I came back to the house where I grew up. I tried for a long time to open the door, picking at the locks with keys. “Who are you?” my neighbor asked, carrying out a trash bucket. “I live here. Lived here,” I answered. “Who are you talking to?” an elderly woman asked from behind the door, and she raised herself heavily on the next flight.
“Are you Masha? The daughter of Olga?” she asked.
I nodded. Here they recognize me, no matter how many years have passed. Neighbors. They’ll remind you of what you’ve long forgotten.