Portrait in the Fog of Time (short story)

Maria considered her town a beautiful trap. Ancient merchant houses with carved window frames, cobbled streets descending to a quiet river, church domes turning golden at sunset – all this attracted tourists, especially in the summer. But in the winter, when the last bus with guests left for the regional center, and snowdrifts filled the narrow alleys, Vereysk sank into a sleepy, almost mystical silence. It was at such a time, at the end of January, that Maria turned twenty-seven. Not an anniversary, but an age when the questions “Who am I?” and “Where am I going?” begin to sound with the insistence of water dripping from a tap, especially if you live alone in a rented room in an old house on the outskirts, work as a salesperson in the antique shop “Starina Glukhov” and your personal life is a series of vague dates ending in mutual disappointment.

The shop was her world. It smelled of the dust of centuries, wax, old paper and a slight sadness of bygone eras. Maria knew the history of almost every item: who owned this silver cigarette case with the monogram "K.P.", why the porcelain shepherdess had a broken arm, how an album with watercolors by an unknown artist ended up here. She loved the silence between customers, when you could pick up an old thing and try to hear the whisper of time. But sometimes this silence was oppressive, reminding her that her own life had not yet acquired either a clear form or a gripping plot.

The only ray of light was Olga. A childhood friend, cheerful, practical, and an administrator at a local hotel. They met once a week to chat over tea or cheap wine, complain about the boss, laugh at local gossip, and forget about the provincial melancholy for a while.

During one of these meetings, on a gloomy Saturday, when the snow was falling in large, leisurely flakes, Olga, looking at the shop window, suddenly exclaimed:

- Mashka, why don’t we go to this exhibition? "Forgotten Masters of the Province". It opened last week at the local history museum. Andrey said there are a couple of interesting things there. Otherwise, we’ll get bored here!

Andrey was Andrey Somov, their mutual friend, a quiet guy with intelligent eyes who worked as a research assistant at that very local history museum. Maria was afraid of him – he seemed too deep-thinking, but she respected his erudition.

- An exhibition? - Maria wrinkled her nose. - In our museum? There’s usually dust and stuffed moose there.

- Well, Andrey is not a fool, if he praises me! - Olga insisted. - Let’s have some fun? Then we’ll go to the Coffee House, I’ll treat you to that raspberry cake. Is that okay?

The thought of the cake outweighed the skepticism. An hour later they were already walking through the creaking snow to the museum building – a former merchant’s mansion with columns, now slightly shabby, but still impressive.

The museum greeted them with the usual semi-darkness and the smell of mothballs. There were few people in the Forgotten Masters hall – a couple of pensioners and a school group that quickly rushed on to the diorama “The Battle of Vereysk, 1812”. Maria lazily looked at the landscapes with birches, still lifes with unappetizing fruits, portraits of stern merchants and pale young ladies in crinolines. Everything was as usual, predictable and a little boring.

She was about to whisper to Olga: "Well, cakes?" when suddenly her gaze slid to the far corner of the room, where one painting hung alone, illuminated by a single spotlight. And the world turned upside down.

Maria froze. Her heart pounded so hard that the blood rushed to her temples and her ears began to ring. Her legs became weak. She instinctively grabbed Olga’s hand so tightly that Olga screamed.

- Masha? What’s wrong with you? You’re white as a sheet!

Maria couldn’t speak. She just pointed a trembling finger at the painting. Her friend turned around and her eyes widened.

- Wow… - Olga exhaled. - The young lady… well, exactly… Masha, it’s you?!

It was impossible. And at the same time, undeniable. On the canvas, covered with a network of small craquelure, in a heavy frame darkened by time, a young woman was depicted. She was sitting on a stone bench in a shady garden, in a light summer dress with a high collar and thin lace cuffs. In her hands she held a book, but her gaze was directed not at the pages, but somewhere into the distance, beyond the canvas, with an expression of quiet thoughtfulness and slight sadness. Sunlight played in her dark-blond hair, styled in a modest but elegant hairstyle. The face… The face was her face. Not similar. Not reminiscent. Absolutely identical. The same high cheekbones, slightly wide-set grey eyes with a dark rim around the iris, the same straight nose with a barely noticeable hump, the same lips – not too full, with a slightly raised corner, creating the impression of a ready-made smile that never appeared. Even the mole, a tiny dot near the left eyebrow – it was still there.

