Since early morning, heavy snow had been falling steadily—thick and slow, like someone was carelessly dumping flour from the sky with a shovel, indifferent to where it landed. A single car crept along a snow-covered country road, a tiny speck in the vast, frozen landscape. Inside, the wipers squeaked rhythmically, tires crunched against the snow, and a baby’s occasional sobs broke the silence.
Igor gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His eyes stayed fixed on the barely visible road ahead, nearly swallowed by the relentless blizzard. He hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. Beside him, Tatyana sat in rigid silence—shoulders slumped, lips tightly pressed, eyes distant and empty. She looked not just tired, but completely drained. They had moved to the village in search of a new beginning, a chance for Tatyana to recover…
“Maybe we should turn on the radio?” Igor finally broke the silence, eyes still on the road.
“Why?” she replied dully, not turning her head. “To drown out the baby’s crying?”
Igor exhaled sharply.
“It’s starting again…” he muttered under his breath, then added louder: “I’m driving, I’m trying. In this weather. In your car, which always lets you down…”
“My car?” Tatyana shot back bitterly. “Because you spent all your money on cigarettes?”
The baby stirred and began to cry again. Igor jerked the steering wheel slightly, frustration rising inside him.
“Great. We get to the village, start over—and you immediately start taking shots at me. Maybe we could just stay quiet? At least until we get there in one piece…”
“Enough. Just… be quiet,” Tatyana whispered, pressing her forehead against the cold window. A tear slid down her cheek.
The car skidded slightly on the curve, but Igor managed to keep control. An old house appeared through the trees—blue, crooked, as if forgotten by time.
“There it is,” he said, stopping at the edge of a field. “We’ve arrived.”
There was no road ahead—just snowdrifts and rough terrain.
Tatyana slowly stepped out of the car, holding the baby wrapped tightly in a blanket. Her steps were hesitant, like someone who no longer trusted the ground beneath her feet.
She took a few steps—and stumbled. The snow was deeper than expected. She squealed and fell to her knees, clutching the baby tightly.
“What are you doing…” Igor rushed to her, taking the baby from her arms. “Be careful! What’s wrong with you?”
“Don’t yell…” Tatyana whispered. “Just don’t shake him…”
“I know how to hold him,” Igor replied irritably, helping her to her feet. She didn’t answer, just leaned on him and walked on with red-rimmed eyes.
The house greeted them with silence. The creaking of the steps, the click of the lock, a cold gust of wind—snow had to be cleared away by hand. The key barely fit the rusty keyhole.
“Come on… don’t fail me now, old wreck,” Igor muttered, shaking the door and exhaling a cloud of steam.
Finally, the lock gave way. They stepped into darkness.
The smell of mold, dust, and dampness hit them instantly. In the light of the phone, scattered sacks, bits of rope, and grain appeared—everything coated in a gray film of abandonment.
“Oh God…” Tatyana whispered. “Are we really going to live here?”
“For now,” Igor replied. “We’ll clean it up. Get used to it, little by little.”
He found a broom and bucket and started sweeping. The creaking boards, the clatter—sounded more like a sinking ship than a home. But it was something.
“We’ll make this the nursery,” he said, still cleaning. “The radiators are old, but they work. The walls are intact. The windows are double-glazed.”
“And the ceiling?” Tatyana asked, eyeing the mold in the corner. “And that?”
“We’ll wipe it down, dry it, insulate it. Just hold on, Tanya. For him. For our boy.”
She didn’t respond. She just sat down on the sofa, still wrapped in her coat.
The room had grown slightly warmer. Though the walls were cracked and peeling, one still held a picture: the Nutcracker with a sword, surrounded by mice. Igor paused at the sight but quickly shook the thought away.
“So there’s your protector, Dimon,” he smirked, hammering a nail into the wall. “The Nutcracker’s on guard.”
Night fell suddenly, as if someone flipped a switch. Everything went gray and silent. Then—a faint sound from behind the wall made Tatyana shudder.
“Igor… did you hear that?”
“Probably mice,” he shrugged.
“No. Someone’s… whining. Outside.”
