I tried to slip the key into the apartment door as quietly as possible, wary that Kostya might have returned from his shift. A scattered pool of light from a desk lamp at the far end of the hallway fractured the night's darkness. I froze, listening to the thick, heavy silence, straining for any hint of my father's presence. It would be better if he were already asleep—then I could spend the morning hunting for a new phone and avoid confessing the loss of the old one.
Dragging my bike inside, I leaned it against the wall and tossed my jacket onto the ottoman in the corner. Running my fingers through my disheveled hair, I exhaled in relief. The apartment was entirely mine for the night. In the bathroom, I lazily peeled off my clothes. Cranking the shower tap nearly to full blast, I stepped under the hot water, letting the sharp streams sting my face and neck. With each drop, the anxious thoughts began to wash away. But the moment I closed my eyes, the memory returned—the unshakable feeling of being watched in the forest. A shiver raced down my spine, deepening the fear simmering inside. I would never set foot in that forest again. End of story.
After the shower, I wrapped my damp hair in a towel, twisting it into a tight turban. Wiping the fogged mirror with my palm, I grinned at my reflection. The mound of terry cloth leaned dramatically to the right, making it look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa perched on my head.
But the sight alone wasn't enough to lift my mood. I trudged to my room, replaying Nikita's story of the sawmill and the founders' estate in my mind. Curiosity gnawed at me—I needed to see what the house actually looked like. Sitting at my desk, I opened the computer and typed the city's name along with the word "sights" into the search bar. A two-page list of links appeared, and without hesitation, I clicked the first result. My jaw dropped.
The top banner displayed an astonishing mansion, fit for an emperor—or perhaps Queen Elizabeth II—but certainly not for a doctor and his wife. The ceilings seemed impossibly high, at least eight meters, though perhaps it was an illusion created by the pale blue columns stretching across both stories of the facade. Gilded olive branches curled over the arched windows, giving the building a magical aura, as if each window were a portal to a world where the air always smelled of fresh-cut grass and sea.
I found the "Gallery" section of the site, which held five photographs of the ground-floor rooms, each accompanied by a brief description. One image revealed a grand hall lined with a painting gallery. The frames displayed landscapes at sunset and seascapes, while an impressive family portrait hung centrally on the wall. The figures wore elegant ball gowns.
The photo's resolution was poor, so the faces were blurry, yet the silhouettes felt familiar. Perhaps I had glimpsed this painting in Rostov; temporary exhibitions often traveled there. But I knew I might never confirm it—my memory was notoriously unreliable. The website provided neither the artist's name nor the title of the painting, and further searches seemed impossible.
A glance at the corner of the screen made my heart skip: fifteen minutes to midnight. I opened a map in my browser, searching for electronics stores, only to find that all of them opened after the first lesson. Resigned, and hoping to conceal the loss of my phone from Kostya, I trudged to bed.