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Prologue
The wind howls mercilessly outside the small cottage, nestled deep within the forested region of Park Malevicha, Moscow. Snowflakes whip through the air in the night, piling up against the walls and windows as if trying to bury the tiny dwelling.
The cold seeps through the moldy wooden walls with frost creeping along the window panes, chilling the air inside.
Inside, a mother cradles her child close to her chest, swaddled in thick sheepskin blankets, as they lie curled up in the single reading chair.
"It's so cold," the child whispers, teeth chattering.
The woman presses her lips to the little forehead. "I know, little one. But we must be brave." She feeds the child another spoonful of hot steaming soup.
The fire in the hearth crackles weakly, about to die out, providing only a fraction of heat to cut through the bitter air. The child shivers, despite her mother's warmth, as she glances around the dimly lit space.
The walls are lined with wooden shelves holding canned food, bottled water, and a few cherished possessions that they have managed to take with them on their desperate flight.
From the outside, this cottage would appear to be abandoned, archaic, a relic lost in time.
In one corner, a tired-looking man, his face etched with worry, huddles over a map, plotting their next move. He has been with them since...well, the child can't remember when. Her uncle has always been there; their protector in this game. "Domani," the uncle whispers, his voice barely audible above the storm raging outside.
“Partiremo alle prime luci dell'alba.” The child precociously translates her mother’s native language, Italian.
– Tomorrow, we’ll leave at first light.
The woman nods, tightening her grip around her daughter, eyes darting between the door and the windows, ever vigilant for signs of danger. "Are you sure it's safe?" she asks her brother, her breath forming icy clouds in the air as she speaks.
"Nothing is certain," he replies, gaze never leaving the map. "But it's our best chance."
“When will this game end, Mummy?” the child interrupts, stifling a yawn. To her, this is just another adventure, a thrilling game of hide-and-seek where they must outwit the mysterious forces pursuing them.
“Soon, my love,” the mother gently tucks a stray curl behind her little ear.
“Promise we’ll win?”
“Promise.”
Fortified with the knowledge of a guaranteed final victory, the child slowly drifts off to sleep while the adults continue plotting their next strategy.
Suddenly, a scream pierces the night, jolting her awake. Men's panicked shouts follow, along with cries of pain. The woman’s body goes rigid. She untangles herself from the child and crosses the cottage in hurried steps just as her brother turns off the single lantern, hoping to still go unnoticed.
Her brother and child watch her silhouette in the dying firelight as she cracks the curtains open just the slightest. She reaches for the binoculars hanging on a hook by the window and lifts them to her eyes, scanning the scene beyond the cottage walls.
"Porca miseria," she mutters under her breath. – Damn luck.
"Is there a way out?" her brother asks, his voice strained but determined.
"Too late," she replies, shaking her head. Her hands tremble as she lowers the binoculars, and for a moment, the child catches a glimpse of the terror she's been trying to hide from her.
"Did they find our traps?" her brother asks, his voice barely a whisper.
Despite the fear gripping the mother’s chest, she can’t help but feel proud of the complex livewire system she set up single-handedly. The hidden ditch covered with fall leaves was her idea - a sneaky trap that would send any intruders tumbling to the ground and buy them some needed time.
The woman nods, her eyes never leaving the window. "One of them fell into the ditch. Some are rescuing him, but the others are getting."
"Are they coming for us?" the child asks, her voice quivering.
"Yes, they are. But you must focus on the game," the mother says, trying to keep her fear from seeping into her words. "Remember what we practiced. We can do this."
"Can we fight them off?" the child asks, little fists clenched at her sides. They’ve practiced this part of the game countless times - how to defend themselves and how to strike back. But now, faced with the real thing, it all seems so much more terrifying for a young child of just three.
