Maria stood in the middle of the living room, silently surveying her surroundings. Everything looked foreign—even the walls on which she had once lovingly hung photographs. Now they were empty. Only hooks and the traces left by frames remained. In the corner were several boxes, fitting twenty years of her life.
And now her husband had a new life. With Nastya. With the secretary. Young, long-legged, beautiful. When Dmitry told Masha that he was divorcing her, Nastya smiled—triumphantly, as if she had won. Maria, however, had long since stopped fighting.
Over the past few months, she had lost almost eight kilos. Her cheeks had sunken, and under her eyes there were bruises that no concealer could hide. She hadn’t cut or colored her hair in ages. Her hands trembled—not from fear now, but simply from nerves.
Maria approached the mirror in the hall. She paused and looked at herself.
“Who are you now?” she asked her reflection.
Of course, there was no answer. In the mirror stared a tired woman she could barely recognize. Yet something new flickered in her eyes. Not hope—at least not yet—but something resembling anger.
“Enough. That’s enough,” she murmured to herself.
She switched off the light in the hall and walked into the kitchen.
In the kitchen, it was cool. Maria opened the refrigerator and stared deep into it, as if expecting to find answers to her questions there. On the top shelf lay a package of lightly salted salmon—she had once bought it “for a celebration,” although that celebration had never come to pass. Next to it, a jar of black caviar—a gift from colleagues for her fortieth birthday. She recalled that back then she had even burst into tears from the surprise—not because of the caviar, but because at least someone remembered, because at least someone cared.
Below, there was a bottle of sparkling wine. Dmitry couldn’t stand sparkling wine. But she, on the contrary, loved it—light and bubbly.
Maria brought everything out onto the table. Squinting as she assessed it, she muttered to herself, “Just right. For a farewell.”
She sliced some cheese and neatly arranged it on a wooden board. She fanned out the salmon on a dark plate, drizzled with lemon juice and a splash of olive oil. Her eyes caught sight of some greens—withered yet still alive, dill and basil—and she added them for garnish. Then she sat down and poured champagne into a tall glass. Looking at it all, she felt as if someone else had prepared it, not she.
Reaching for her phone, she played an old Zemfira album—the very record she and Dmitry had listened to during their first winter in this house.
She raised her glass and softly said, “To a new life,” and downed the champagne in one gulp.
Perhaps half an hour passed. The music continued, and the bottle had less than half its original amount left. Maria sat there, staring at the empty plate, when suddenly she felt—not intoxication, but a light, pleasant madness.
A thought came suddenly. Wild. Absurd. And yet, it seemed absolutely logical.
She got up, went to the sink, and grabbed a plastic container containing fish scraps—skin, a spine, and a couple of pieces of salmon that were too salty to eat. Something predatory flashed in her eyes.
Then she went into the living room. Dragging a chair to the window, she stood and removed one of the cornice caps. The metal tube inside turned out to be hollow. Perfect.
“Well then, Dmitry,” she whispered as she stuffed the fish pieces inside, “a keepsake for you.”
She replaced the cap and repeated the same with the second cornice—carefully, neatly, without hysteria. She did everything methodically, as if it had to be that way.
“From the bottom of my heart, my love,” she said as she stepped down from the chair, smiling.
And for the first time in a long while, her smile was genuine.
The first days in the “renewed” house were almost like a honeymoon. Dmitry woke up earlier than usual, feeling that he was finally living as he wanted. There was lightness, space, and silence—without reproaches or literary quotes. Nastya, wearing his shirt with her tousled hair, strolled barefoot across the parquet and said, “It’s easier to breathe here now, isn’t it?”
He simply nodded. Breathing indeed seemed easier—or so it appeared.
Nastya had burst into his life like a flash: bright, light, always in motion. After the move, she immediately set about rearranging the place. She took down bookshelves from the walls, rolled up the old carpet from the study, and declared, “I don’t understand how you ever lived here. Everything is soaked in melancholy. It’s not a home, it’s like a mourning library.”
When he tried to object, she grimaced, “Oh come on, Dim, don’t pretend you liked those ‘literary corners’ of hers. This place is like a museum. It used to be.”
Dmitry didn’t argue. In truth, Maria’s books had irritated him even before the divorce. Her habit of hanging quotes and affirmations in every room had given him a nervous tick—“Kafka, damn it, even in the bathroom.” But he had kept silent then. And now—no.
With Nastya, things were simpler. She wasn’t interested in “meanings”—she wanted scented candles, music, and wine in the evenings. They drank sparkling wine, watched TV shows, and made plans. She spoke of Bali while he talked about a new line of tiles he would soon launch. Everything seemed… right.
They threw out everything: the rugs, covers, even the chair where Maria used to read each evening. Nastya ordered a gray-beige sofa and a vase shaped like a head. She set up an aroma diffuser with a citrus scent. The house seemed to exhale.
“Now this looks like life,” she said, wrapped in his shirt with a glass of champagne in hand. “Not like before.”
