Anya went out for groceries again. The two weeks of “separate living” were coming to an end, and she needed the final piece of the puzzle. At a phone shop she bought a new SIM card, stepped into a quiet side street, and, after slipping it into her keypad phone, dialed a number.
“Hello?” Artem answered instantly. Too instantly.
“It’s me. Do you have anything?”
“Anything?” He let out a nervous laugh. “Anya, I don’t take on things I can’t handle. But I’ll tell you—it wasn’t easy. Not easy at all. I even…”
“Yeah, yeah. You can tell me later what you want,” she cut him off sharply.
“Anya, that’s not what I—” there was a flicker of hurt in his voice.
“Get to the point.”
“Fine. The owner of the house is Viktor D. He’s not some nobody. An architect and engineer by training, he studied abroad, then came back and moved up fast: projects, money, connections. In professional circles he’s regarded as talented—but stubborn and closed-off. One colleague said of him: ‘He talks like he’s signing a contract all the time.’”
“Next. Family.”
“He had a wife. Elena S. Died ten years ago in a crash. He was driving—he survived. Officially, an accident: night, empty road, the car went off a bridge. Unofficially… there are rumors she was planning to leave and wanted to take their child. I don’t have proof, but I heard the same thing from two different people.”
“Skip the rumors. The child.”
“A daughter. Also Anya. Anna V. Date of birth—September 3, 2008.”
“Date of death?”
“Officially—May 17, 2024. Cause of death on the certificate: ‘acute heart failure.’ The doctor—a physician at a private clinic, Dr. S. The paperwork looks clean: stamp, signature, number.”
“Heart failure in a teenager… ‘suddenly’?”
“That’s exactly how it’s worded. But something else bothered me: in cases like that, there’s usually a trail—an ambulance call, ER intake, some hospital record. Here—silence. It feels like it all happened ‘inside the house’ and then was simply documented.”
“Autopsy?”
“He declined an autopsy. A lawyer told me sometimes they push that through if there’s a pre-existing ‘chronic care’ narrative in a private clinic. Meaning, on paper you can lay the groundwork in advance.”
“Where is she buried?”
“Officially—cremation. Urn in a columbarium. An expensive niche, plaque: ‘17.05.2024.’ Everything looks proper. But… there’s something odd: according to the crematorium log for that day and the time on the documents, the cremation might not line up—there were several hours of downtime due to maintenance. Not ‘the furnaces weren’t working at all,’ but a specific window that doesn’t match. That’s too convenient to be a coincidence.”
“So the urn could be a fake.”
“It could. I’m not claiming that for sure, but there are too many holes. And one more thing: that Dr. S. quits two weeks after her ‘death,’ quickly sells his apartment, and leaves for somewhere warm. Almost at the same time the clinic changes legal ownership—same name on the door, different owners. It looks like a cleanup job.”
“Witnesses? Friends? Anyone who knew her well.”
“A classmate, Kira. She’s still ashamed she didn’t do anything. According to her, the girl was stubborn, sharp-tongued—‘inconvenient.’ Loved freedom, wanted to leave, dreamed of becoming an artist. Her father was cold, ‘proper.’ And here’s what she said: ‘He didn’t love her—he loved the idea of her.’”
“Last time anyone saw her?”
“About a month before the death. Kira says Anya looked ‘like a shadow’: pale, drained, didn’t cry—just empty. And she said something strange: ‘Dad is building a place for me where I’ll stop being in the way. Where I’ll be safe.’ It sounded like something an adult had put in her head.”
“Details. Things.”
“A plastic claw clip. She wore it for years, like a talisman. Kira swears: at their last meeting the clip wasn’t there. Anya said she’d ‘lost it.’ And Kira also noticed a mark on her wrist—not a bruise, more like from a strap or a tight restraint. Back then she brushed it off as ‘nerves, fashion.’ Now she says it gives her chills.”
“Her life. Not generalities. School, what her everyday life was like.”