But it wasn’t just the face. Maria recognized details with terrifying clarity:

• Dress: Fabric - cream linen with a subtle blue floral pattern. She had a dress just like this hanging in her closet! She bought it last summer at a flea market in a nearby town, enchanted by the vintage style and unusual fabric. Only worn a couple of times.
• Brooch: Pinned to the collar of the dress in the painting was a small brooch in the form of a flying swallow, carved from some dark stone, possibly jet. Maria mechanically touched her fingers to the knitted sweater under her coat – there, on her chest, lay the cold surface of exactly the same brooch. Her grandmother had given it to her, saying that it was a family heirloom, “for good luck.”
• Book: The girl in the portrait held a book in a dark blue leather binding with faded gold lettering. Maria recognized the spine. It was a volume of poems by Anna Akhmatova, an early 20th-century edition, which she had recently acquired from an old woman who was sorting out her late husband’s library. The book was now lying on her nightstand.
• Pose: Even the way the girl sat, slightly leaning back on the bench, with one leg tucked under her, was her favorite pose for reading on a bench in the city park in the summer.

“This… this is nonsense,” Maria whispered, finally tearing her gaze away from the painting and looking at Olga with an expression of pure horror. “How? Who? When?”

Olga, usually so talkative, was silent, looking first at her friend, then at the portrait. Then her gaze fell on the sign next to the canvas.

– “Portrait of Maria,” she read aloud. – Artist unknown. Late 19th – early 20th century. Canvas, oil. From the private collection of A. V. Novikov (Moscow).

"Maria…" Maria echoed. An icy shiver ran down her spine. The name was too common, of course. But combined with her face, her dress, her brooch, her book…

“We need to call Andrey,” Olga said decisively, already taking out her phone. “He’s somewhere around here. He should be sorting this out. This is some kind of… phenomenon!”

Andrey Somov appeared five minutes later, adjusting his glasses and looking curiously at the excited girls. He was tall, thin, with soft features and an attentive gaze.

- Olga, Maria? What happened? It’s like you saw a ghost.

“Almost,” Maria answered, her voice still shaking. She pointed at the painting again. “Andrey, look. Look carefully.”

Andrei turned, his gaze sliding over the canvas, then back to Maria. Then back to the painting. His eyebrows slowly crept up. He came closer, almost burying his nose in the canvas, studying the details, then took a step back, comparing the living face and the depicted one.

– My God… – he whispered. – The resemblance… it’s not just astounding. It’s… unnatural. As if they painted from you, Maria. But that’s technically impossible. The painting is at least one hundred and twenty years old. The style, the manner of painting, the craquelure – everything speaks of the turn of the century. Collector Novikov is a serious man, an expert on provincial painting, he wouldn’t buy a fake.

- And the details? - Olga butted in. - A dress! Masha has exactly the same one! And that swallow brooch! And the book!

Andrey looked again, his face became focused, learned.

- Yes… Indeed. The dress… The style is typical for the 1890s - 1900s. But the fabric with such a pattern… Rare. The brooch is jet, a stone fashionable in that era for mourning and sentimental jewelry. The swallow is a symbol of hope, of return. The book… - He squinted. - The binding is typical of private bookbinding workshops of the beginning of the century. Gold embossing… hard to make out, but… - He suddenly turned sharply to Maria. - Do you have this book? The same binding?

Maria nodded, unable to utter a word.

- This… - Andrey took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. - This requires the most thorough study. The history of the painting, the provenance. Who is Maria in the portrait? Where is she from? Why is the artist unknown? And most importantly… - He looked at Maria with undisguised amazement and alarm. - How can this coincidence be explained? One hundred percent visual identity after a century? This goes beyond any theory of probability. It smacks of…

“Mysticism?” Olga finished for him, and there was an unhealthy excitement in her voice.

- More like an unsolved mystery, - Andrey carefully corrected. - But yes, it is an exceptional phenomenon. Maria, how are you feeling?

“It’s like I’ve been hit on the head,” she admitted honestly. “And it’s like I’m looking into a distorted mirror that shows me the past.”

“We need to talk,” Andrey decided. “Discuss this calmly. See what we can find. I have some catalogues, access to archives… Maybe I can find out the history of this painting or find references to that Maria.”

"I have a laptop at home," Maria offered, feeling a strange mixture of fear and burning curiosity. She couldn’t leave without trying to understand. "And… it’s quiet there. We can sit and think.

- Great idea! - Olga was already ready for the adventure. - Just let’s grab something along the way… for inspiration. My head is spinning!

They left the museum into the gathering winter twilight. The snow was still falling, covering the world with a soft white blanket, hiding sounds. The feeling of unreality did not leave Maria. She walked, wrapped in a scarf, and it seemed to her that at any moment a carriage would appear from around the corner, and towards her – ladies in crinolines. The face of the girl in the portrait stood before her eyes, merging with her own reflection in the shop windows.

On the way, they bought Moet Chandon at the supermarket and went to Maria’s house to think about this incredible coincidence. Olga insisted on champagne - "for courage and clarity of thought." Andrey bought a couple more bottles of mineral water and a bag of crisps "just in case."

Maria’s room was small but cozy. Bookshelves, an old sofa, a desk with a laptop, a chest of drawers on which stood that very book in a blue cover and a jet swallow. Maria changed into her home clothes - an old sweater and jeans, but involuntarily caught herself thinking that she felt somehow different in them now, as if a ghost of the past was looking at her.

