The evening was unusually warm. Viktor carried Anya out into the garden and set her on the bench there, covering her legs with the same soft blanket. The air was thick with the dense, almost intoxicating scent of night-blooming flowers.
“Anya, I forgot the oven timer in the kitchen,” he said, adjusting the edge of the blanket. “I just need to step inside for ten minutes. Can you sit here alone?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered quietly, not taking her eyes off the lilac bush. “I’ll wait.”
Viktor got up slowly. He did something he had never done: he didn’t just leave the door to the house cracked—he left the garden gate unlatched. More than that: he left it in plain view, slightly ajar, so that through the bars she could see a strip of ordinary street, a glimpse of that other life.
He went inside. The garden’s silence closed over Anya.
She looked at the gate. But in her mind it no longer meant a way out. It was just a geometric shape, part of the fence, a flaw in the horizon line.
Something is moving out there. Probably the wind. Or a car. What a strange, noisy place.
A small beetle is sitting on a lilac leaf. Its back is emerald-green. It crawls upward, gripping the tiny hairs with its legs. If it falls, will it break? No. It has wings. But it doesn’t fly away. It’s fine here, on this leaf. There is light and moisture here.
Why is Viktor taking so long? Something clicked in the house. Maybe he dropped a spoon? I get scared when he’s gone too long. The garden becomes too huge when I’m alone. The sky becomes too deep. It presses on my shoulders.
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The gate creaked in the breeze. It’s so jarring. It ruins the harmony of this place. Good—Viktor will close it soon. Without the bolt, the garden feels… leaky. As if all the warmth could drain out.
The beetle reached the edge. It stopped. I stopped too. We’re both waiting for the Gardener to come back. Without him, we’re just dots against green. I want him to come back already. I want the basement again—walls closer, easier to understand. No terrifying vastness beyond the bars.
Viktor came back fifteen minutes later. He watched her carefully from the kitchen window before he came out. Anya didn’t even move. She was still looking at the lilac leaf; her face was serene and empty. Not a single attempt—no twitch in the direction of the exit.
Viktor walked to the gate and, with a deliberate clank, slid the bolt shut.
Anya visibly relaxed. Her shoulders dropped, as if an invisible weight had been lifted off them.
“Sorry. I took longer than I meant to,” he said, sitting down beside her. “The gate was open, the draft…”
“Thank you for closing it.” She gave him a grateful look. “It’s… better this way. Quieter.”
Viktor took her hand. His voice trembled with triumph.
“Well done, Anya. You really are getting better. You’re starting to understand the value of this place.”
“This is my home, Viktor. I have no other home.” Her voice stayed calm. “Out there… there’s only noise. I don’t want to go there.”
Hidden-volume note:
Today he left the gate open. Why? I don’t understand. It felt horribly wrong to see it left open like that, forgotten. What if someone comes in here? Would I be tainted by a stranger’s gaze? How would he see me then? I’m afraid of that.
A thought about freedom flickered somewhere in the background. But freedom isn’t the absence of walls. Freedom is not having to choose. This garden was chosen once—when the noose was placed around my neck, and Viktor pulled me back from it. Since then, the choice has been made.
Out there—in that mythical freedom—I’m a ‘problem,’ a ‘victim.’ Here—I am of value.
The bolt on the gate isn’t the sound of prison. It’s the sound of peace.