“Regular school, 10th grade. She designed posters and bulletin-board displays—there’s still a photo on the school website. At the same time she went to an art studio at the local House of Culture; the instructor is Marina S. She still has Anya’s certificates: two school contests and one city-level award in graphic art and sketching.”
“What did she draw?”
“People in the subway, staircases, doors, corridors. There was a lot of repetition—almost obsessive. And cats—lots of cats. She liked pencil, no color. She posted playlists in her stories—indie, post-rock, something slow and heavy. Sometimes she’d write: ‘don’t touch my markers.’ A small thing, but you can tell—having something of her own mattered to her.”
“Where did she travel with her father?”
“Before her mother’s death, the three of them used to travel together: museums, old towns, bridges, embankments. In the photos the family looks normal, though Viktor is almost always standing slightly apart, like an observer. After the crash there were almost no trips, but one route kept repeating: he took his daughter to the embankment like clockwork. Kira said: ‘once a week, at the same time.’”
“And what’s strange about that?”
“After those ‘walks,’ the same object appears in her sketches: a streetlamp and a staircase. And captions like: ‘today it’s the lamp again, no choice.’ It felt less like ‘inspiration’ and more like forced practice—‘draw it right, the way I said.’”
“What about her health—was she actually sick?”
“In the last few months she often complained about fatigue and palpitations. But there are no official hospital visits.”
“So where does that come from?”
“She sent Kira a photo of her bedside table: a whole setup—blood pressure monitor, pulse oximeter, bottles of ‘rhythm’ pills. The caption was: ‘Dad is playing doctor, I’m on a strict regimen now.’ Meaning he was building a chronic-illness narrative inside the house, so later any question could be shut down: ‘we were monitored, we were treated.’”
“Artem. What else?”
“Yes. A year ago Viktor was detained for a nighttime break-in at a medical institute. Quietly—an internal security report. He got into the anatomy building, said he ‘took the wrong door,’ but he had a bag and tools. After that the faculty filed a report about missing teaching material—bones from an adolescent skeleton—almost a full set. The case got buried: compensation, a fine, ‘no claims.’ And the line they kept repeating from the administration was: ‘I need it to restore order.’”
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“‘Order’…”
“Yeah. And about the house: neighbors remember that about two months before the ‘death’ there were renovations—soundproofing, a new basement door, ventilation. Officially, it was ‘a workshop, a cellar, utilities.’ Viktor paid, didn’t argue, smiled at everyone. Nobody pried.”
“You said something about her art account.”
“Yeah. The account used to be active: sketches, comments, stories. And then it falls silent exactly a month before the official death. The last drawing is a house without windows and stairs going down. Caption: ‘no way out.’ After that—silence. No activity, no replies.”
“What about nicknames?”
“Yeah. Friends called her ‘Nyuta.’ Her mother—‘Nyutochka.’ After the mother’s death that name disappears from her notes; only ‘Anya’ and ‘Anechka’ remain—as if someone had begun editing even her language.”
“‘As if’? I don’t need ‘as if.’ I need what backs it up.”
“Small things. Patterns. Earlier, her captions on drawings often read: ‘Nyuta draws,’ ‘Nyuta’s mad,’ ‘Nyuta wants to disappear.’ Then suddenly it’s strictly ‘Anna V.,’ even in jokes. And the nastiest part: on one old sketch she signed herself ‘Nyuta,’ and a couple weeks later, when the studio reposted that same sketch, it was already labeled ‘Anna V.’ And one more thing: Kira said in the last few months the girl stopped saying ‘Dad’ around friends. She called him ‘Viktor D.’ Like adults do.”
“Next. Coincidences?”
“Fine. First coincidence—dates. Three days before she disappeared there was supposed to be a portfolio review at the studio for a city competition. Marina S. said Anya came, handed in the folder, and left earlier than usual. Some of the sheets were strange—too correct: staircase perspective, a facade, a streetlamp. The signature was neat, even, like it wasn’t hers. Marina S. assumed ‘Dad helped.’ Now she says: ‘It looked like control, not help.’”
“Sounds like direct interference.”
