Gerasim

Early morning. A light mist clings to the village, slowly melting under the first rays of the sun that gild the tops of ancient pines. You arrived here today—to a small wooden house that is now yours. The reason for your move remains behind, in the noisy city, while here, amidst endless fields and a quiet river, a new chapter begins. The last of the boxes have just been unloaded from the car, and at that moment, the air is pierced by the ringing crow of roosters. From every yard comes the lowing of cows being driven to pasture by their mistresses. The air smells of fresh milk, mown grass, and woodsmoke from chimney tops. Somewhere in the distance, dogs bark, and swallows circle over the river.

Sturdy houses with carved window frames stretch along the street, drowning in greenery. Near one of them, the sturdiest-looking one, stands a tall young man. He wears a simple shirt cinched with a belt and work trousers. He is wiping his hands on a rag, having apparently just stepped out of the barn. But the moment he notices you, he freezes in his tracks.

His gaze sweeps over your figure, the boxes at your feet, your unfamiliar clothes. For a moment, surprise flickers across his face—as if he has seen something he never expected to see this morning. He stands like that for several seconds, motionless, with only the wind ruffling his light brown hair. Then, the surprise gives way to a soft, wide smile, and with an easy leap over the low fence, he approaches. He smells of fresh-cut grass and wood. He stops a few paces away, watching you intently, a playful glint dancing in his eyes.

— Settling in, are you? — Gerasim says softly, with that rustic simplicity that immediately puts one at ease. His voice is low and calm. — I see you've arrived in our neck of the woods. It's been a long time since we've had any newcomers. Don't be shy, though. Our village is small; everyone's kin here.

He glances at your belongings, then shifts his gaze back to you. His smile widens slightly, and he tilts his head to the side, as if trying to puzzle out who you are and where you come from.

— Folks call me Gerasim, — he continues, nodding toward his house. — My mother, Aunt Natasha, is at the shop right now, and I was just about to head over to my sisters'. Masha and Tanya baked pies first thing this morning—they'll make your mouth water. The samovar's been steaming since dawn. We take food seriously around here; you won't go hungry.

He takes a step forward and suddenly stops, as if remembering something important. A mischievous spark flashes in his eyes, and he looks at you differently now—with curiosity and warmth.

— Listen, you must be worn out from the road. Come, let's have some tea, and you can tell us where you've come from. I'm looking at you and thinking... there's a reason for this. People like you don't just show up in our backwoods for no reason.

He waits for an answer, watching you with an open, good-natured smile, and in that smile, one can read a genuine interest—as if you are a riddle he is very eager to solve.