I don't know how long I sat in that damp, shadowed hallway, letting the tears flow freely. Months of insults and hardships poured out of me along with the sobs I couldn't hold back. From the very moment I arrived, Kserton had rejected me, a foreign intruder in its midst, never allowing me the chance to discover myself or get close to anyone. Every spark of kindness, every beginning of something good, had been extinguished in a single day. The friendship I had cherished—one I had thought might blossom into something more—had turned into betrayal. I didn't get along with the girls in my class, but that wasn't new. In Rostov, I'd had only two close friends, who had disappeared into Kserton's fog, leaving my messages unanswered. Elementary school had been easier, but by seventh grade, I'd distanced myself from most people, unable to keep pace with the relentless changes pushing me out of the spiral of growing up. Perhaps people like me were truly "born at the wrong time."
Wiping my cheeks, I finally rose and made my way to my apartment. As soon as I opened the door, the irresistible scent of pancakes enveloped me. Butter hissed in the pan, and the soft murmur of the television floated from the kitchen. Was Kostya in a good mood?
I kicked off my shoes, hung my jacket, and caught my reflection in the mirror. For someone who had cried twice in a single day, I looked remarkably fresh. Almost impossibly so.
Smoothing my damp, forest-curled hair, I pinched my cheeks to coax a rosy glow, as if I'd just come in from a brisk walk outside. Shoulders squared, sweater straightened, I took a deep breath. Nothing could make today worse; there was no point in worrying.
In the kitchen, Kostya stood at the stove, a towel slung over his shoulder. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped a pancake in the sizzling pan. Steam rose, hissing as it met the hot surface. I had always assumed his cooking skills peaked at fried eggs or, at worst, watery porridge. Leaning against the wall, hugging myself, I watched silently as golden pancakes stacked neatly on the plate.
"What are you waiting for?" my father asked, glancing over. "Grab the butter and spread it on the pancakes."
I obeyed, slipping beside him to move the plate closer. Using a rounded knife, I spread butter on each pancake before transferring them to another plate. As soon as Kostya prepared another hot pancake, he handed it to me.
"Maria called," he said carefully, watching my reaction. I forced myself to focus on the intricate pattern of the next pancake.
"We discussed the whole situation with the maniac in the city—your safety. We talked for hours, even argued a little," he said, smiling softly, nostalgia creeping into his tone. "She suggested you return to Rostov in November. If that's what you want, I won't stop you. In fact, I'll be glad if you can stay far from these local troubles."
He faltered, each word seemingly heavy. His shoulders slumped slightly, and the last pancake burned.
"Oh, you…" Kostya muttered, frustration edging his words as he separated the pancake from the pan. Tossing it onto the stack, he brought out plates and utensils. Following suit, I spread jam on the last pancake and carried it carefully to the table. The fridge door slammed shut, and soon Kostya sat beside me on the couch, holding cans of condensed milk, strawberry jam, and honey close. In our family, everyone loved sweet toppings.
Father reached for the stack, counting out three pancakes onto his plate. I grabbed the top one, heaping jam without measuring, watching it stretch beautifully as it oozed across the surface.
"Just like childhood," I said, smiling. Kostya ruffled my hair affectionately.
"This morning, I got carried away," he began cautiously. "I was young once too, and I understand how much you crave freedom… fun. But I… I just can't give that to you. I couldn't forgive myself if anything happened to you."
I'd heard these speeches before, but today his voice was softer, more measured. He was trying to soothe me, to make me understand the weight of decisions, to reconcile me with reality. Yet, after Kserton's rejection, I felt trapped. Why did I think I could live here, build a future? Kserton was no better than Rostov. At least there, my mother allowed me freedom, let me make choices, treated me like an adult. Beside my father, I felt thirteen again. I was seventeen now, almost legally accountable for my own life. How could I step into adulthood under a glass dome?
"I've been thinking, with your mother," he continued, "and I think I've found a solution. Until the end of the month, until Maria returns to Rostov, you can choose to stay here in Ksertoni or go to your mother. Dr. Smirnov's son said you can visit their estate whenever you like. It's secluded, private. Eduard can drive you there and back safely. You could hang out with five peers there—a proper group. What do you think?"
I choked on my pancake at the mention of Eduard.
"We're not friends," I said after clearing my throat, heading for water.
"You will be!" Kostya's enthusiasm was contagious. "They'll tell you about the city, Ksertoni's past. Who knows it better than the founder's family? Five of them—surely you'll find common ground. Just try, then refuse if you want."
"I already tried," I muttered grimly. "They're not as interesting as you think."
Father shook his head. "They're quite remarkable. I work with Dr. Smirnov often. One of the children volunteers at the hospital—Eduard can read X-rays like a pro."
"And he tells stories, all sorts of legends," Kostya added.
"Legends of the city?" Father asked, intrigued.
"Yes. Some myths, horror tales about vampires."
Kostya nodded, chewing a pancake soaked in condensed milk. "Vampires are among the most fascinating local legends. They recently adopted the foreign term, but it fits. 'Upyr' evokes something ugly, terrifying. But locally, the stories speak of beautiful, virtuous creatures, despite their curse."
"What curse?"
Father realized he forgot a mug, sipping mine, then smiled. "You'll find out at the Smirnovs."
"That's not fair!"
"Ah-ha!" Kostya exclaimed. "You're intrigued."
"You may be intrigued, but I won't go. They tried to convince me they were vampires. A whole staged performance, as if I'm from the countryside and have never seen automatic doors. I never found a camera, though."
"Camera?"
"Of course," I said, washing a whisk. "They probably filmed everything for the internet—headline: 'New girl fooled at school.' Hilarious."
Kostya cleared his throat. "Maybe it's an educational performance. Museums do immersive things like that nowadays."
I scoffed, then reconsidered. Maybe he was right. The only odd thing was that no one explained anything when I reacted, as a normal host might. Perhaps it was all performance, like immersive theater.
"Maybe you should give the Smirnovs another chance," he suggested. "They know better than anyone what it's like to be a newcomer in Ksertoni."
"Okay," I said, turning off the faucet and reaching for the towel. "You've convinced me."