“What did you come barging in for, you cow? We didn’t invite you. You’re not part of the family, so get out!” the mother-in-law snapped, having gathered with the relatives for Easter at her daughter-in-law’s dacha. And ten minutes later, everyone was running off, slippers flying.

Sunbeams slid across the light wallpaper, glinting off the crystal vase on the coffee table. Elena sat in an armchair, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, watching the play of light. Saturday morning was the only time in the week she could allow herself such a luxury—just sitting and staring out the window, thinking of nothing. In truth, it was an illusion. As always, dozens of thoughts were spinning in her head—about work, meetings, plans for the weekend. The three-room apartment in a new residential complex was her and Viktor’s pride.

Four years ago they had taken out a 15-year mortgage, and now a large part of their income went to the monthly payment. Elena didn’t regret it. A spacious kitchen, a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a bedroom with a walk-in closet, and a study they had fitted out for her interior-design studio—worth every effort and expense. “Vitya, have you seen my tablet?” Elena called out, remembering she needed to finish a sketch for a client. Muffled mumbling came from the study, and then Viktor himself appeared—tall, with tousled fair hair and glasses slipping down his nose.

At thirty-six he still looked like a student, especially when he got absorbed in work and forgot to shave. “Your tablet?” he repeated absently. “I think you left it on the kitchen table last night when we were having dinner.” Elena nodded gratefully and headed to the kitchen. The tablet was indeed where she’d left it, under a stack of interior-design magazines. Opening the project file, she dove into a world of lines and color. Elena Sergeyevna Vorobyova, née Kovalyova, was a well-known interior designer in certain circles.

After graduating from the architecture institute, she hadn’t gone to work for a big firm like many of her classmates; she decided to take a risk and open her own studio. The first two years were incredibly hard—almost no commissions. She had to take side jobs to pay rent on a tiny office. But gradually, thanks to word of mouth and a few lucky projects for prominent people in the city, things took off. Now she had a steady stream of clients, two assistants, and the reputation of a specialist who could bring the boldest ideas to life.

Elena worked a lot, sometimes to the point of exhaustion, but the results always brought satisfaction. Every completed project was a small victory—a proof she’d chosen the right path. Viktor worked a lot too. A software engineer at a major IT company, he often stayed late, and sometimes even slept at the office when a project was nearing completion. But he and Elena always found time for each other: Saturday breakfasts, Sunday walks in the park—rare, and thus even more precious—short trips together. Those moments held their marriage together and gave them strength to keep going. “I thought I’d go see my parents today,” Viktor said, pouring himself coffee. “Are you coming?” Elena looked up from the tablet and hesitated for a moment. Her mother-in-law, Valentina Sergeyevna, was the one cloud in the clear sky of their family life.

From the first meeting there had been an invisible but palpable line of estrangement between them. “I’ve got a client meeting at two,” Elena answered. “I’m afraid I won’t make it.” “Len, you know how upset Mom gets when you don’t come.” There was a pleading note in Viktor’s voice. “Does she?” Elena thought. More likely, Valentina felt relieved when her daughter-in-law didn’t show up—free to talk about her behind her back, lament that her son had married a careerist, and drop hints that it was high time to think about children instead of ‘those designs.’ “Send her my regards and apologies,” Elena replied diplomatically.

“I’ll definitely come next time.” Viktor sighed but didn’t insist. In five years of marriage he’d grown used to the tension between his mother and wife and had learned to navigate between the two women he loved. A retired Russian-language and literature teacher, Valentina Sergeyevna had devoted herself to three things—growing flowers on her balcony, singing in a church choir, and, of course, tending to her only son. Even after Viktor married, she never stopped trying to run his life, dispensing advice on every occasion and criticizing any decision made without her input. Elena remembered their first meeting.

Valentina had given her an appraising look and immediately started asking about her family, education, and plans for the future. When Elena mentioned she was an interior designer and dreamed of her own studio, her mother-in-law pursed her lips and uttered a phrase that set the tone for the years to come: a young woman, she said, should be thinking about starting a family and having children, not chasing ephemeral career achievements. Five years had passed and their relationship hadn’t improved. Valentina never missed a chance to put her daughter-in-law in her place: a hint that the apartment was dusty, a complaint about modern women who couldn’t cook, or a gift of a book with the telling title “How to Become the Ideal Wife.” Elena tried to ignore it and stay polite. In the end, this was the mother of the man she loved, and for Viktor’s sake she was ready to endure these little stings. But sometimes, like today, she preferred to avoid meetings altogether. When Viktor left, Elena returned to work.