Olga poured champagne into glasses. The sound of the cork popping and the foam hissing seemed inappropriately loud in this atmosphere of anxious anticipation.

- Well, to solving the mystery! - Olga proclaimed, clinking glasses. - And to the fact that Maria from the past doesn’t turn out to be some kind of maniac or unfortunate victim!

- Olya! - Maria winced.

- Sorry, - Olga smiled guiltily. - Nerves. So. Andrey, you’re the expert. Where do we start?

Andrey put down the glass and opened Maria’s laptop.

– First, let’s try to find something about the painting itself. The collector is Andrey Viktorovich Novikov. His name should be in the databases. He is known. Then – the “Forgotten Masters” exhibition. It should have a catalogue, possibly online. We are looking for references to “Portrait of Maria”.

Andrey’s fingers began to tap on the keyboard. Maria and Olga moved closer, looking at the screen with trepidation.

“Look, I found Novikov’s page on the website of an auction house,” Andrey said a few minutes later. “A collector, a specialist in Russian provincial art from the second half of the 19th – early 20th centuries. Lives in Moscow. Contacts… only general. Should I write or call now? It’s too late.”

– What about the exhibition catalogue? – asked Maria.

– I’m looking… Our museum, alas, is not very advanced in the digital world. There is no official online catalogue. But here is an announcement on the city portal… – He scrolled down the page. – “Portrait of Maria.” Artist unknown. Presumably 1890-1910. Acquired by A.V. Novikov in 2018 from a private individual in Vereysk. Origin: from the local merchant family of the Ershovs.

- The Ershovs? - Maria frowned. - The name sounds familiar. I think their house is still standing on Sovetskaya, there’s a library there now?

- Yes, - Andrey confirmed. - An old family, they owned a river shipping company and several stores. They went bankrupt after the revolution. Part of the Yershov archive is kept in our museum. A small part.

“So, Maria in the portrait is from the Yershov family?” Olga suggested. “Or was she related to them?”

“Maybe,” Andrey nodded. “But there’s no name. Only ‘Maria’. How do I find it? There could have been dozens of Maris in the merchant families of Vereysk at the turn of the century.

- But not everyone was like me like two peas in a pod! - Maria exclaimed. - And not everyone wore such a dress and brooch!

“That’s the key,” Andrey agreed. “We need to look in the archives for mentions of Maria Ershova or anyone connected with the Ershov family. Photographs, letters, diaries… But that’s painstaking work in paper archives. I’ll dig around in the museum tomorrow.”

- And in the meantime? - Olga asked impatiently. - Google to the rescue? Searching for "Maria Ershova Vereysk"?

“Let’s try,” Andrey typed in the request.

The results were scant. A couple of links to genealogy forums that mentioned the Ershovs from Vereysk. One old newspaper article from a pre-revolutionary local newspaper about a charity evening for an orphanage, where one of the organizers was listed as "Mrs. M. Ershova." No photographs.

- A dead end, - Andrey sighed. - It’s hard to get to the era of mass photography. Especially in the provinces. Photos were an expensive pleasure.

Maria stood up and went to the chest of drawers. She picked up a jet swallow brooch. The stone was smooth, cold, almost black, with a barely perceptible oily sheen.

- My grandmother said that this brooch is a family one. From my great-grandmother. But our last name was not Ershova. Demina. Like mine now.

- Maybe it was passed on through women? - Olga suggested. - From mother to daughter. And marriages changed surnames.

“Perhaps,” Maria carefully put the brooch back. Her fingers touched the spine of the book. She opened it. Old, yellowed pages, familiar lines by Akhmatova. “She clasped her hands under a dark veil…” On the flyleaf was a neat inscription in purple ink: “To dear Masha, in memory. May 8, 1913. Yours V.”

“Your V…” Maria whispered. “Who is this? Husband? Fiancé? Friend?”

- 1913… - Andrey came up and looked into the book. - A year before the war. The last peaceful year of the empire. "To my dear Masha"… So the recipient’s name is Maria. Or Masha. A match with the name on the portrait. And with your name. And the date… - He fell silent, thinking about something.

“What?” Maria asked.

- Your date of birth? - Andrey suddenly asked. - Is it accurate?

“January twenty-seventh,” Maria answered. “1998. Why?”

Andrey grabbed the laptop and started searching for something quickly. His face was tense.

- Here! - he exclaimed a minute later. - I found something in the digitalized registers of births of Vereisky district! They were accidentally preserved for the years 1880-1910. We are looking for the Ershovs… Girls who were born… Maria… - His fingers froze. - Here. Maria Nikolaevna Ershova. She was born… on the twenty-seventh of January, 1890.

