The Dust of the Long Road

The dust of the long road—acrid and gray—had eaten into her skin, mixed with the sweat of exhaustion, and settled on her shoulders as an invisible yet unbearably heavy burden. The bus coughed hoarsely and rattled away, leaving Varvara Afanasyevna alone at a deserted country stop.

The air, smelling of wormwood, ripe wheat, and distant smoke, struck her nostrils with a scent so familiar, so dear, it brought tears to her eyes.
Five years. Exactly five years, two months, and seventeen days since her lungs had last breathed this air. Only the musty smell of the prison barracks, the shouts of wardens, and the clank of iron bolts had filled them since.

She took a step—and another—leaning on the crooked wicker fence that separated the road from her world. Her world. The one she had sacrificed five of her best—if no longer young—years for. Circles of fatigue swam before her eyes, but she squeezed them shut, gripping the rough vines of the fence with her fingers. Then she opened them again.

And it was there. Her home.
Small, log-built, blackened by time, but so sturdy, so unshakable. From the chimney, a thin, almost transparent wisp of smoke rose to the sky—the stove was lit. And in the windows, glowing with golden light in the early autumn evening—he was home. Her Vitya. Her boy. Her one, mistaken, but painfully all-consuming love.

Her heart pounded, thudded in her temples, washing away the weariness, the bitterness of years apart. Her feet carried her forward, across the yard. Stumbling, she noticed: a new porch, with carved railings; the shed patched; the fence painted. A hot wave of pride rose to her throat. “Good boy, Vitya, good boy. Taking care of things, not giving up. Just as I taught you.”
In a moment she would embrace him, press her cheek to his, breathe in that familiar childhood scent—now mixed with that of a grown man. All the bad was behind. Now there would only be life.

The door gave way only after a struggle—warped from dampness, perhaps. Varvara Afanasyevna pressed the latch hard and stepped into the entryway—and immediately recoiled, bumping into a stranger’s broad chest.

In the weak light of a bulb overhead stood an unfamiliar man. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a stretched-out sweater, towel in hand, wiping his neck. He stared at her in surprise—at her wrinkled, weary face, her old-fashioned headscarf long out of use, her awful prison-gray coat.

“Who’re you looking for, granny?” His voice was low and calm, without a hint of hostility, yet each word carried a chilling coldness of estrangement.

Varvara Afanasyevna’s throat tightened. She whispered, her voice sounding terribly hoarse and loud to her own ears:
“Vitya… Where’s Vitya?”

The man frowned. His gaze slid over her figure, lingering on the prison uniform visible beneath her coat, and something flickered in his eyes—not understanding, but cynical curiosity.
“Vitya? You mean Viktor?” he repeated slowly, savoring the words. “Lady, that guy sold me this house three years ago, right after he finished his stretch. Sold it with everything in it. I’m the owner now.”

The world didn’t collapse. It froze.
Frozen in one moment, one horrifying frame: the stranger’s lips forming those words, and the stripe of light from the bulb on the floor. Three years. After he served his time. Sold it.
The words drove into her mind like nails. Five years ago, his friend, that dandy Andryukha, had dragged him into a timber theft scheme. They got caught. And she, the mother, had taken all the blame. The court believed the old, sick woman more than the strong young man. She served her “five” for him. And he… he sold their home. Their fortress. Their memory.

Not knowing how, she wandered back to the bus stop. Her legs buckled. She sank onto the hard, cold bench, and silent tears ran down her worn cheeks. She wasn’t sobbing—just crying quietly, hopelessly, wiping her face with the corner of her shabby scarf.
“Vityusha… my son… where are you?” she whispered into the emptiness. “Are you even alive, my child? My heart aches—it senses trouble… if you sold the house, things must be bad indeed…”

A sharp screech of brakes cut through her despair. A sturdy SUV pulled up, raising a cloud of dust. From the window appeared the same face that had just shut her out of her own life.
“Hey, lady!” the man shouted. “I looked through the papers—found your Vitya’s address. He’s in the district town. Here.” He held out a crumpled piece of paper. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

Varvara Afanasyevna took the paper with trembling hands. It felt not like paper, but a single thread still connecting her to her son. Her voice shook but was firm:
“No… no, son, thank you. I’ll take the bus. I’ll manage.”

Half an hour later, the rickety, dusty bus dropped her on the outskirts of the town. Another half hour searching for the right five-story building—peeling gray walls like all the others. The stairwell smelled of cat food and loneliness. She climbed up, found the door—covered with cracked leatherette—and knocked. The knock echoed deafeningly in the silence.

The door opened. And there he was. Her Vitya. Thinner, hollow-cheeked, unshaven, his eyes slightly clouded by drink. He looked at her, and in his gaze there was no joy, no surprise—only momentary, animal panic, then irritation.