She needed to finish a bedroom design for a young couple and had promised to show it today. Work swallowed her whole and she didn’t notice time fly. The phone rang, pulling her out of her creative trance. On the screen: Grandma—Sofya Andreyevna Kovalyova. “Hi, Grandma! How are you feeling?” Elena always worried about her eighty-year-old grandmother’s health. “Hello, my dear!” Sofya’s voice sounded brisk. “I’m fine. I’m calling to remind you I’m expecting you for tea tomorrow. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” “Of course not. I’ll be there at three.” “Good. I’ve got something for you. An important talk.” Elena heard a note of excitement unusual for her grandmother. “Has something happened?” she asked, alarmed. “No, no, everything’s fine. We just need to discuss something. See you tomorrow, darling.”

Elena hung up and fell into thought. After her parents, Grandma was the closest person in her life. As a child, Elena often spent time at her dacha in a picturesque settlement an hour from the city. There, among ancient pines and sprawling apple trees, she first felt the pull of creativity—sketching landscapes, imagining how to turn an old shed into a summer veranda, dreaming of a house she would design herself. Sofya supported all her granddaughter’s endeavors. When Elena’s parents doubted her choice of profession—interior designer wasn’t “serious”—Grandma took her side. “The girl has talent. Don’t stand in her way,” she said—and that settled it. Looking at her, it was hard to believe she was eighty: slim, always elegantly dressed, with lively eyes and a keen mind. She still led an active life—worked in the garden, read new books, followed the arts.

In her youth Sofya was a restorer at the city’s art museum. Her talent and infinite patience brought dozens of paintings back to life—works that had seemed hopelessly ruined by time. But her greatest feat, still remembered in museum circles, was saving a group of canvases during the flood of 1967. After weeks of rain, the river that ran through the city burst its banks. The water rose so fast many didn’t manage to evacuate. The museum, housed in an old mansion on the embankment, was in the flood zone. Most exhibits were carried out in time, but several valuable paintings remained in the basement storage. Young Sofya, risking her life, waded into the flooded basement and carried out five canvases by nineteenth-century Russian artists. People said that when she emerged from the building the water was up to her chest, and she held the paintings above her head, trying not to soak them. After that, her career took off. She became the museum’s chief restorer, went on internships abroad several times, and took part in international cultural-heritage projects.

Even after retiring, she didn’t leave the profession—consulting young specialists and writing for professional journals. Elena was proud of her grandmother and often thought her own vocation—creating beautiful interiors—was a legacy of Sofya’s work, just in a different form. Both worked with space, color, composition: one restored what others had created, the other created anew. Shaking her head, Elena returned to work. She had to finish before the client meeting—and then get ready to see Grandma. The meeting went well. The young couple were thrilled with her ideas, and Elena left their apartment with a sense of accomplishment and a deposit in hand. On the way home she stopped at the supermarket for weekend groceries and a little something for Grandma. Viktor was waiting at home, back from his parents’.

“How was the visit?” Elena asked as she unpacked. “Fine,” he said, helping her. “Dad’s tinkering with his motorcycle. And Mom… well, you know Mom.” “What was it this time?” Elena braced for another round of criticism. “She asked when we’re finally going to think about children. Says all her friends have long been looking after grandchildren, and she’s still waiting.” Elena sighed. The topic of children was a sore one. They wanted a child, but had decided to wait a bit—pay off at least half the mortgage and get steadier financially. Valentina considered that nonsense and never missed a chance to remind Elena of her ticking biological clock. “You know,” Viktor said thoughtfully, slicing bread, “sometimes I think Mom’s just afraid of being alone. Dad spends all day in the garage, I got married and moved out. She lacks attention and care.” “Maybe,” Elena agreed, though she thought otherwise. In her opinion, Valentina simply couldn’t accept that her son had grown up and lived his own life. “I’m going to Grandma’s tomorrow,” she changed the subject. “She called—wants to talk.” “Something serious?” “I don’t know.” Her voice was agitated. “But she said everything is fine.” “Give her my regards.” “It’s a pity I can’t go with you, but I have a meeting tomorrow.” “On a Sunday?” Elena was surprised. “Deadlines,” Viktor spread his hands. “The client is pushing.”