There was a deathly silence in the room. Even Olga didn’t make a sound. Maria felt the ground slipping out from under her feet. She sank down onto the sofa.

- The twenty-seventh of January… - she whispered. - Like me. 1890… And I’m 1998. The difference is exactly 108 years.

- One hundred and eight… - Andrey drawled thoughtfully. - It’s not a round number. Not 100. What could it mean?

“Maybe nothing?” Olga said uncertainly. “Just a wild coincidence?”

- The name, surname of ancestors, possibly the date of birth, appearance, dress, brooch, book… - Andrey listed. - This is no longer a coincidence, Olga. This is… a pattern. Or a predestination. Or something that our consciousness cannot grasp. Maria, - he turned to her, - and your grandmother? What did she say about your great-grandmother? From whom is the brooch?

Maria collected her thoughts.

– My grandmother, Anna Demina, died when I was about ten. I remember her vaguely. She said that her grandmother, that is, my great-great-grandmother, was from Vereysk. Her name was… Maria. I think. I don’t remember her maiden name. When she got married, she became Demina. My grandmother said that she was “unlucky”, she died young. The brooch is the only thing left of her. It was believed that it brings good luck, but… for some reason my grandmother said this with sadness.

- "Unlucky"… Died young… - repeated Andrey. - When? How?

“I don’t know,” Maria spread her hands. “Grandma didn’t specify. She only said that ‘crazy times, everything is mixed up.’”

- "Crazy times"… - Andrey sat down at the laptop again. - If she died young, let’s say before 30. That means between 1890 and 1920. The time of revolutions, the Civil War… Vereysk was restless. Whites, Reds, Greens… The city changed hands several times. Thousands of reasons could have perished.

- What about the portrait? - Olga asked. - If she died young, and the portrait was painted in 1890-1910, then she was between 0 and 30 years old. In the painting, she is clearly 25-30 years old. No less.

“So the portrait was painted shortly before her death?” Maria suggested, and cold horror seized her again.

- Perhaps, - Andrey plunged into the search again. - I’ll try to find mentions of the death of Maria Ershova or Demina in the birth certificates… But post-revolutionary records are often lost or incomplete… - He grimaced. - Nothing. There are no records for 1918-1922. A gap. Precisely the "craziest" years.

They sat in silence, sipping chilled champagne. The mystery hung in the air of the room, thick and insoluble. Olga was the first to break the silence.

- Okay, experts! Let’s use our imagination! How can this be? Let’s come up with theories! I’ll start. Theory one: Reincarnation! Maria from the past is you, Masha, in a past life! That’s why you were born on the same day, you look like a twin, and her things attract you! You’re back!

Maria shuddered.

- But then why don’t I remember anything? And why did her life end tragically? Does that mean mine too…?

- Not necessarily! - Olga retorted. - Maybe in this life you will fix everything!

“The theory is interesting, but unprovable,” Andrey shook his head. “And too… esoteric. I’m more for materialistic explanations. Theory two: Genetic failure. Maria is your direct ancestor. Great-great-grandmother. Genes played roulette and produced an absolute copy through generations. The dress and brooch are accidentally preserved family heirlooms. You found the book intuitively, because it is connected to an ancestor. Date of birth… well, a coincidence.

- But the face is absolutely identical! - Olga objected. - Like two peas in a pod! Genes don’t work like that! Even twins are different!

- I agree, - Andrey sighed. - The chance is negligible. Theory three: Time loop or anomaly. At some point in time, there was a glitch. Stanislav Lem would describe it best. Your life and the life of that Maria are parallel lines that at the point of Vereysk 2025 and Vereysk ~1915… touched. Or even merged. The painting is an artifact of this contact. You see not a portrait of an ancestor, but… your reflection in another time. Or her reflection in yours.

Maria felt dizzy.

"So, I… she? Or is she me? And what, her fate is my fate?" Her voice broke.

“Not necessarily,” Andrey hastened to reassure, but doubt was visible in his eyes. “An anomaly is unpredictable. Maybe the painting is just an echo, an image. Not predestination.”

“But I think it’s simpler,” Olga said, pouring herself more champagne. “Theory four: A hoax! Someone very smart and evil set it all up! Found an old painting of an unknown girl who just happened to look like Masha, forged the sign, slipped her a similar dress and brooch at a flea market, planted a book! The goal? I don’t know! Maybe some psycho who’s been following her and wants to drive her crazy! Or…” she lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, “Andrey himself! He’s an employee of the museum! He knew about the exhibition! He could have set it all up in order to… to get to know Masha better! Huh?”

Andrey blushed and snorted:

- Olga, this is absurd! Firstly, the painting is authentic, Novikov is an authority. Secondly, how could I know that Maria would buy this dress and wear this brooch? And find this book? And go to this exhibition? This requires foresight or control over her life! I am not omnipotent!