“Mom? You?..” He jumped out onto the landing, closing the door behind him, grabbing her arm and roughly pulling her away from the threshold.
“Vityusha, my dear—”
“Quiet!” he hissed, his breath reeking of cheap port wine. “Sorry, I can’t have you here, you understand? I live with a woman. It’s her place. She won’t let a convict over the threshold! And me… I’m not working yet. Not a good time for this, you see?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. He spoke into the air above her head—hurriedly, harshly, as if getting it over with. Before she could utter a single word, a single sound to stop this nightmare, he jerked his shoulder, pushed her back into the dim stairwell, and slammed the door. The lock clicked. The chain slid into place. Silence.

She didn’t cry. The tears had ended back at the bench. Inside was only a black, bottomless void. Slowly, like a woman twice her age, she descended the stairs.
Yes—her friend Natalia had been right, back before the trial, begging her not to take the blame: “You raised a rotten son, Varvara. A selfish one. He’ll eat you alive.”
She would have to go to Natalia now. There was no other choice.

But fate tripped her once again. Natalia’s house stood boarded up, and when she knocked, a neighbor muttered: “Natalia? Oh, she’s been gone six months. Cancer took her.”

Varvara Afanasyevna was left in the street. Dusk was falling. Heavy, leaden clouds gathered, and rain was about to begin. The cold autumn wind pierced through her thin coat. She stood under a stranger’s awning, utterly alone in the world, not knowing where to step next.

Then, quietly, a car stopped beside her. Not new, but well-kept. The passenger window rolled down, revealing a young, serious face with kind, tired eyes.
“Why are you standing here, ma’am?” The voice was quiet, without condescension. “Nowhere to go? Get in. I’ll give you a lift.”

She hesitated. The words “never get in with strangers” sounded like a cruel joke now. Where could she go? The police station? Back behind bars? Silently, almost mechanically, she opened the door and sat down.

The man’s name was Alexey. He listened quietly as she told her broken, rambling story—about the long road, about having no one left, nowhere to turn. She said nothing about her son. Shame clenched her throat in an iron ring. Alexey nodded, not interrupting. Then, without further questions, he took her to his modest but tidy apartment on the edge of town. “Stay here until you figure things out. There’s plenty of space.”

Out of burning gratitude, the very next day Varvara Afanasyevna scrubbed his home until it gleamed, baked piles of cabbage and potato pies, washed and mended all his clothes. She sought salvation from gnawing grief in work. Alexey, coming home tired and silent, watched in quiet amazement. He turned out to be an orphan, raised in an institution—he’d never known simple, selfless, motherly care.

So she stayed. He didn’t ask her to leave. She found purpose in caring. In winter, she began bringing him hot lunches in a thermos to the sawmill where he worked. He was starting a small business; the work was cold and hard. She trudged through snowdrifts with cabbage soup and buckwheat with stew, watching him eat with the same tenderness she’d once had for her Vitya.

One day, bringing lunch, she found a strange man in his office, leafing through papers with suspicious ease. Without a word, Varvara Afanasyevna grabbed a mop and drove him out with such colorful prison curses that the man fled in shame.

When Alexey returned, he laughed for a long time.
“Ma, that was my foreman! Came for paperwork!”
She stood stern and unbending.
“He’s no foreman. A thief. You can see it on his face. Trust my word.”

Alexey raised his brows, but there was such unshakable conviction in her voice that he hesitated. And… she was right. A week later it turned out the “foreman” had been stealing valuable boards and selling them on the side.

“Well, mother,” Alexey said seriously over tea that evening, “I see you’ve got an eagle’s eye. Prison must’ve sharpened it. I can’t trust my gut anymore. Let’s do this—you’ll head personnel. You’ll decide who we hire and who we don’t.”

Varvara Afanasyevna agreed. She had found her place. Her little closet became an office. She didn’t hold interviews—she just looked. One glance, a couple of phrases, and she knew who stood before her: a worker, a slacker, a thief, or just an unfortunate soul. They called her “the clairvoyant,” and no one dared question her judgment.

And then one day, the door opened. Another applicant walked in—a man of about thirty, shabby but with a cocky smirk. He stepped forward, his eyes falling on the woman behind the desk.

The smirk vanished instantly—first replaced by shock, then by quick, calculating joy. It was Vitya.

“Mom?!” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with fake tenderness. “So you’re the boss here? Thank God! Then you’ll definitely take your son on, right? I’ve changed, Mom, really!”

Varvara Afanasyevna didn’t move. She sat gripping the edge of the desk so her hands wouldn’t shake. The blood drained from her face, pounded in her temples. Before her stood not her son—but her betrayal. Five stolen years. A sold home. A slammed door. The cold rain over a stranger’s grave.

Slowly, very slowly, she took a sheet of paper and wrote, with trembling but clear hand, a few words. Without looking at Viktor, without saying a word, she stood, went into Alexey’s office, placed the paper on his desk, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Vitya, swaggering, turned to Alexey with his old insolent grin.
“Well, boss? All set? Where do I start?”

Alexey looked at the paper. On it were just three words, written in burning hatred and endless motherly pain:

“HE’S FILTH. NOT HUMAN.”

He raised cold, expressionless eyes to Viktor.
“You’re not hired.”
And as the man opened his mouth to protest, Alexey turned the paper toward him.
“She said not to take you. Final decision. The revolving door’s closed.”