Then a smell appeared.
At first, it was light, as if someone nearby had poorly cleaned the trash can.
“Do you smell that?” Dmitry stopped in the hall, crinkling his nose slightly.
Nastya sniffed and shrugged, “A bit… strange. Maybe it’s time to take out the trash. Or did you throw your socks under the sofa?”
He smirked, but inside something unclear stabbed at him. The next day, the smell grew stronger. It wasn’t just unpleasant—it was alarming, as if something was seriously wrong.
Nastya inspected the refrigerator. They discarded jars of expired sauces, half of the cheese, and two packs of cookies past their expiration date. Yet the smell lingered. It was everywhere—as if it had soaked into the walls. First, it was barely perceptible, almost abstract, like thin smoke from smoldering paper. Then it became obsessive, heavy, and sticky.
Dmitry then called a plumber. A man of about sixty arrived in a stained jacket with a black briefcase that looked like a Soviet-era tool case.
“Maybe there’s a rat nesting in the wall. Or the ventilation filters are clogged. Let’s take a look.”
He crawled around the entire house for about two hours. He disassembled half the siphons, removed the grilles in the bathroom, checked the drains, and even looked under the kitchen unit.
“Everything is clean here. No rats, no clogs…” he sighed.
The plumber left, but the smell remained.
That evening, Dmitry ordered a deep cleaning. A whole crew came—wearing masks, armed with steam cleaners, chemicals, and brushes.
They worked almost all day, scrubbing every corner and even steaming the kitchen backsplash.
The smell disappeared. For a little while.
The next evening, he returned. But now it wasn’t just a smell—it was a stench. Thick, like rotting meat left out in the heat.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Nastya declared, clenching her cheeks with her palms as if trying to squeeze her head from the inside. “I’ve had a migraine from this stench for a week. It really makes me nauseous.”
She stood in the middle of the bedroom in a tracksuit, with unwashed hair and red eyes. The playful lightness she once had was completely gone. Even her voice sounded irritated—flat, without flirtation or her signature mannerisms. She was simply exhausted.
“We’re leaving. Even if it’s just to a hotel, or to hell. It’s impossible to sleep here. It smells as if someone died right in the wall.”
They packed their things in silence. No quarrels, no discussions. Nobody was trying to prove anything anymore. At the hotel, everything was quiet and sterile—white sheets, air conditioning, a view of the parking lot. Boring, but safe.
Meanwhile, the house stood empty. Every morning, Dmitry drove over, opened the windows, turned on the air purifier, and lit scented candles. But it was all useless. Lavender, vanilla, eucalyptus—all these fragrances only mingled with the main stench, making the air even more repulsive.
A month later, he sat at the hotel’s kitchen table with his laptop and said, staring at the screen, “That’s it. We’re selling. To hell with this house. We’ll buy a new one. Modern. Clean.”
Nastya, lying on the bed with a mask on her face, didn’t answer immediately. Then, lazily, she added, “And rightly so. Listen, maybe your ex buried a cat here? I’m serious, Dim.”
“Not funny,” he snapped, though he smirked nervously.
Three days later, the realtor arranged the first showing. A young couple, seemingly respectable—he was an IT guy, she a makeup artist or something similar. Dmitry mopped the floors, placed air fresheners in every corner, and played soft jazz. The windows were thrown open wide. Sunlight poured in, as if trying to illuminate the dark corners. He even spread a throw on the sofa—a bid to create ‘coziness.’
They entered, took a couple of steps, then stopped.
The man recoiled and covered his nose. The woman paled visibly.
“Excuse me…” he said, nearly coughing. “Does it always smell like this here?”
Before Dmitry could even open his mouth, the door slammed shut.
An hour later, the realtor called. “I understand everything, but honestly, with a smell like this, all you can sell is the land. No one will buy the house. People come in and immediately turn around. Even flippers won’t touch it—unless it’s for pennies and ready for demolition.”
“Maybe it’s the ventilation,” Dmitry began.
“It’s not the ventilation,” the realtor interjected wearily. “It’s… something else. I don’t know. But until you get rid of it, there’s no point in continuing the showings.”
Nastya wasn’t joking anymore. She now barely spoke; she just stared blankly while chewing gum. In the evenings, she scrolled through new-building listings and reposted memes about toxic exes.
Maria’s rented apartment was tiny—a two-room Khrushchev-era flat on the third floor, with a rundown front door and a view of a dreary square. She arranged her books in the corners—only a few, her closest favorites: Remarque, Murakami, and some old poetry with bookmarks. She bought cozy curtains—soft gray with delicate embroidery. She brought mint, rosemary, and three packets of marigold seeds from the supermarket. She planted flowers on the balcony, watering them in the evenings in her slippers and with a cup of green tea. From her perch, she observed the passersby below, and a few times, she caught the gaze of the neighbor’s little boy, who always waved at her. That brought her a small measure of joy.