- Okay, okay, - Olga waved her hand. - Just kidding. Although the idea is not bad for a thriller. Maria, do you have any theories?

Maria was silent for a long time, looking at the flames in the imaginary fireplace (the room was cool, the radiators were heating weakly).

“I have… a feeling,” she began slowly. “A feeling that I’m standing on the edge. That this painting… is like a door. A door to the past, which is actually my present. Or vice versa. That a brooch, a book, a dress… these are not just things. They are keys. Or… anchors. Something holds me here, at this point, tied to that point. And the ‘unlucky’ fate of Maria Ershova…” she glanced at Andrey, “is not just a story. It is a shadow that overtakes me. I don’t believe in reincarnation as in the transmigration of souls. But I believe in… patterns. In repeating scenarios. In fate. Maybe I am part of such a pattern? A lost time loop that must close?

Her words hung in the air. Even Olga couldn’t find anything to say. Andrey looked at Maria with deep seriousness and… pity?

- Maria, fate is what we believe in when we see no reason, - he said quietly. - We will find the answer. We will find out what happened to that Maria. And then we will understand if there is a connection. Tomorrow morning I will rummage through the museum archive. And I will try to contact Novikov. I promise.

They talked for another hour, but no new ideas came to mind. Only Maria’s anxiety grew. When Olga and Andrey left, kissing her on the cheek goodbye (Andrey squeezed her hand especially warmly and for a long time), she was left alone. The silence of the room now seemed ominous. She went to the window. The snow kept falling, covering the street, turning the streetlights into blurred yellow spots. The world behind the glass was alien, unreal.

She took Akhmatova’s book and opened it to the first page. "To my dear Masha, in memory. May 8, 1913. Your V." Who are you, "Your V."? Did he love her? What happened a year later, when the war broke out? And then the revolution? Where was he when her life ended?

Maria went to bed, but sleep would not come. The face of the girl from the portrait stood before her eyes. Her face. With an expression of quiet sadness and… foreboding?

The next day Andrey called early in the morning. His voice sounded excited.

- Maria! I found something! In the Yershovs’ archive! Not much, but… Come to the museum when you can. And… be ready.

Maria rushed in half an hour later. Andrey was waiting for her in the small office of the employees behind a pile of old folders and books. On the table lay an open folder with yellowed papers.

“Sit down,” he said. “Here. I found some letters. And an excerpt from the diary of one of the Yershovs. Very fragmentary. But…”

He handed her a sheet of paper with a printout (the original was too worn to handle).

Maria began to read, and her heart sank.

• Letter (undated, presumably 1914): “…Masha has changed completely since Vladimir went to the front. Melancholy is eating her up. She sits in the garden all day with his book. She says she feels him nearby. I fear for her sanity…”
• An excerpt from a diary (date erased, late 1917): “Terrible news. Vladimir went missing near Przemysl back in ’15. Maria kept waiting, not believing it. Now… they say they saw him in Petrograd, among those… Bolsheviks. A traitor? Or a dead man? Maria cries without ceasing. She has withdrawn into herself. She barely speaks…”
• Letter (March 1918): “…Maria disappeared. Three days ago. After the shooting started in the city. These gangs… They say there was a battle by the river. They searched, but found nothing. No body, no belongings. Only her shawl was found on the shore, right by the water… The swallow brooch she always wore is also gone. It’s as if it has evaporated. Mother is going crazy. She says it’s a curse because Vladimir betrayed the Tsar and the Fatherland…”

Maria lowered the sheet. Her hands were shaking.

– Vladimir… “Your V.”… – she whispered. – He died or became a Bolshevik… And she… disappeared. In the spring of 1918. By the river. During the battle. A shawl on the shore… The brooch was gone… As if it had evaporated…

- Yes, - Andrey said quietly. - Disappeared without a trace. Like the brooch. Which is now… with you.

– Spring… – Maria looked out the window. It was the end of January. Spring was still far away. But a cold horror gripped her. – Will I… disappear too? In the spring? By the river? During some… shooting? Is this the “unlucky” fate?

- Maria, no! - Andrey grabbed her hands. - It’s just a coincidence of details! History cannot repeat itself! This is a different world! A different time! There is no Civil War!

- But the pattern… - Maria objected, pulling her hands away. - The name, the face, the date of birth, the things… The disappearance in the spring… By the river… The brooch disappears… It’s too much! It’s… a program!

- This is a tragic coincidence of circumstances in the past and our suspiciousness in the present! - insisted Andrey. - We will find an explanation! I got through to Novikov! He agreed to talk!

The conversation with the collector, Andrei Viktorovich Novikov, took place an hour later. He turned out to be a pleasant elderly man with a velvety voice. After listening to Maria’s story (Andrei carefully laid out the facts, omitting mystical parallels), he was silent for a long time.

