Finding the doctor's office was almost anticlimactically easy. A wide, golden plaque on one of the doors proclaimed in bold black letters: "Deputy Chief Physician Vladimir Vladimirovich Smirnov." The door yielded to my touch with the same eerie ease as the basement entrance. Inside, a broad desk dominated the room, a leather chair tucked neatly beneath it. Stacks of papers were meticulously organized into labeled folders—but none of the labels called to me. I opened drawer after drawer, rifling through the contents with mounting urgency.
I needed answers. Any clue about what this man had done to shape—or ruin—my life. I sifted through the pages, deciphering sprawling, looping handwriting. Frustration gnawed at me. Nothing seemed meaningful.
Leaning back in the chair, I felt the familiar dizziness pressing at my temples. My head ached, yet I knew I wouldn't have another opportunity. I rose obediently and turned my attention to the archive shelves. A thick folder with a pronounced spine caught my eye. I tugged at it—but my grip faltered, and the folder slipped to the floor, opening as if inviting me. One page slid under the shelf, and I knelt to retrieve it. My breath caught when I read the title: "Birth Certificate."
It was issued to a boy named Nikita. My heart thudded violently. That was the name I had chosen for my son. My fingers burned as they touched the paper, and a sick premonition clawed at my gut—but I forced myself to read every detail. The date of birth matched the day my child had been born. The listed parents were strangers: the Karimovs. On the back, a sticky note bore familiar handwriting, directing me to an address.
I returned to the folder. My own death certificate lay there like a cruel joke. No one would ever search for a long-dead woman. No one to bury me. I had always been a shadow in Ksertoni, without past, present, or future. Only during pregnancy had I allowed myself a foolish, fleeting hope that life might change.
The folder held more: impersonal notes chronicling my changes during years in the basement. Nothing mentioned the transformation of my body's nature. The blood Vladimir delivered was clinically labeled "food," its "quality" and "frequency of intake" measured and recorded. The more I read, the less sense it made. Years of sterile experimentation, leaving only guesses about his true motives.
Dawn's first rays crept through the window. Time had run out. If answers waited here, they would have to remain for another day. I snatched both certificates and the note with the address, dressed hastily in clothing from a nearby room, and considered my exit. The main door was too risky; workers might arrive, a duty doctor might be lurking. My choice narrowed: the window of the men's shower room.
I perched on the sill, peering downward. Fear twisted inside me. What if I was insane? What if my earlier escape—doors flung off hinges, floors crossed in impossible leaps—was the delirium of a mind unhinged? But the thought of my son steadied me.
Eyes closed, I pushed off. Gravity betrayed nothing; the ground welcomed me without resistance. I was still myself. The thought was a small, profound relief. If this was real, then perhaps my son might still live.
I knew the city well enough. The address led to the outskirts, a private sector where a large, three-story log house stood alone, embraced by forest. Construction marks hinted at a stable in progress. Through the warm glow of a kitchen window, I caught sight of movement—but I did not dare approach. I crouched behind a thick bush, listening.
Sounds of domesticity reached me: a woman pacing, the stove humming, oil sizzling. Breakfast in motion. Familiar scents of dough, yet empty of appetite. Then came a voice that froze me:
"Nikita, come down! Food's on the table!"
The boy's name. My breath caught. I froze, heart hammering.
Rhythmic tapping signaled his descent. I scanned for a vantage point, but there was none. Reluctantly, I climbed a tall pine, effortless as if my renewed body were weightless clay, shaped entirely by its own will. From this perch, I could see him.
A teenage boy, light-haired, sat at the edge of a wooden table. Slowly, I traced his silhouette, each detail sharpening. Hand propping up his head, the other idly manipulating morsels on the plate—a sticky mess of caramel-colored fragments in syrup. Yet in his eyes, lips, and nose, I recognized myself. There was no doubt: this was my son.
The woman moved to him, concern etched into her features.
"Please, at least eat a little," she urged.
"I can't," he replied, voice flat, sorrow creeping in. "You know that."
"You should at least try," she coaxed.
"Even if I eat everything, it won't help. We've been through this before."
"Please, just try. If your stomach is always full, maybe someday…"
He leaned back, releasing a bitter laugh.
"I might as well eat rocks."
"Nikita…"
"But am I wrong? My stomach will always be full."
"But you can still taste it."
"Yes. I can taste it. But it changes nothing. Hunger only grows stronger with each day. No matter how delicious you cook, I cannot satisfy myself with human food alone. I need blood, Mom. When will you understand?"
She won't, I thought. She isn't your mother.
The conversation swelled with tension, and I felt a dark satisfaction. Not everything was perfect here—perhaps there was a place for me in his life.
The woman knelt, lips curving in gentle encouragement. Nikita sighed, lifted his fork reluctantly, and cut a small piece of food. Slowly, painfully, he ate. Halfway through, my dislike for her grew. Could she not see his struggle? Every bite a torment? My fists itched. I wanted to storm inside, to stop this silent cruelty, to rescue him from this blind kindness.