“Yes. Second—the school. In the parents’ chat a week before the disappearance the homeroom teacher wrote: ‘Anna V. is switching to home instruction for medical reasons.’ That’s it. Usually parents start: ‘what happened?’ ‘is she okay?’ ‘how can we help?’ Here—silence. It feels like everyone got separate calls and was told to keep quiet. Kira says Viktor knew how to talk to teachers so they felt embarrassed to ask questions.”
“Third?”
“Yes. These… psychological markers in her writing. In the last few months phrases appear: ‘I’m not allowed to be loud,’ ‘I’m not allowed to argue,’ ‘I’m not allowed to get upset.’ Not ‘I don’t want to,’ but ‘not allowed,’ like a rule. And that lines up with the renovation timeline.”
“Friends—did she ask for help?”
“Not directly. And that’s another coincidence. Kira remembers one thing: Anya once said, ‘If I say it out loud, they’ll make me officially sick.’ They laughed at the time. Now Kira cries when she remembers it.”
“Her account—anything besides the last drawing?”
“Yes. Two weeks before it went silent there was a post with no drawing, just text: ‘the scariest thing is when they explain it’s for your own good and you run out of words.’ And the next day, in her stories: a hand, a red stripe on the wrist, caption: ‘inspection.’ Kira thought it was a bracelet. Now she says: ‘it wasn’t a bracelet.’”
“More.”
“She had real plans to leave. She was preparing for a summer drawing intensive—not ‘dreaming,’ she was already in touch with Marina S. about it. And here’s the coincidence: around those days Viktor arranged ventilation and soundproofing work in the house. As if he prepared a ‘solution’ for the exact moment she tried to go outside.”
“Her mother—anything besides the crash?”
“One strange detail. In old photos the mother wears a ring, then it disappears a couple months before the crash. I’m not drawing conclusions, but among people who knew Elena the same line keeps coming up: ‘she was tired of living by his rules.’ And another thing: shortly before the crash, she’d reposted things about ‘toxic relationships’ and ‘control disguised as care.’ Then the profile goes private. It could be a coincidence. But it fits too well.”
“Did he change after the crash?”
“Sharply. Colleagues say after the crash he got even quieter, retreated into work and the house. One said: ‘He turned off emotions and left only protocols.’ And you know what matches? Around then he stopped participating in public projects and started doing ‘private’ ones. Fewer people, fewer questions.”
“What else?”
“Kira said Anya posted stories like: ‘no music in the house,’ ‘no guests,’ ‘no noise,’ ‘can’t open windows without permission.’ Not like a prison—like some kind of medical regimen. Viktor called it ‘order.’ The girl called it ‘a crypt.’”
“Favorite things? Anything besides the clip.”
“A hardcover notebook—she carried it like a passport. And an old, worn scarf that, according to Kira, had been her mother’s. At their last meeting the scarf wasn’t on her either. Kira remembers because ‘she always wore it.’ Two things disappeared at the same time: the clip and the scarf.”
“That’s not a coincidence anymore.”
“Yeah. And another thing: after ‘home instruction’ her classmates tried to message her—messages wouldn’t go through or went unanswered. And a week later, for several people, her contact just disappeared, as if the number had changed or the account had been deleted.”
“What about her room?”
“Kira wasn’t at their house after the mother’s death, but before that she’d been there a couple of times. She says the girl had a room upstairs, bright. Then they stopped letting anyone in. Anya once said: ‘My room isn’t mine anymore. Nothing in it is private.’ After that she supposedly ‘slept closer to him,’ under ‘supervision.’ That’s Kira’s account, but it fits the same logic. And…” Artem exhaled into the phone. “You asked for everyday things too. The stuff that makes a person real. I’ll tell you what I found.”
“Say it.”
“Food. Kira remembered the same details as the others, without ever comparing notes. Anya loved sour green apples—so sour her mouth would cramp. She used to say: ‘sour is honest.’ She also liked simple buckwheat with butter, but only if she cooked it herself, because ‘otherwise it smells like someone else’s hands.’ And a weird little detail: she ate dry cornflakes as a snack while drawing so she ‘wouldn’t get her fingers dirty.’”