“Amazing…” he said finally. “The resemblance you described is truly phenomenal. As for the painting… I acquired it from a descendant of the Yershov coachman. The old man had already died. He said that the painting hung in the manor house, in the room of the young lady Maria Nikolaevna. That she was… special. He almost said, “out of this world.” They said she had the gift of foresight or something like that. But she died tragically and young, during the Troubles. He didn’t know the details. The artist… He mentioned that he was a wandering painter whose name no one remembered. He came, painted the portrait in a few sessions and left. Like a ghost. The portrait itself…” Novikov paused. “It always made a strange impression on me. Not only because of its skill. It has… timelessness. And sadness. Deep sadness. As if the girl knew what awaited her.

After the conversation, Maria felt even more lost. "Special." "Not of this world." "Knew what was waiting." Disappearance in the spring.

Winter dragged on slowly. Maria tried to live a normal life. She worked in the shop, met with Olga, sometimes saw Andrey. He became her support, an island of rationality in a sea of mystical horror. A tender, cautious affection arose between them. He was so different from the ghostly Vladimir from the past - reliable, earthly, warm. In his company, fear retreated. He continued to dig through the archives, looking for any clues about the fate of Maria Ershova, but to no avail. Spring was approaching inexorably.

One day in early April, Olga burst into the shop, out of breath.

- Mashka! Did you hear? There’s an emergency in the city!

- What happened? - Maria was scared. Her heart started pounding wildly.

- By the river! In an old warehouse that these Moscow investors bought for elite housing! Workers were doing renovations there and… they found a weapons cache! Can you imagine? Boxes! Rifles, cartridges, some grenades, they say! From the tsarist era or Grazhdanka! Buried!

Maria felt the ground shift beneath her feet. She grabbed the counter.

- Where… where exactly?

- At the oldest pier, where the ferry used to go! There’s this dilapidated warehouse! The police have cordoned it off, sappers have arrived from the region! The whole city is buzzing!

Old pier. By the river. Spring. Weapons. Fuss. Like 1918. Pattern.

- Masha? How are you? You’re all pale! - Olga was scared.

“Nothing…” Maria whispered. “Just… news. Unexpected.”

She worked until the end of the day as if in a fog. In the evening Andrey called.

- Maria, do you know about the warehouse?

- Yes, Olga told me.

“It’s okay,” Andrey’s voice sounded calm and encouraging. “The sappers will sort it out. They’re already taking it out. They say it’ll all be finished tomorrow. It’s just a historical curiosity. There was no shooting or danger. Calm down, please. Don’t get worked up.”

“Okay,” Maria said automatically. “Thank you, Andrey.”

But she could not calm down. The sense of impending disaster was physical, like the pressure before a thunderstorm. She felt the jet swallow on her chest radiating cold. Akhmatova’s book on the nightstand seemed like a black hole, sucking her in.

The night was restless. She tossed and turned, catching fragments of sleep where images mixed together: the garden from the painting, the roar of the cannonade, Andrey’s face, screams on the river bank, cold water, someone’s hands reaching out to her… And always - the sad gray eyes of the girl from the portrait. Her eyes.

In the morning she woke up with a heavy head. She didn’t feel like working. The sky was gloomy, a fine, annoying rain was falling. She decided to go to the river. Not to the pier, where there was a cordon, but a little further, to the high bank, from where there was a view of the winding ribbon of water and the old city. The place was quiet, deserted, especially in such weather.

She walked, not feeling the wet asphalt under her feet. The rain intensified, turning into a solid gray shroud. The fog began to rise from the river, enveloping the trees and houses in ghostly wisps. The world lost its outlines, dissolved.

She came out onto the steep bank. The river below was lead-grey, swollen from the flood. Fog spread across the water, covering the opposite bank. Her soul was empty and heavy. She went to the very edge, where the earth crumbled. The wind tore at the hem of her cloak (not the old one, but a regular modern one).

And then she saw Him.

The figure stood in the fog, about twenty meters away, a little lower down the slope, almost at the water’s edge. Tall, male, in a long gray coat with a raised collar. A bowler hat pulled low over his eyes. He stood motionless, facing the river, his back to it.

Maria froze. It wasn’t Andrey. And not a tourist. Too… out of date. Too… from another time. Her heart pounded, thumping in her temples. The fog swirled, the figure became clearer, then almost disappeared.

And suddenly He turned His head. Not with His whole body, but with His head. Abruptly, almost unnaturally. And He looked straight at her. From under the brim of His hat. The face was not visible in the fog and at such a distance, but Maria felt that gaze physically – like an icy touch. Like the gaze from that portrait.

She screamed and recoiled. Her leg hung for a moment over the crumbling edge of the cliff. She lost her balance, waving her arms convulsively. And at that moment the jet swallow brooch, which she wore under her clothes as always, fell off its thin pin. Maria saw a small black bird flash in the gray air and disappear into the fog, falling somewhere down to the river.

