Kostya helped me bring the iron horse down to the first floor before heading off to his duties. I watched my father's car disappear from view and marveled at how strange it felt that, in less than a week, the unfamiliar word "dad" had slipped so effortlessly from my lips. It had once been a struggle to even say it, a reflection of the emptiness between us. Perhaps I had really grown up, and childish grievances had finally taken a back seat. Who could say.
I pulled out my phone and located the nearest supermarket, mapping the route. A handlebar-mounted holder would have been ideal for glancing at the map on the go, but I made do. The bike still felt luxurious, a small thrill in itself. All that remained was to find some sticker packs online and give the frame a personal touch.
Most of the way followed a straight road. I took the pedestrian underpass Kostya had shown me on the way from the station. The forest air was rich, pungent, and spicy; the scent of pine filled my lungs, making each breath deep and even.
No one passed me from behind. No strangers appeared coming toward me. There was only me, the road, the bike, and the occasional car speeding above.
I felt a rare calm. The wind teased my hair, and for a moment I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, recalling a favorite childhood melody. The tune often played on a loop in my mind, though the lyrics—and even its name—had long faded. Maria had once called it "Asya's lullaby."
Closing my eyes had been a mistake. A small cobblestone, lying innocently in my path, betrayed the peaceful rhythm. My wheel hit it, jerking sharply to the right. I lost control, and gravity did the rest, hurling me down the slope.
I don't know how long I flew. It all seemed to happen in a single, impossible instant: riding, thinking of my mother's smile… and then rolling head over heels through the grass, colliding with a pine tree. My scream was not pain, but shock. For a moment, the world went still. My bike rested at the slope's foot; I lay sprawled at least five meters away. I pushed myself upright, palms stinging, wiping dirt onto my jeans. Tiny scratches speckled my hands; only one cut, marked by a bead of blood, seemed significant.
A crunch sounded behind me. Fear shot through me; I whirled around. Nothing but tree trunks.
"Who's there?" I called. Only the faint hum of distant traffic answered.
I stood, shaking off pine needles and dirt. My new raincoat was streaked and soiled at the elbows; my jeans were battered as well, black fabric emphasizing every mark. Deciding it wasn't catastrophic, I resolved not to go home for a change of clothes. I could remove the coat at the store entrance to cover the worst spots. My bike had survived; one pedal had picked up dirt, but a wet wipe from my backpack solved that. You never know what will come in handy, which is why backpacks—or women's bags—are like Hermione's bottomless pouch.
Looking up the steep incline, I realized I lacked the strength to ride up the slick soil. The soles of my once-clean sneakers sank into the damp ground. I abandoned the idea and began walking the bike through the forest, hoping another path would appear.
Riding now seemed foolish. With my coordination, a second collision with a tree would not be so poetic. I pushed the bike alongside me, carefully navigating the roots and undergrowth.
Trying not to lose heart, I lifted my gaze to the treetops, green and bathed in the last rays of autumn sun. The birds had long since gone silent. Dense, complete silence filled the forest, broken only by the hum of distant cars.
A gnawing feeling told me I was being watched. Logically, anyone nearby would have appeared when I fell—but what if they weren't "anyone"?
I shook off the thought. Panic would get me lost. I patted my jacket, searching for my phone. One zipper, two zippers—empty. It must have fallen during the tumble. Frustration surged. I had traveled far from the fall site. The forest was monotonous, each tree a twin to the next. Finding my exact spot now was impossible. No signal, no map, no idea how long until sunset. Perfect.
A sharp crunch echoed from the depths of the woods, like a dry twig underfoot. I spun, but saw only a pine ten steps away, its lower branches swaying. Perhaps a startled bird, a squirrel—who knows what lives in these trees.
I gripped the handlebars tightly and pushed forward, praying the forest would finally yield a way out.