Life didn’t settle immediately, but gradually it found its rhythm. No fanfare, no grand decisions—just a sudden ease. After work, she went to the swimming pool—not for exercise, but simply to feel her body. On Fridays, she met with colleagues: they laughed, discussed new students, and shared gossip. No one really asked about the divorce—except Dasha.
“Honestly, I don’t understand how you can be so… calm. After everything, he just kicked you out,” Dasha said, clinking her shot glass as she looked at Maria gloomily.
“I would have, at the very least, scratched his car. Or even pissed by his door. In a very human way.”
Maria simply smirked—without anger or resentment.
“I don’t need to scratch anything, Dasha.”
Dasha huffed in disbelief but didn’t pursue it further.
A month passed. Life proceeded steadily: school, the pool twice a week, Friday gatherings, warm evenings spent with a book and tea on the balcony. Then, on one such evening, the thought suddenly occurred to her: What about the house?
She decided to call—not with any special intent, just to ask.
After the third ring, someone answered.
“Hello.” The voice was strained and irritated, like someone who had been rudely awakened.
“Hi, it’s me. How are you? How’s the house?”
“Listen…” he hesitated, then sighed. “There’s something wrong with it. There’s a smell. A constant, harsh smell. They’ve checked everything, cleaned it all up. No one can figure out what’s wrong. People come in—and immediately leave. Even the realtor covers his nose.”
“A smell?” Maria raised an eyebrow, trying not to smirk. “Strange. When I lived there, everything seemed fine… Wait. You’re selling it?”
“We’re trying. But, damn… the smell…”
Maria paused, then said evenly, almost tenderly, “I miss our home so much. There was so much there…”
Dmitry brightened. “Want me to sell you my share? I’d buy yours, but I have a loan right now. I’m in the red. I’d rather give up my share and forget about it entirely.”
After a pause, Maria said, “Well… if the price is reasonable.”
“It will be. Alright, deal. I’ll call the notary.”
Within a week, everything was formalized. The deal went through quickly. Dmitry didn’t even argue about the price—he agreed to the first sum Maria proposed. The lawyer raised an eyebrow in surprise, “Are you sure you didn’t mistype the contract? This price is more like what you’d pay for a storage closet on the outskirts.”
Dmitry just waved his hand. “I don’t need this house. Just finalize it.”
Maria signed and carefully filed the contract in a folder. There was no triumph or anger on her face—just a light, barely noticeable satisfaction.
Now the house was hers again, entirely. And no one could stop her from coming back whenever she deemed it necessary.
Dmitry stood at the entrance of the house, squinting slightly from the bright sun. Two movers—two young guys in faded T-shirts with headphones—were carrying out belongings and loading them into the truck.
He looked at the house. Twenty years. Every step, every creak of the floorboards—he knew them by heart. And yet—he felt no regret, not even a little. This place had squeezed every last bit out of him. In recent months, he had felt as if he were living in a stinking hell: the smell was everywhere—in his clothes, in his hair, even seeming to cling in his nose. Exhausting nights in hotels, quarrels with Nastya, cleaners, and realtors who wrinkled their noses as soon as they stepped inside—it was all too much.
He remembered when Masha had called—so calm, even a little tired, as if she didn’t really care how he was doing. And then, that phrase of hers: “Maybe I would even buy your share if the price was reasonable…”
He nearly burst out laughing then. Well, now let her handle it herself.
“I wonder how long you’ll last there,” he thought, staring at the front door. “A day? A week? Good luck, darling. You’ll need it.”
The movers carried out the last of the boxes.
“Hey, be careful with these,” Dmitry shouted to them. “The cornices. Italian. Expensive. There’s a mechanism inside—don’t bend them.”
One of the guys—the older one—nodded and carefully handed the metal tube to his partner.
Dmitry sat in the car and, for a moment before starting the engine, glanced in the rearview mirror one last time. Then he shook his head.
“That’s it. Time to go.”
He pressed the gas and drove off, not looking back.
Maria entered the house, slowly closed the door behind her, and took off her shoes. She left her bag in the hall and paused for a couple of seconds, simply listening. There was silence—no rustle, no creaks. She walked into the living room, slowly, as if wandering through a museum hall. Everything was empty, as if a heavy downpour had just washed away all remnants of an old life. No dust, no smell. Just air.
Maria stopped by the window and ran her hand along the wall—the very wall where family photographs once hung in frames.
Light streamed through the window in stripes across the floor. Dust swirled faintly in the beams. The curtains were gone. With them, the cornices had vanished. Bare walls remained—smooth, with only faint marks from the wall plugs. There had once hung heavy gray-blue drapes, matching the color of the sofa, which was now also gone.
Cornices.
Dmitry had taken them after all—he hadn’t even bothered to be gentle. The very same ones in which she had once—no joke—hidden a “surprise.” He had left with them, not realizing what he was taking along. It was astonishing how literally he dragged the remnants of the past with him, convinced he was starting a new chapter.
She looked at the room one more time. The house was empty—but no longer foreign. It was no longer alien to her.