“No!” she screamed, instinctively taking a step forward, toward the edge, trying to see where the brooch had fallen. The ground beneath her feet slid. Rocks and dirt tumbled down. Maria felt a terrible emptiness beneath her. She was falling.

But the fall lasted only a split second. Then a sharp blow, and… darkness. Not deep, but rather gray, foggy. She felt no pain. She was lying on something wet and cold. Clay? Sand? She opened her eyes. The fog was thick, milky. She saw only her hands in front of her. And the gray water of the river very close. She had fallen not from a high cliff, but only from a small ledge. Lucky.

She tried to stand up. Her head was spinning. She looked around. The fog was dissipating in places, in clumps. The figure of the Man in Gray had disappeared. As if it had dissolved. She reached for her chest – the brooch was gone. Lost.

She rose to her feet, swaying. She had to get out of here, up. She began to climb the slope, clinging to roots and wet rocks. Her thoughts were confused. Where was she? What was that? A hallucination? From a blow? Or… Him? Vladimir? A ghost? Or Time itself, in shape?

She climbed up onto the path. The rain had almost stopped. The fog was still hanging, but it had become thinner. She looked back at the river. And froze.

Where the figure in grey had just stood, now stood… Andrey. He was wearing his usual dark blue down jacket, no hat, his hair was wet. He looked at her, his face pale and frightened.

- Maria! - He rushed to her. - My God! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Olga said you looked bad… I guessed you might have come here! What happened? Did you fall?

He grabbed her by the shoulders, examining her.

“I…” Maria tried to speak, but her tongue wouldn’t obey. “There… down there… He… the brooch…”

- Who? What brooch? Are you hurt? You have a cut on your forehead!

Maria touched her temple. There really was a scratch there, and some blood. She looked at Andrey, at his real, living, worried face. At his warm hands. The fog was clearing. The figure in gray had disappeared, as if it had never been there. Maybe it really was a hallucination? From stress, from lack of sleep?

“I… lost my balance,” she said with difficulty. “The brooch… jet… came off and fell. I was trying to see… and slipped. I fell. Not hard.”

Andrey hugged her, pressed her to himself. She felt his warmth, his smell – coffee and paper dust. So familiar. So real.

- Idiot! - he whispered into her hair. - I told you, don’t get worked up! There’s no danger! Everything’s already gone at the warehouse! The sappers have left! Everything’s calm! Come on, I’ll take you home. You’re wet and in shock.

He held her hand tightly, leading her along the path away from the river, toward the city. Maria walked, submissive, looking back. The fog over the river was already almost transparent. The sun was breaking through the clouds. The spring air was fresh and damp. There was no figure. Nowhere. Only Andrey, warm and reliable next to her.

She took a deep breath. Maybe she had overdone it? Maybe Andrey was right? Just coincidences, a chain of accidents, reinforced by her fears? The pattern hadn’t worked. She hadn’t disappeared. She was alive. She was here. Andrey was with her. The brooch… a pity, of course, a family heirloom. But it was just a thing. A stone. Not an anchor of time.

She smiled at Andrey with a weak but sincere smile.

- Thank you for finding me.

“I’ll always find you,” he smiled back, relief and tenderness shining in his eyes. “Let’s go. Let’s have some tea. Let’s forget all this devilry.”

Several days passed. Life was returning to its usual course. Fear was retreating, dissolving into the mundane. Spring was gaining strength. The buds on the trees were bursting with tender greenery. Maria worked in the shop, met with Olga (who pestered her with questions about the "mystical fall" and "romantic rescue by Andrey"), saw Andrey. Their relationship was becoming warmer and closer. He was her salvation from the ghosts of the past, her connection with the real, kind, understandable world. She began to believe that the nightmare was behind her. That the pattern was broken. That she would have a different destiny. A happy one.

One evening, when Maria was closing the shop, an elderly woman approached her. Very old, hunched over, with a face furrowed with wrinkles, like old parchment. She was dressed modestly, but cleanly. In her hands she held a small bundle wrapped in newspaper.

“Girl,” her voice was quiet, hoarse, but clear. “Are you… Maria?”

“Yes,” Maria answered warily. “Do I know you?”

The old woman shook her head.

- No, my dear. But I know you. Or rather… I knew the one whose image you bear.

An icy needle ran down Maria’s back. She was silent.

“I am Agafya,” the old woman introduced herself. “My grandmother was a maid in the Yershovs’ house. She served Maria Nikolaevna.”

Maria swallowed the lump in her throat.

- What… what do you want?

The old woman held out a bundle.

- This is for you. Granny bequeathed to give it to you when the time comes. When a girl appears who is the spitting image of our young lady Masha. And wears her brooch. I heard you wore one like this. And lost it by the river.

Maria mechanically took the bundle. It was light.

- What… what is this?