They spent the evening together, watching their favorite series and discussing summer plans. Viktor dreamed of the mountains; Elena leaned toward a beach holiday. They decided to spend two weeks at the sea and then a few days in the mountains. In the morning Elena woke earlier than usual. Spring sunshine promised a warm day. She got up quietly so as not to wake her husband and went to make breakfast. She felt cheerful, anticipating the visit. When Viktor, sleepy and rumpled, appeared in the kitchen, coffee and omelets were already on the table. “Mmm, smells amazing!” He hugged her from behind and kissed her neck. “You’re up early.” “I want to stop by the florist before I go—buy tulips for Grandma. She loves them.” After breakfast, Viktor left for work, and Elena started getting ready. She chose a light floral dress—Grandma’s favorite. She packed the sweets she’d bought and a fresh art magazine she thought might interest Sofya. On the way, she stopped for a bouquet of pale pink tulips. It was a truly spring day—bright sun, a light breeze, the first leaves on the trees. Driving a familiar road, Elena kept thinking about the upcoming conversation. What could be so important?

The door opened at once, as if Sofya had been standing behind it waiting. “Lenochka, my dear!” Grandma hugged her, taking the flowers and the bags. “I’m so glad to see you!” “I missed you too, Grandma!” The apartment was small but wonderfully cozy. Everything breathed history—antique furniture from Elena’s great-grandmother, paintings on the walls (copies of famous canvases done by the hostess herself), porcelain figurines on the shelves. And books, books, books—floor to ceiling, in cabinets, on tables, on stands. “Sit down, the tea’s ready,” Sofya said, pointing to the table laid with cups, a teapot, a plate of homemade cookies, and a small bowl of jam. For a while they chatted about everyday things—Elena’s work, Grandma’s health, the latest news. But Elena felt Sofya was nervous, hesitant to broach the main topic. “Grandma, you wanted to discuss something?”

At last she asked, when the first cup of tea was finished. Sofya sighed, set down her napkin, and looked straight into her granddaughter’s eyes. “Lenochka, I’ve decided to sign the dacha over to you.” Elena froze with the cup in her hands. “Grandma, but… why?” was all she could say. “I’m eighty, dear. I can’t care for the garden like before. The place sits empty. That’s wrong. You’ve loved it since childhood. I know you’ll keep it—you won’t sell it to the first buyer. You and Viktor can come, and later…” She smiled. “With children.” “But you could still spend summers there,” Elena objected. “Of course I can, and I will. But legally it’s better to transfer the property now, while I’m of sound mind.” Sofya smiled slyly. “And it’s nice to make you happy while I’m alive, not leave an inheritance when I’m gone.” A lump rose in Elena’s throat. She couldn’t bear the thought that someday Grandma would be gone. “Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “You’ll be with us for a long time.” “Of course I will,” Sofya nodded. “But my decision is final. I’ve prepared all the papers; we just need to sign at the notary. You’ll come with me tomorrow.” Elena nodded, still hardly believing it. Grandma’s dacha—the corner of paradise where she’d spent her childhood—would be hers. “I don’t know what to say.” “Say you’ll cherish it,” Sofya said gently. “And that you’ll let me visit sometimes?” “What are you talking about? It will always be your home too.” They hugged, and Elena breathed in the familiar scent of lily-of-the-valley—Grandma’s perfume since Elena was small, the scent of safety, love, and home. “And now,” Sofya said, pulling back, “there’s something else I must tell you. Something I’ve been silent about for many years, but I think you should know.”

She stood, went to an antique secrétaire in the corner, and took from the top drawer a worn notebook in a leather cover. “This is my diary,” she said, returning to the table. “I started it in 1967, right after the flood.” Elena carefully opened it. Neat handwriting, faded ink, the date May 15, 1967. “I never told you the whole truth about that flood,” Sofya went on. “About what really happened at the museum, and how it changed my life.” Elena listened, hardly breathing, as she heard a story she’d never known. On the day the river overflowed, Sofya had indeed saved five paintings from the flooded basement. But there was something else. Among the canvases, wrapped in oil paper and hidden behind a rack, was a small painting not listed in any official catalog. Someone had concealed it there on purpose.