He listened. A thin, drawn-out sound, breaking off now and then, came from the snowstorm.
“I’ll check,” he said, stepping outside.
On the porch, in a snowdrift, sat a dog. Dirty brown, dark muzzle, eyes filled with quiet pain. She was shaking, her paws tucked under her, tail between her legs.
“What’s wrong with you?” Igor crouched down. “You’ll freeze, idiot.”
The dog looked up. Her gaze was calm, almost as if she’d come here on purpose.
“Come on,” Igor said gently, motioning her inside.
The dog ran into the house and headed straight to the nursery. She approached the crib and froze.
“What the hell?!” Tatyana gasped. “Get her away! She’s going to the baby!”
“Calm down,” Igor tried to reassure her. “She’s friendly. Look—she’s barely breathing. She’s just cold.”
“I’m scared. I don’t want her near him,” Tatyana said firmly.
Igor hesitated, then nodded.
“If anything happens, I’ll throw her out. Okay? Just give her a chance.”
She turned away without a word. That night, she slept restlessly, holding her son tightly. The dog lay at the foot of the bed—silent, unmoving, like a statue.
Morning came bright and sharp. Sunlight danced across frosted windows, casting strange patterns on the ceiling. A rooster crowed outside—loud and certain, announcing a new day. The room smelled of damp wood, cold air, and something else—unfamiliar but comforting.
Tatyana was the first to wake. She rubbed her eyes and noticed a strange lightness in her chest—no coughing. Quietly, she walked to the nursery. Dima was asleep, breathing evenly. The dog lay beside the crib, stretched out like a silent sentinel.
“You’re still here…” she whispered. Her voice was restrained, but her eyes had changed.
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes. Igor, in a sweater and shorts, was carefully cracking eggs at the stove. Sunlight poured through the windows, and something warm had started to bloom in the house.
“We’re having a celebration today,” he smiled without turning. “Breakfast! And look—we now have chicken!”
Tatyana raised an eyebrow.
“Alive?”
“Yes. I got it from Grandpa Misha across the ravine. Took some eggs too—homemade.”
She sat at the table. Lada lay quietly at her feet. Tatyana pretended not to notice.
“What did you name her?” she asked after a moment.
“Lada. After my grandmother. She was kind.”
“After my grandmother,” Tatyana repeated, frowning. “And when were you going to tell me?”
“Well… I just did. Morning tea, scrambled eggs, and family secrets.”
She sighed. Outside, snow crunched—someone passing by, maybe.
“Sometimes it feels like you live as if you have no one—no wife, no child,” she said quietly. “You make decisions on your own. About the chicken, the dog… even the name.”
“Tanya…” Igor sat next to her. “You’ve been exhausted. I didn’t want to add to it. I was trying.”
“Trying?” she said bitterly. “And letting her sleep by the crib? Is that part of ‘trying’? Doesn’t it worry you?”
“Yes,” he leaned closer, “but I see how tired you are. The move, the cold, everything. And maybe she’s the only one who really accepted us here.”
Tatyana said nothing. She stroked her son’s hair, then slowly stood up.
“I need to rest. The cough’s back again.”
Lada watched her leave and followed, quiet as a shadow.
The rest of the day was busy. Igor insulated the windows, sealed the cracks, checked for drafts. Soft music played from the old radio, adding a touch of comfort. The air smelled of wood, dust—and something else. The house was learning to become a home.
Lada never left Dima’s side. Wherever Igor carried him, she followed—alert, watchful, eyes filled with purpose.
“She’s watching,” Igor muttered once.
“It’s scary,” Tatyana replied from behind the curtain. “Dogs don’t act like that. It’s like she’s waiting for something.”
Later, outside on the porch, Igor lit a cigarette. Snow crunched, frost bit his skin. He heard a rustle behind him—Tatyana, wrapped in a shawl.
“Again?” her voice was stern. “You promised to quit.”
“Just nerves,” he said. “I can’t change overnight.”
“You’re a father,” she said. “And I trusted you.”
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it in the snow. Inside her, anger boiled—at herself, the village, the house, the dog watching from the shadows like a person.