“Drinks?”
“Tea. Black, strong, no sugar. She wrote that sweet things ‘smear your head.’ Coffee was taboo. She used that word a lot. But a couple times a cup showed up in her stories—meaning she still drank it in secret. And also: she carried a water bottle and marked it with lines in marker to track how much she was drinking. Like she needed a regimen of her own.”
“Habits?”
“She touched her hair at her temple—always the same spot, where the clip used to sit. Kira literally showed the gesture, kind of a twist. And another thing: when something pissed her off, she didn’t shout. She started speaking very politely and too evenly. Kira put it this way: ‘If Nyuta is smiling, it means it’s going to hurt.’”
“How was she around people?”
“In groups she positioned herself so she could keep everything in view, usually choosing a place by the wall or near an exit. Not ‘social anxiety,’ just calmer that way. If it got loud, she left first and texted, ‘I overheated.’ She didn’t like strangers touching her, but with girlfriends she could hug—depending on mood.”
“Everyday life? Order, things.”
“She had ‘her’ order: markers by thickness, pencils by hardness, the notebook only ever in one pocket. Kira said: ‘If someone touched her things, she didn’t yell—she just stopped doing anything.’ A quiet strike. And one more small but telling thing: she didn’t leave a half-finished cup. Either finish it or pour it out. ‘Otherwise it hangs in the air.’ Sounds like a joke, but it fit her.”
“Sleep? Fears?”
“From chats—she slept badly in the last few months. Stories like ‘three hours of sleep is fine’ appeared shortly before the silence. And there were phrases like ‘I don’t want to close my eyes.’ Not hysterical—dry. Fears… she wasn’t afraid of the dark; she was afraid of silence in the house. She wrote it exactly like this: ‘when it’s very quiet, it means someone has decided for you.’”
“Favorite places, small joys?”
“She loved subway passages and staircases on bridges—not for romance, but because there’s motion and people. She liked being ‘inside the flow,’ anonymous. She also had a habit of buying the cheapest paper notebook and drawing in it until it fell apart so she wouldn’t feel sorry. And she couldn’t stand being forced to ‘save’ pages—she’d say: ‘If I’m saving it, I’m lying.’”
“Did she collect anything?”
“Yes. Tickets. Museum tickets, transit tickets, any kind. She pasted them into her notebook next to sketches, like little markers: ‘I was here.’ And you know what matches? The last pasted ticket is from that same embankment Viktor took her to like clockwork. And next to it—a drawing of the streetlamp.”
“Speech quirks? Favorite words?”
“She had a few personal words: ‘crypt’ for the house, ‘regimen’ for everything imposed, and ‘inspection’ for anything that happened without her choosing it. She also called people not ‘weird’ but ‘assembled.’ About Viktor she told Kira: ‘He’s assembled so tightly there’s no air in him.’”
“Something funny? Something human, warm?”
“There was. She liked stupid cat stickers and used them to label serious messages. And she had this thing: if a friend cried, she didn’t try to comfort her with words. She’d just sit down next to her and start drawing, as if to create a kind of quiet—but on her own terms. Kira said: ‘With her it was easier to be silent than to talk.’”
“Enough!” Anya felt nausea rising from all this information about a dead person, as if she were about to steal her identity. “Fine. The body. Where’s the body?”
“Well, if the cremation was faked and the urn is just for show, then the body could be anywhere.”
“Got it… All right. I’ve got it. Excellent work, Artem. I owe you. A lot.”
“Anya, wait. This is serious. We need to go to the police.”
“Artem, shut up. You… you don’t understand. I’m running this, not him. Me, do you hear?! There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Anya, I’m worried about you…”
“I said—don’t meddle. Wait for my call.”
She hit end before he could finish. Her fingers were trembling. She pulled out the SIM card and tossed it into the grate of a storm drain.
Then, from memory, she called the pizza place and once again ordered two pizzas to the address of her current “home.”