When Sofya unwrapped it in a safe place, she found the portrait of a young woman in Art Nouveau style, executed with astonishing mastery. On the back of the canvas there was an inscription: “To M.S. Kalinina from V. Kalugin, 1918.” “I didn’t know what to do,” Sofya continued. “From the style and quality it was clearly valuable. But why was it hidden? And who was V. Kalugin?” She began her own investigation—searching the archives, asking older colleagues, studying exhibition catalogs from the early twentieth century. The story gradually emerged. Valentin Kalugin was a talented Silver Age painter, a student of Mikhail Vrubel. At one time his works were exhibited alongside recognized masters. But after the Revolution he fell into disgrace due to his political views. Many of his paintings were destroyed; he emigrated to France and died in the 1930s, forgotten. But that wasn’t the most interesting part. Sofya lowered her voice, as if they might be overheard. M.S. Kalinina, the recipient of the portrait, turned out to be Maria Sergeyevna Kalinina, the wife of a high-ranking Party official. She and Kalugin had had an affair, and the portrait was proof. Apparently, after he emigrated, she hid the painting for fear of repression. “And what did you do with the portrait?” Elena asked, stunned. “At first I wanted to turn it over to the museum, as one should. But then…” Sofya faltered. “It was a complicated time. The rehabilitation of the repressed had only just begun; many topics were still taboo. I feared the painting would be destroyed as ideologically harmful. So I decided to keep it myself.” “You mean…” Elena could hardly believe her ears. “Yes, dear. Kalugin’s portrait of Maria Kalinina has been with me all these years—at the dacha, in a hiding place no one knew about.” Elena was shocked. Her upright, principled grandmother had in effect appropriated a museum piece. “Don’t judge me too harshly,” Sofya said, reading her thoughts. “I saved that painting twice—first from the water, then from oblivion. I always hoped a time would come when it could be shown to the world and its story told—a love preserved in paint and line.” “And now that time has come?” Elena guessed. “I think so. I’m too old to handle it myself. But you could. That’s why I decided to give you the dacha. Along with it, you’ll get the portrait and all the documents I’ve collected over the years. What you do next is up to you.” The story felt unbelievable—like the plot of an adventure novel, not a piece of her own family history. Elena was silent, absorbing it. “Will you show me the portrait?” she asked at last. “Of course. As soon as we get to the dacha. It’s there—in a hiding place under a floorboard in my bedroom.” Sofya gazed out the window. “You know, sometimes I talk to her—to Maria. I look at the portrait and imagine her—brave, passionate, willing to risk everything for love. And there’s something else I’ve kept at the dacha.” “What else?” Elena asked, still reeling.

Sofya smiled mysteriously. “I didn’t work in a museum for nothing. Some things… call to you, ask to be saved from oblivion. Over my career I rescued not only paintings but other works of art that would otherwise have been lost.” “For example?” “There’s a small collection of old coins at the dacha.” “Coins?” Elena was surprised. “In the ’70s the museum received a numismatics collection from a Leningrad professor. Among the items were very rare coins from Ancient Rus’. But the management decided they weren’t of special value and were going to ship them off to a provincial local-history museum, where storage conditions were awful. I ‘borrowed’ a few of the most valuable specimens.” Elena didn’t know whether to admire her grandmother’s daring or be horrified. “Grandma, but that’s…” “Stealing?” Sofya shook her head. “I prefer to think of it as saving cultural heritage. These things weren’t lost, destroyed, or sold off to private collections abroad. They’re here, in Russia, preserved in ideal conditions, and someday they’ll return to museums. Their time just hasn’t come yet.”

