That night, after another failed attempt to make progress on my new novel, I locked myself in the bathroom as usual and pulled a blood pack from the chilled double-bottomed bag. If Mark ever happened to see it, there would be nothing to arouse suspicion—inside, neat rows of mineral water bottles stood in plain sight. Only by unloading them all and unzipping the hidden compartment would one uncover the true reason I had insisted on bringing so much water from Moscow.
The cooling cartridges would last three days without recharging. Luckily, I'd found an outlet by the sink and plugged the portable cooler in right away, while I had the chance. The less often Mark saw the bag, the smaller the chance he'd ever peek inside and stumble upon my little secret. The rest of my supply was safely stored in a hidden compartment built into the bathtub panel—something I'd asked Karina to arrange that morning, before we arrived.
I didn't know how much longer I could keep my true nature from Mark, but I fought for every single day of his ignorance, if only to let our shared life keep moving as it was.
I knew it couldn't last forever. Sooner or later, our story would reach its end. I only hoped that when the time came, I would find the strength to let him go—to set him free for a normal human life. To be content, from a distance, watching the years scatter silver through his dark hair. He would have children with the same endearing dimples, and later, grandchildren. He would live a long, full life—filled with meaning, laughter, and the warmth of family, somewhere by the river.
I truly believed in a happy ending for him.
I just didn't believe in the endurance of us.
That's why I decided to write this story—to leave behind a trace, a memory preserved in eternity of what we had. Of who Mark was before the clock struck midnight… and he turned to dust.
Those heavy thoughts followed me all the way to the central building, where the library was located. The great double doors stood open, revealing only darkness within. With every step I climbed, the shadows thinned, and the interior began to take shape. It was old-fashioned for my taste, but I had to give the owners credit—they took care of their furniture. The polished wood gleamed with fresh varnish, and the entire space had been curated in a consistent style. From the entrance, the lobby looked like something out of a 1930s American mystery novel—a private country club suspended in time.
The air held a quiet sense of mystery. Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the lace curtains. Beneath a large archway leading into the main hall—lined with long wooden tables and benches, and centered around a brick fireplace—stood a reception desk. Behind it, a gray-haired woman was reading a thin stack of papers, peering through glasses that had slid down to the bridge of her nose. She didn't even glance up when I entered.
Trying to catch her attention politely, I approached the counter, hoping she'd notice movement in front of her. But if there was one thing I'd learned about humans, it was this: if you want to hide a secret, put it right in front of their eyes.
My first attempt failed. I greeted her with a strained smile and asked for directions to the main reading hall. She lifted her gaze just long enough to rattle off a set of instructions in a curt, irritable tone, then promptly returned to her papers.
What service. What hospitality. I'd be sure to mention it in my review.
Every accommodation, by tradition, sent a polite email afterward—"We'd love to hear about your stay!"—which always went straight to my spam folder. But this time, perhaps, I'd make an exception. I'd take the time to write them a proper review, full of detailed commentary, and leave a score that matched the quality of their warm welcome.
Indulging myself with the sweet thought of petty revenge, I stepped into the hall. Mounted high above my head, hunting trophies hung in chaotic disorder — as though someone had simply nailed up whatever happened to fit. Deer antlers of every shape and span branched and tangled like some grotesque forest frozen mid-growth. The air reeked of dust and death.
The scent pulled me back home — to my father's mansion, where a majestic stuffed lion presided over the reception hall, the pride of his collection.
Death and decay smelled like home. They reminded me how fleeting all other beings were on the long, desolate road of someone else's immortality. I shook my head, chasing away the grim thoughts. I needed to focus, to tune my mind into work — quickly — if I hoped to write a story filled with light and a happy ending.
But where, for heaven's sake, was this library?
I wandered through the hall, testing one doorknob after another in frustration, muttering silent curses under my breath and darkly recalling the woman at the front desk. The very idea of going back to her for directions again was unbearable — anger boiled under my skin, awakening the hunger I struggled to suppress, threatening to ruin our entire vacation over something as mundane as human indifference.
I'll post a bad review everywhere. E-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e.
Fate spared the woman from becoming my warm evening snack: one of the next doors finally gave way. Muttering a quick prayer to whatever gods still bothered listening, I cracked it open, half-expecting to find someone's bedroom beyond.
Instead, relief flooded me. Before me stretched, unmistakably, the library.
Calling it a room would have been an insult. I had seen regional libraries twice — no, three times — smaller than this private collection.
The shelves towered around me, packed tight with books of every height, width, and shade of spine. I stepped closer, brushing my fingertips lightly across a row at eye level, afraid the volumes might crumble into dust at the slightest touch.
Tolstoy. Gogol. Pushkin. Yesenin and Balzac. Pasternak and Austen.
The owners of the glamping retreat had managed to gather a treasury of world classics. I tried to discern some logic in the arrangement — a pattern to guide me later, when I might want to pull out a volume, sink into one of those armchairs upholstered in noble emerald velvet, and lose myself for a while in someone else's words.
But, alas, such luxury wasn't meant for me today.
Tightening the strap of the canvas bag on my shoulder, I took a step back, then another. Summoning what little willpower I had left — the scraps not already eroded by procrastination — I exhaled sharply, turned on my heel, and marched toward the nearest table like a tin soldier on parade. With an unceremonious thud, I dropped my bag onto the tabletop. My hands tangled in the fabric as I dug out my laptop, a notebook, and a knot of charger cables.
I sank into the nearest chair, set the laptop before me so my elbows rested squarely on the table, and flipped the lid open. The screen came to life instantly.
There it was again — the same mysterious document I couldn't remember writing.