Stepping out of the hall, I entered a sunlit corridor where tall windows soared almost to the ceiling on one side, and the opposite wall was adorned with oil paintings. My eyes were immediately drawn to them. I had dreamt of stepping inside the founders' house for so long, and now that I was here, the thought of passing by without studying at least some of its treasures felt impossible.
As I moved toward the first painting, the hall doors groaned shut behind me, sealing off the Smirnov siblings from sight.
Most of the works depicted golden fields rippling with wheat, bathed in a light so warm I could almost feel it on my skin. Perhaps, before Kserton became a city, this land had been nothing but farmland. One painting showed the fields giving way to a dense forest, its pines like emerald spires under a serene blue sky. High above, a flock of birds drifted lazily. They were painted too far away to make out—mere dark specks with outstretched wings. Seen from a distance, they reminded me of the careless ink marks I used to make on my school tests to indicate the right answers.
Then the landscapes shifted into something more human. A larger canvas showed lumberjacks working at the forest's edge—five men, if I counted correctly. One swung an axe into a pine trunk, while two others struggled to load cut logs onto a cart pulled by a black-maned horse, following the gestures of a third man giving orders. Off to the side sat an older figure, his beard spilling almost to the collar of his worn caftan. He rested heavily on a stump, legs apart, elbows braced on his knees, his back slightly hunched. Fatigue radiated from him—but so did something else, something quieter. Regret, perhaps. The artist had clearly given this man special weight in the scene.
I was still studying his face, trying to unearth the source of that sadness, when one of the hall doors creaked open and Eduard stepped out.
"Good thing you haven't left," he said with a smile tinged with relief. "I'd have had to hunt for you in the woods."
"Why hunt for me when you could just call?" I asked.
"Do you have your phone?"
I patted my jacket pocket—empty.
"I must have left it on the table at the café," I admitted.
"You lose your phone too often," he teased, pulling his own from his back pocket and tapping the screen. A moment later it buzzed, and he nodded in satisfaction. "It's at Karimov's. Let's go—I'll take you home."
"Ask if Kostya called," I said distractedly, my gaze still fixed on the bearded man in the painting. The longer I looked, the more it felt like he would eventually reveal his secret—if I stood there long enough.
"No calls. No messages," Eduard replied. But instead of looking at the painting, he studied me, as if my reaction to it was more interesting than the work itself.
"Trying to figure out why he's upset?" he asked.
"Look at his posture," I said, pointing without touching the canvas. "See how he leans on his knees, the way his shoulders nearly reach his ears? He's uncomfortable."
Eduard's eyebrows rose. "Good eye. But you've missed something."
My mother once taught me to step back from a painting to see the whole truth of it. I did so now, scanning every detail, but nothing leapt out. Eventually, Eduard took pity on me.
"I'll show you." He pointed to the forest, just left of the man on the stump. At first I saw nothing, but then—hidden among the trunks—a tall wooden totem emerged. Faces upon faces had been carved into it, their lines so intricate they melted into the shadows and branches, as if the forest itself were wearing a mask.
"He's sad," Eduard began, "because he's old enough to remember the beliefs of this land. The forest is sacred to him, home to gods who've guarded him all his life. But times change. The fields no longer feed the town, and to survive, he must join in the destruction of the forest he reveres. To him, it is a betrayal of the old gods—forced upon him by hunger."
His voice was smooth, deliberate, carrying the weight of the story. Without realizing it, I wound a strand of hair around my finger.
"It's strange you keep this painting," I murmured.
"Why?"
"You're from the founding family. This is a story about someone who was forced to destroy what he loved most."
"Or," Eduard countered, leaning closer until our shoulders brushed, "it's a story about a man who mistook salvation for evil—who thought he'd betrayed his gods when, in truth, he saved what mattered most. Tell me—what do you think he valued more? Gods he'd never seen… or the starving family waiting at home?"
"It depends on the man," I said after a pause. "Maybe he saw the cycle of life and death as natural. Or maybe his faith in the gods was stronger than anything. We can't know for sure."
"No, we can only guess," Eduard agreed. "But if the gods were more important—would he still betray them to feed his children?"
I didn't answer. The truth was, we could never know the worker's heart.
"Come on," he said finally. "If you want to be home before Kostya, we should leave."
We walked together toward the massive doors leading outside. "You know," I said, "we could always talk like this."
Eduard opened the door, holding it for me. His voice was quiet, almost regretful.
"We couldn't."