Elena was speechless. Her grandmother had always seemed a model of honesty and principle; behind that façade had lived an adventurer ready to defy the system to save art. “Who else knows?” she asked finally. “No one,” Sofya replied softly. “Not even your mother. Only you now.” “Why tell me now?” Sofya sighed and took her granddaughter’s hands. “Because I’m getting old, Lenochka. I need to know these treasures won’t be lost if something happens to me. Besides…” She hesitated. “There’s something else you need to know. It concerns Viktor’s family.” Elena tensed. “What could connect my grandmother to Viktor’s family?” “Valentina Sergeyevna,” Sofya said slowly, “your husband’s mother. We know each other.” “We do?” Elena was floored. “How?” “We met at the museum in the ’80s. She was a young teacher and often brought her students for tours. We started talking; she took an interest in my work and in art history. We became… friends of a sort. We even went to a conference in Leningrad together.” “So what happened? Why did you never mention it?” Sofya lowered her eyes. “We had a falling out. A bad one. Because of Kalugin’s portrait.” She paused. “Valentina accidentally saw it at my place. I was careless. She immediately understood it was a museum piece and began to accuse me of theft, threatened to report me to the museum leadership. I tried to explain I was saving it, but she wouldn’t listen.” “And what did you do?” “The only thing I could.” Sofya’s voice hardened. “I reminded her of some compromising facts from her life she’d once confided to me—namely, an affair with a married man that ended in an abortion which nearly cost her the chance to have children.” “Viktor!” Elena gasped. “No, no—this was before Viktor. That affair ended with the abortion. No one knew except me. And I… threatened to tell if she went to the museum.” “Grandma!” “I’m not proud of it, Lenochka. But I couldn’t let her destroy what I had guarded for so long. After that we never saw each other again. She married, had Viktor, built her life. I lived mine. And then… you met her son.” “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I was afraid it would affect your relationship with Viktor. And I hoped Valentina wouldn’t realize the connection. Judging by everything, she never told you, did she?” “No,” Elena shook her head. “But it explains a lot. Her attitude toward me was strange from the start—like she was predisposed against me.” “She may have suspected when she learned your maiden name,” Sofya sighed. “Kovalyova isn’t that rare, but still…” “So that’s why she loves repeating that I’m not a match for Viktor, that I’m too ‘artsy’…” Elena began fitting the pieces together. “She sees you in me, Grandma—the woman who once blackmailed her.” Sofya nodded guiltily. “Forgive me for not telling you sooner. I should have—especially after your wedding. But I was afraid. Afraid of losing your respect and love.” Elena hugged her. “You’ll never lose my love,” she said firmly. “Whatever happened between you two doesn’t change who you are to me.”

They sat a long time in silence, each lost in her thoughts. Elena tried to picture how this would affect her dealings with her mother-in-law. Her imagination painted scenes of the past—young Grandma saving paintings from floodwaters, her secret cache of rescued treasures, a friendship with her future mother-in-law and a dramatic break. “There’s one more thing,” Sofya broke the silence. “About how you met Viktor.” “What do you mean?” Elena was surprised. “We met at a contemporary-art exhibition—you know that.” “Yes. But it wasn’t by chance,” Grandma said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I arranged your meeting.” “What?” Elena shot to her feet. “How?” “I’d kept up with Valentina’s life from a distance through mutual acquaintances. I knew she had a son, that he’d gone to a technical university, worked in IT. When I saw his photo in the paper—in an article about young specialists—I recognized his mother’s features. And I thought it would be symbolic if our families were united. It felt like a kind of atonement for the past. So I arranged your meeting.” “How?” “I knew you loved contemporary art and never missed major exhibitions. And Viktor, as I learned, was interested in technological installations. That exhibition had just such an interactive piece. I called one of the organizers, an old colleague, and asked him to invite promising specialist Viktor Vorobyov as a technical consultant. And I prodded you to go, remember?” “Yes,” Elena nodded slowly, recalling that day. “You said there’d be something special I absolutely had to see.” “I meant Viktor,” Sofya said softly. “But that you liked each other and everything worked out—that wasn’t my doing. That was fate.” Elena didn’t know what to feel—anger at the manipulation, gratitude for being brought to Viktor, or shock that their “chance” meeting had been engineered. “Why tell me all this now?” she asked at last. “Because now that the dacha is yours, you should know the whole truth. And because…” Grandma hesitated. “I think you and Viktor should spend the summer there. Perhaps invite his parents. It’s time to heal old wounds, Lenochka. Life is too short for grudges.” “Invite my mother-in-law to the dacha?” Elena thought it fantastical—especially now that she knew about the old conflict. “I want you to find common ground,” Sofya said gently. “For yourself, for Viktor, and maybe for your future children—so they won’t grow up amid hostility between their mom and grandmother.” “I’ll think about it,” Elena said at last. “But first, the papers for the dacha—the portrait—and your… ‘rescued treasures.’” “Of course,” Grandma nodded. “We’ll do everything in order.” They talked until evening—memories of the past, plans for the future. Elena asked about Sofya’s work, the items she’d saved, the risks she had taken. Sofya spoke freely, as if a heavy burden had been lifted—eyes alight as she recalled her adventures, fears, hopes. At the door, saying goodbye, she added suddenly, “You know the most amazing thing?” “What?” “That you and Viktor truly fell in love despite my interference. It proves real feelings can’t be programmed—you can set the scene, but love either appears or it doesn’t.” Elena smiled and hugged her tightly. “I love you, Grandma—no matter what.” “And I love you, more than life.”

All the way home, Elena thought of Grandma’s story—the portrait, the coins, the quarrel with her mother-in-law, the orchestrated meeting with Viktor. Her idea of family, of the past, of her grandmother had changed in a single day. Viktor was at the kitchen table, surrounded by drawings for a new project, sketching on his tablet. “How’s Grandma?” he asked without looking up. “Good.”

