A sharp smell of burning burst into sleep without warning — like a night thief who doesn’t knock but breaks in with force. Grigory suddenly sat up in bed, his heart pounding wildly as if trying to break free. The night outside was unnaturally bright — an anxious, flickering glow illuminated the room, casting long shadows on the walls.
He ran to the window and froze. It was burning. Not just burning — flames were devouring, greedy and vicious, everything he had ever built. The barn, his old tools, dreams, memories — all were now in the embrace of fire.
His heart skipped a beat, then pounded somewhere in his throat. He understood immediately — it was no accident. It was arson. And that thought struck harder than the fire itself. The first reaction was animalistic: lie back down, close your eyes, and let everything burn to ashes. It’s the end anyway.
But at that moment, a prolonged, terrified bellow of cows reached him. His animals, those who fed him and gave him strength to carry on, were locked inside. Despair turned into rage. Grigory dashed out of the house, grabbing an axe on the way, and ran toward the barn. The wooden door was already smoldering, blowing hot breath on his face.
A few swings — and the bolt gave way. The gates swung open, releasing a frightened herd. The cows, mooing and pushing each other, dashed to the far corner of the pen, fleeing the hellish flames.
When they were safe, Grigory’s strength left him. He collapsed right onto the cold, damp ground and watched as the fire consumed ten years of his life. Ten years of work, pain, hopes. He had come here alone, without money, with only faith in himself. He worked to exhaustion, sweating blood and tears. But the last few years had felt like a curse — droughts, cattle illnesses, conflicts with the village.
And now — the final chord. Arson.
While Grigory sat, lost in bitter thoughts, through the smoke and fire he noticed movement. Two figures, like shadows, worked with astonishing coordination. A woman and a teenager. They carried water, threw sand, beat the flames with old blankets. As if they knew what they were doing.
Grigory watched for a while, stunned, then stirred and rushed to help them. Silently, desperately, together they fought the fire until the last tongue of flame was defeated. All three collapsed to the ground, exhausted, burned, but alive.
“Thank you,” Grigory rasped, catching his breath.
“You’re welcome,” said the woman. “My name is Anna. And this is my son, Dmitry.”
They sat by the charred remains of the barn as dawn painted the sky in gentle, almost mocking hues.
“Do you… have any work?” Anna asked suddenly.
Grigory laughed bitterly.
“Work? Now there’s enough work here for years. But I have nothing to pay with. I was going to leave. Sell everything. Go away.”
He stood, walked around the yard, thoughtful. A wild idea flickered in his mind — born from fatigue, despair, and some strange hope.
“You know what… Stay. Look after the farm for a couple of weeks. The cows, whatever survived. And I’ll go to the city. Try to sell it all. Chances are slim, but I need to leave. At least for a while.”
Anna looked up at him with fear, surprise, and timid hope in her eyes.
“We… we ran away,” she admitted quietly. “From my husband. He beat us. We have nothing. No money, no documents.”
Dmitry, who had been silent until then, ground out through his teeth:
“She’s telling the truth.”
Something inside Grigory stirred. He saw in them his own reflection — people whom life had thrown face down in the dirt but who still tried to rise.
“Alright,” he waved his hand. “We’ll figure it out.”
He quickly showed them where things were, how to handle the equipment, where the feed was kept. Just before leaving, already sitting in the car, he rolled down the window:
“Just be careful with the locals. The people here are rotten. It’s them. Definitely them. They break this, then that. And now they set the fire.”
And he left, leaving behind smoking ruins and two strangers whom he had entrusted with the remnants of his life.
As soon as the car disappeared around the corner, Anna and Dmitry exchanged glances. There was no fear or confusion in their eyes — only determination. This was their chance. The only one.
They set to work immediately. First, they calmed and watered the cows, then milked them, strained the milk. Then they cleared debris, tidied up the surviving part of the yard. They worked without breaks, without complaints — with the fierce energy of those who know: if they fail, there is nowhere left to fall.
Several days passed. The farm was transforming before their eyes. The yard became tidy, the tools neat, and the cows, getting proper care, gave more and more milk. From the old refrigerator, which used to be more a symbol than an appliance, jars of sour cream, cottage cheese, and homemade cheese heads now protruded.
One day, while cleaning the house, Anna came across a folder with Grigory’s documents. Among the bills and receipts were veterinary certificates for the products.
The idea came suddenly. She took an old notebook and began calling local cafes and shops, offering natural dairy products. Most refused, but once she got lucky.
“Hello, is this the ‘Cozy’ family cafe chain?” she asked on the phone.
“Yes, I’m listening.”
After a short conversation, the cafe owner, Elizaveta Petrovna, agreed to come. The next day, a luxury car stopped at the gate. An elegant middle-aged woman inspected the yard skeptically, but after the first spoonful of cheese, her face spread into an enthusiastic smile.
“Dear child, this is a miracle! Real taste! I’ll take everything! And will order regularly!”
So they got their first client. And the first step to a new life.
Meanwhile, Dmitry befriended a local girl named Olga. Once, walking by the river, he complained to her about the villagers.
“So you don’t know?” Olga was surprised. “Uncle Grisha is a recluse, sure, but no one wished him harm. Three years ago, when his cows were poisoned, half the village had the same problem. The men even wanted to help, give advice, but he met them with a gun. Since then, no one approaches him.”
These words stuck in Anna’s mind. She went to the village shop and overheard confirmation from the saleswoman:
“Yes, dear, the conflict is old. After a greedy farmer opened a farm in the neighboring village, it began. Uncle Grisha decided it was us causing trouble. He shut himself off, became bitter…”
One evening, as twilight deepened over the farm, Anna and Dmitry saw a group approaching the gate. About ten men and women, slow but confident. Anna’s heart tightened. “Not another arson?” she thought.
