initially maintained an air of superiority, but her confidence melted away day by day. It turned out first that «Sanych» (Alexander Petrovich) had previously been dismissed from school for bullying students.
Then a video surfaced—someone among the children had secretly recorded Vera Nikolaevna shouting at the boy: «You are nothing! Understand? Your parents don’t need you; that’s why they sent you here!»
«I thought it was just me,» Daniil confessed one evening while they watched cartoons. «That I was somehow wrong.»
«No, sweetheart,» Anna hugged him. «You are stronger than you think, because you managed to speak up.»
Marina Viktorovna explained that recovery is a long process—that trust is built over years but can be shattered in an instant. They all needed time.
Anna began keeping a diary, recording every small victory: «today he went out into the yard on his own,» «today he laughed,» «today he wasn’t frightened by a slamming door.»
By October, Daniil returned to school. Yuri saw him off—not as a chaperone, but simply by walking alongside him, silently saying, «I’m here if you need me.»
«You know,» Yuri later told Anna, «today Dan decided to go by himself.»
She smiled. Another victory.
At the end of the month, an official response arrived:
• Alexander Petrovich was dismissed with a lifetime ban from working with children;
• Vera Nikolaevna was held criminally accountable;
• The camp director was suspended from her position.
There were still lawsuits ahead, and possibly actual prison sentences.
«What do you think, will they really be punished?» Anna asked.
«I don’t know,» Yuri replied honestly. «But we did everything we could. And that already matters.»
In November, when the first snow blanketed the street, Daniil burst into the house, waving a notebook:
«Mom! I got an A in Russian!»
She watched as he took off his hat, shaking his chestnut hair—a familiar gesture, his own. The boy who was slowly returning to himself.
«That’s wonderful,» she hugged him. The jacket smelled of winter and sweet cotton candy. «You know what else? Yuri suggested we go to the museum—to that exhibit on knights you wanted to see.»
Daniil pondered, biting his lip as he always did when considering something serious.
«Can we take Baron?» he asked. «He’ll wait in the car. It won’t hurt.»
«Of course,» Anna smiled. «We’ll all go together.»
They knew that no matter what happened next, they would face it—as a family.
