The dashboard read just over thirty degrees Celsius. The sweltering heat, typical for late August in the Rostov region, had lingered into the first days of September. My mom's old Lada hummed in protest, pushing against the thick air. Music drifted faintly from the speakers, but the warm wind rushing through the open window drowned out the lyrics. Stray strands of hair whipped against my cheeks and shoulders; no matter how many times I tried to tuck them behind my ear, they sprang free again. All my hair ties, of course, were buried deep in the suitcase. Brilliant. The road to the airport was long, the sun merciless, and I'd set myself up for discomfort from the start.
Today I was "going back to my roots." In just a few hours, the iron bird would carry me to Novosibirsk, and from there, a short train ride would take me to the place where I was born seventeen years ago. Kserton—a small, unremarkable town wrapped in mountains and forest, where the sky seemed to weep more often than it smiled. Less than a month of sunshine a year, the internet claimed. My mother had escaped that gray cocoon when I was barely a year old, fleeing a life stripped of warmth and light.
For years, I returned each summer to spend a month with my grandmother, until at fourteen I'd had enough of potato fields and empty evenings without friends. Kostya had agreed easily, and for the past three years our family holidays had been somewhere warmer—Turkey, or anywhere the sun stayed up late.
And yet, here I was, heading toward voluntary exile. I won't lie—it wasn't an easy choice. Even now, waves of dread rolled through me. I hated Kserton with every fiber of my being.
With each passing kilometer, Rostov-on-Don faded behind us—the city of my childhood, where streets were mostly smooth, the sun kissed your skin without apology, and life thrummed around the clock. In Kserton, by contrast, everything folded neatly into silence by six in the evening.
At the check-in desk, a smiling attendant handed me my boarding pass. My mother's fingers curled into the sleeve of her cardigan. "Asya," she said softly, "you don't have to go."
I looked into a mirror of my own eyes, hers framed by the fine lines of someone who smiled often. When I think of Maria, I think of the sound of her laughter—bright, ringing, unforgettable. I was her reflection in everything but her lightheartedness, which stubbornly refused to pass through the bloodline.
Her gaze was an unspoken plea, one that made me shrink inside. How could I leave her? I'd always felt older than her in some way—she needed looking after as much as I did. Rationally, I knew my new stepfather had taken that burden from me. But my heart whispered warnings.
"Everything's fine, Mom," I told her. "It'll be better this way. I really want to live in Kserton. Kostya will be happy. And I'll have time to look at the local university, figure out my options."
I'd repeated this lie so often over the past week, I'd almost come to believe it.
"Say hi to Kostya for me."
"Of course."
We embraced, and she smelled of strawberry gum, summer, and cinnamon—scents that would always mean home.
"See you soon," she said, smiling in that way she did when she wanted to hide the truth. Her eyes told me what her voice didn't: she couldn't leave Sasha, not now. And that was why I had to go.
Another year of school, then university applications. The one thing that brightened the thought of Kserton was its State University—the hope that maybe there, I'd find my calling.
We stood for another minute, hands clasped, until the loudspeaker announced boarding. She hugged me tight, one last time, and I walked away, her gaze following me all the way to the doors.