“Mitya, quick! Bring the rifle from the house!” Anna whispered to her son, stepping into the yard herself.
Her heart beat fast and anxiously. She stood at the gate, ready to defend what was now theirs — their home, their chance to start over.
The shadows approached. People. About ten men and women. At the front was an old man in a worn cap. Coming closer, he stopped and… took off his hat. Holding it awkwardly in his hands, he said:
“Good evening, ma’am. We come in peace. To talk.”
Anna looked into their faces: tired, serious, but not angry. Slowly, cautiously, she opened the gate:
“Come in.”
An old table was brought out onto the grass, benches arranged. The conversation began. It was long. Difficult. Honest.
The villagers confessed: they were shocked by the fire. Grigory had become a legend for them — a man who wouldn’t accept help, didn’t listen to advice, didn’t forgive even small things. But now they realized: someone else was behind it all. Someone who wanted to divide them.
“We suffered too,” said the elder. “The well water spoiled, the cattle got sick. We guessed simply — but now it’s clear: someone was setting us against each other. Someone who benefits.”
And then it dawned on them. All of them.
Behind it all was a competitor from the neighboring village — a farmer from Alekseyevsky. Cold, greedy, soulless. His goal was simple: to drown Grigory in loneliness so he would give up, go bankrupt, disappear. And to turn the village into a field of internal war — a convenient ground for his manipulations.
“We must file a complaint,” said the elder. “A collective one. Against him. Against the arson. Against everything. Give this to Grigory when he returns. Tell him — the village is with him. We won’t be puppets anymore.”
Grigory drove home in depressed silence. The city gave him nothing — no one wanted to buy the charred farm, especially with the reputation of a “cursed farm.” He was ready for the house to be empty. For Anna and Dmitry to have left, like all the others.
Approaching his land, he no longer hoped for anything.
And suddenly — a stop. The car stopped by itself.
Before him was not a half-ruined yard, but a real, blossoming corner of life. The fence he had promised to fix for years was restored. The grass neatly mowed. The cows — well-fed and content — grazed by the pen. Even the air seemed different — alive, full of meaning.
He got out of the car on tiptoe and crept toward the house. From the yard came Anna’s voice — confident, calm. She was talking to people. Not just talking — dealing with business. About police reports. About plans to develop the farm. About how Elizaveta Petrovna would help with a lawyer.
Grigory froze. It was impossible. He looked at this woman whom he had taken in as a stray and saw before him — a mistress. Strong. Confident. A woman who had saved not only his farm but also himself.
He gathered his strength and stepped into the light.
“Hello,” he croaked. “May I… have some tea?”
In the evenings, Anna liked to show Grigory the records. Calculations, charts, incomes. In two weeks, they had earned more than he had in the last six months.
“This is just the beginning,” she said businesslike. “Elizaveta Petrovna is ready to increase the volume. We need to think about expanding. Maybe buy a couple more cows?”
Grigory sat with his mouth open. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Couldn’t believe that this woman — his guest, his assistant, his salvation.
He looked at her, and a feeling grew in his chest that he had long forgotten. Warm. Grateful. Loving.
But peace was short-lived.
Morning was broken by a harsh clang of the gate. A tall man stumbled into the yard, smelling of vodka and hatred in his eyes.
“Ah, there you are, bitch!” he growled, heading toward Anna. “Thought you ran away? I’ll drag you out of the ground!”
It was Viktor. Her ex-husband. Her nightmare.
He swung his arm.
And then Grigory stood between them. Like a wall. Like a mountain. Without a word, he struck — one, precise, crushing blow. Viktor fell to the ground.
“If you touch her again or even come near this house,” Grigory hissed so quietly that even Anna flinched, “I’ll bury you right here. Got it?”
Dmitry rushed out of the house and stood next to him — shoulder to shoulder. The boy’s eyes burned with determination.
“Go away, father,” he said firmly. “Go and never come back. We are not afraid of you anymore.”
Viktor, muttering curses, got up and disappeared down the road.
When it was all over, a strange silence hung in the yard. Only the cows mooed, as if they too condemned the intrusion of the past.
Grigory turned to Anna. His face was embarrassed, but his eyes full of determination.
“Anya,” he began, his voice trembling, “let’s go to the city. We’ll restore your documents. You’ll file for divorce. And then… then marry me.”
Anna looked at this big, strong, but now so shy man. The shock hadn’t worn off yet, but it was replaced by a warm, new feeling. She smiled.
“Can I think about it?” she asked playfully. “Or does the answer have to be right away?”
Grigory was completely embarrassed. He blushed. And for the first time in many years — he laughed.
They wanted to get married quietly. Without witnesses. Without noise. But in the village, secrets don’t last. In two days, the whole district knew: there would be a wedding at the farm.
And people came. From all over the village. Some with bread, some with jam, some with a barrel of kvass. The elder brought a guitar. Elizaveta Petrovna — gifts from the city. Children ran like whirlwinds, laughing and playing.
The tables were longer than the road to the river. Songs flowed like wine. And in the center of it all — the newlyweds. Hand in hand. Heart to heart.
Grigory sat holding Anna’s hand, looking at Dmitry, who was laughing freely for the first time in many years. At friends. At the sky. At the home where it was now warm.
He knew one thing for sure:
They hadn’t just found each other.
They had saved each other.
And now — together — they would build a future.
A big. Bright. Shared one.