Elena hesitated—should she tell him everything? “She’s decided to sign the dacha over to me.” “Seriously?” Viktor looked up. “That’s great! You’ve always loved that place.” “I have,” Elena said, remembering long summer days, the garden swing her grandfather built, the scent of ripe apples and warm rain. “And I was thinking—what if we spend part of the summer there instead of the sea?” “You don’t want to go to the sea?” Viktor was surprised. “No, of course I do. Maybe a week before the sea trip? We could prep the house and the lot, do some repairs. And after the sea—another week or two in August.” “Sounds good,” he agreed. “And… what else did Grandma say? You have a strange look on your face.” Elena decided not to reveal all her cards yet. “We talked about the past, about her museum work. She told me a lot I didn’t know. For example, how she saved several paintings during the flood of ’67. It was an amazing story.” She wasn’t lying—just not telling the whole truth. “Your grandma is an amazing woman,” Viktor said with respect. “It’s a pity my parents don’t know her better.”

Elena almost choked. “If only you knew…” “Maybe we can fix that,” she said cautiously. “I was thinking of inviting your parents to the dacha for the May holidays—show them the place, spend time together.” Viktor looked genuinely surprised. “You want to invite my parents? You, who usually try to avoid Mom?—” “It’s time to improve relations,” Elena shrugged. “She’s your mother, I’m your wife. We should learn to get along.” Viktor got up, came over, and hugged her. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” he joked. “Seriously, I’m happy you’ve decided this. It means a lot to me.” If only he knew what kind of ‘language’ the women had used before, Elena thought. Aloud she said, “We’ll see how it goes. I’m willing to try.” The next two weeks were busy. They finalized the dacha paperwork—Elena became the official owner. Work was a whirlwind—several big projects at once kept her late. Viktor was swamped too, but they found time to discuss summer plans, including the trip to the dacha. “I talked to my parents,” he said one evening. “They agreed to come for the May holidays. Dad’s excited—he’s been wanting to get out into nature.” “And your mom?” Elena asked carefully. “At first she wasn’t thrilled, then agreed. Said she’s curious to see ‘your family’s’ dacha.” “‘Your family’?” Elena felt anger rise. “You know Mom,” Viktor sighed. “She always talks like that. Don’t pay attention.” Elena held her tongue. She had hoped knowing the backstory would help her understand Valentina; instead it only sharpened her irritation. How dare that woman speak like that after everything Elena had learned?

Finally the weekend came, and they went to the dacha as its new owners. The day was sunny and warm, a real spring day. The drive took a little over an hour: the familiar turn from childhood, the pine-lined lane leading to the settlement, and at last the old wooden house with carved window frames, surrounded by apple trees and lilacs. “We’re here,” Elena said excitedly when Viktor cut the engine. They got out, and Elena inhaled the familiar scent—pines, blossoming apple trees, and damp earth after a recent rain. She remembered every path, tree, and bush—so many happy days spent here. “Where do we start?” Viktor asked, hauling bags of groceries and tools from the trunk. “Let’s air out the house first,” Elena said, pulling from her pocket the new key Grandma had given her. “Then we’ll light the stove—the well water should be fine.” Inside, it smelled of stale air and old wood. Elena flung open all the windows, letting in spring freshness. The furniture was draped in old sheets against dust. She pulled them off, and the rooms slowly came to life. “It’s cozy,” Viktor said, looking around. “You can feel a master’s touch.” “Grandma always knew how to create coziness,” Elena agreed. “And Grandpa made a lot with his own hands—this bookshelf, the veranda table, the kitchen cabinets.” They spent the whole day busy—Elena washing floors and windows, sorting dishes, changing linens; Viktor splitting wood, lighting the stove, checking wiring and plumbing. By evening the house had transformed—clean, warm, ready to welcome its owners. “Tired?” Elena asked as they finally sat down to dinner on the veranda. “A bit,” Viktor smiled, helping himself to salad. “But I like it. It’s been a while since I did real physical work—all day at a computer, you know. It’s good here.” Elena watched the sun’s last rays gild the pines. “Very,” he agreed. “I see why you loved summers here.” After dinner, when Viktor went to shower, Elena finally dared to go into Grandma’s bedroom. Her heart pounded. Somewhere under those floorboards lay the mysterious portrait that had once come between two women.