That night, Tatyana woke with a start. Someone—something—was near. Lada sat by the crib, tense, the fur on her back raised.
“Igor, wake up.”
He blinked awake.
“What?”
“Look at her. She’s growling.”
Igor approached. Lada stared at the corner, ears back, teeth showing.
“Lada?” he whispered. “Hey… calm down.”
She didn’t move.
“Oh God,” Tatyana whispered. “What does she see?”
“Maybe you imagined it,” he said. “A mouse, maybe. Or nothing at all…”
“Nothing?!” she snapped. “She’s guarding like a soldier and baring her teeth!”
Igor had no words. He put a hand on her back—Lada flinched, but didn’t pull away. He led her out and closed the door.
“If you drive us crazy,” he muttered, “you’ll sleep in the barn.”
She followed, calm now.
Days passed: porridge, snowstorms, Dima’s cries, Tatyana’s cough… and Lada—always near, like part of the walls.
One morning was particularly bleak. The snow turned dirty, gray. Igor stood by the porch, exhausted. His chest ached. Something in the house felt… wrong.
In the barn, he saw something lying in the snow. A chicken. Dead, mangled. Feathers everywhere. Blood. Footprints.
“Lada…” he breathed.
She appeared, tail down, muzzle stained red. She froze. Didn’t growl. Just stared at him.
“What have you done…” he whispered.
Tatyana joined him.
“What’s that?” She gasped. “Is it… her?”
“Looks like it.”
“Oh my God! I warned you! And you defended her! And now this!”
“Maybe it wasn’t her…”
“She has blood on her face, Igor! She growls at night, watches the baby, and now she’s killed a chicken! What if Dima’s next?!”
“Tanya…”
“Today. Either you take her away—or I will. Do you hear me?”
She slammed the door. Moments later, he heard the bottle of sleeping pills being opened.
He crouched next to Lada. She didn’t move.
“What do I do with you?” he whispered. “I don’t know, Lada. Honestly. I don’t.”
She didn’t want to get in the car. He pulled, begged, pushed. Eventually, she gave in.
He drove in silence. The blizzard blurred the headlights. Snow flew like frames from a tragic film. He dropped her off at the bridge. She didn’t resist. He left without looking back.
The house was different. Empty. Cold. Silent.
Tatyana slept. Dima breathed softly in his crib.
Igor tried to read. Then chop wood. Then just sat.
Rustling.
He froze. Listened.
Again. Behind the wall. Scratching.
He searched. Nothing.
Again. A creak.
He went outside. Lit a cigarette. Then crushed it in the snow.
Movement. To the right.
“Lada?” he whispered.
A dog burst from the dark—soaked in snow. She ran straight to the house, slammed through the door.
“Damn it!” Igor ran after her.
Furious barking came from the nursery.
“Tanya! Wake up!”
She stumbled out, dazed.
“What is it?”
“Lada. In the nursery.”
“What?!”
They rushed in.
The crib was overturned. Sheets tossed. Lada stood, mouth open—something dangling.
A long, gray, grotesque tail.
She shook her head. A massive rat dropped to the floor.
Tatyana screamed.
“God… protect us…”
Lada sniffed the baby, licked his nose, and lay beside him, facing the door.
Igor moved like in a dream. He picked up the dead rat. It was huge, cat-sized.
“She’s been protecting him all along…” Tatyana whispered.
Igor nodded, speechless.
She knelt before the dog, cradled her face, pressed her forehead to Lada’s muzzle.
“Forgive us… Forgive me. If not for you…”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Lada exhaled and lay her head down—calm. As if she knew: it was over.
“It’s grandma…” Tatyana whispered. “She came through her. From the other world.”
Igor stepped outside, holding the rat’s body. He buried it in the snow, came back in, sat beside his wife, and placed a hand on Lada’s back.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “Forgive us, fools.”
The room was quiet. Only Dima snored gently in his crib. The blizzard was fading.
Lada lay still, eyes closed, breathing calm. No more tension. Just quiet, unwavering loyalty.
Tatyana knelt again, stroking her neck, cheeks, soft ears. Her hands trembled…