“What was left,” the old woman whispered. Her eyes, cloudy and deep, looked at Maria with inexpressible sadness. “What was found then. On the shore. After she… left. Take it. Farewell, child.”

The old woman turned and hobbled away down the evening street, quickly disappearing into the twilight. Maria stood there, paralyzed, clutching the bundle in her hands. Then she locked the shop and almost ran home.

In the room, with trembling hands, she unfolded the newspaper. Inside lay… a small, decayed almost to a rag, piece of an embroidered handkerchief. Or a napkin. And on it… embroidered with silk thread, faded, but still discernible… a flying swallow. An exact copy of the jet brooch.

And a note. In an old, beady handwriting, in faded purple ink:

“To my dear Masha. If you find this, know that I have gone to him. To where time sleeps. Look for the swallow in the fog over the river. It will show you the way. Yours, V., forever. April 10, 1918.”

Maria dropped the note. The date… April 10, 1918. Today… April 10, 2025. Exactly 107 years later. Not 108, as in the date of birth, but 107. The year? Why the difference in a year? It doesn’t matter. The main thing is the day. And the month. Spring. The river. Fog. A swallow…

She ran to the window. It was getting dark outside. And… the fog was rising. Rare for this time of year, but stubbornly creeping from the river, enveloping the streetlights and houses in ghostly plumes.

She knew what she had to do. She knew it with all her being. The pattern demanded completion. It had not been broken. It had only been suspended. Postponed. And now it was back, on this day, at this hour.

She didn’t call Andrey. She didn’t call Olga. It was her path. Her destiny. Maria’s destiny.

She put on that same dress. Cream linen with a blue flower. It hung in the closet, like a silent reproach or an invitation. She took Akhmatova’s book in a blue cover. There was no brooch, but her image was embroidered on a scrap of fabric that she hid in her bosom, next to her heart. A swallow.

She went out. The city was drowning in a milky, impenetrable fog. The streetlights shone as dim, blurry balls. The sounds were muffled. The world lost its clarity. She walked to the river. To the old pier. To where she had lost the brooch. To where she had seen Him.

The fog by the river was especially thick. Like a wall. The water was not visible, only its quiet, measured murmur could be heard somewhere below. Maria stood on the edge, in the very place where she had fallen. She looked into the white shroud. Waited.

And He appeared. Not right away. At first, just a vague silhouette in gray about twenty meters away from her, a little lower, by the water. Then the fog cleared for a moment, and she saw His face. Young, tired, with burning dark eyes. Vladimir’s face. He looked at her. Not with fear, but with endless longing and… hope. He extended his hand to her.

And Maria understood. This is not a trap. This is liberation. This is a return. Not to death. To love. To the one who waited for her for a hundred and seven years in the mists of time. Who was her “Your V.” in that life and in this one. Who was part of the pattern, part of herself.

She did not hear the desperate cry that came from behind. The cry of Andrey, who, not finding her at home, rushed to the river in horror, sensing something bad. He ran along the path, calling her name, his voice lost in the cotton wool of the fog.

Maria took a step forward. Towards an outstretched hand. Towards a face in the fog. Towards a swallow that had finally found its way home. She didn’t feel the edge of the cliff beneath her feet. She felt only a call.

When Andrey ran out into the open space near the old pier, he saw only a thick white shroud spreading over the black water. And an empty shore. No one. Only the wind stirred last year’s grass on the cliff. And in the air, it seemed, there was still a barely perceptible aroma of lilies of the valley and old paper.

"Maria!" his cry was full of despair and helplessness. But the only answer was silence, intensified by the fog, and the indifferent splash of the river.

He ran to the edge, to where she was standing. No signs of a struggle. No break in the earth. Only in the mud, at the very edge, lay a small object, half-trampled into the ground. Andrei bent down. It was a book. Small, in a worn blue leather binding with faded gold embossing. He recognized it. A volume of Akhmatova.

He picked up the book. It was open. On the page marked with a bookmark – a silhouette of a swallow embroidered on a rag – the following lines were circled:

“And I go where there is eternal sleep,
And where no one will say: “Where are you going?”
And where above the abyss, foamy and sleepless,
My soul, like a seagull, is not black…”

Andrey stood, clutching the cold cover in his hands, and looked into the whitish, impenetrable surface of the fog above the river. He knew that it was useless to search. Maria had disappeared. Just as that other Maria had disappeared, one hundred and seven years ago. Without a trace. Only the book remained. And the embroidered swallow – a sign of lost hope.

The fog slowly cleared, revealing a deserted shore and grey, cold water. Spring was coming into its own, but winter had settled in Andrey’s heart forever. He never understood what it was: madness, mysticism, escape or… return. He only knew that the door to her room would always be locked. And outside the window, in the rays of the rising sun, the first swallow of the year was flying over the river, cutting through the clear blue.