Last summer, the days were so sweltering that the air above the fields shimmered like a rippling sheet of water, while the ground emitted a steamy haze, making every breath feel scorching and thick. I found myself repairing my tractor amidst the endless field, as the gear shift malfunctioned, leaving the iron giant stuck amid golden wheat. The sun blazed mercilessly, its rays felt like searing needles, with no hint of relief to be found. There wasn’t a whisper of wind or a trace of coolness. An overwhelming silence enveloped the surroundings, interrupted only by the steady rhythm of my breaths and the vibrant chirping of crickets hidden amongst the stalks.
Suddenly, as if a long-awaited cloud had finally blocked the exhausting sunlight, a shadow fell upon me. I lifted my head, wiping sweat from my brow with a grease-stained sleeve, and there she was. An elderly woman stood right in front of me. Her sudden appearance in this desolate place was as mysterious as it was uncanny. She materialized soundlessly, like a specter emerging from the very heat, from the shimmering haze.
“Will you spare some water, dear?” she spoke, her voice quiet and hoarse, reminiscent of dry leaves crunching underfoot in late autumn.
I silently offered her my army canteen. She grasped it with her gnarled, timeworn fingers and took a few small sips, all the while staring at me. Her eyes were cloudy, almost opaque, and one could sense the narrative of many years lived etched within them. Yet, despite their obscured appearance, her gaze was surprisingly sharp and penetrating, as if it were cutting through to see my inner self, all my thoughts and secrets.
“They call you Lev. A mechanic. Your wife is Veronica, and your little son is Artem,” she pronounced slowly, sending a shiver down my spine despite the forty-degree heat.
My astonishment was hard to mask, but I tried to appear composed. Our village was small, just a handful of homes, and every neighbor knew one another, if not by face, then at least by name.
“You guessed it, grandmother. And what should I call you?” I politely inquired, reclaiming my canteen.
“They name me Maria. I come from a distant hamlet beyond the forest, from Pine Hollow. Thank you for the water, for your kindness. I will repay your goodness,” she said, her hands rummaging through the deep pocket of her tattered apron.
She produced a small stone. It appeared perfectly ordinary, gray, smooth, polished by time and countless touches. It could have rested at the bottom of any river or along the edge of a country road, and I doubt I would have ever noticed it.
“Take it,” she extended it towards me. “Whenever your darkest hour draws near, when the greatest danger approaches — it will become hot. It will burn like fire in your palm. You will then understand — it is close. It will happen day by day, hour by hour.”
“What are you talking about, grandmother? You’re telling fairy tales,” I chuckled, yet I took the stone. It was cool and smooth.
“This isn’t a fairy tale, Lev. I possess this heavy and unbearable gift — I can see when a person’s journey approaches its end, when their road concludes. This burden is grave. But you aided me, offered water, did not refuse, and I will assist you. Always keep this stone with you. Never part from it.”
She turned and slowly walked away, not uttering another word or casting a glance back. She dissolved into the sultry haze just as silently as she had arrived. I glanced at the stone in my palm, shrugged, and shoved it into the pocket of my work pants. Moments later, immersed again in fixing the intricate machinery, I completely forgot about the unusual encounter.
Time has passed. More than a year later, September arrived, surprisingly rainy and damp. Heavy leaden clouds constantly filled the sky, pouring cold streams of water without end. We were working in a far field, harvesting sunflowers, their soaked, drooping heads sadly nodding as raindrops struck them. By lunchtime, the downpour intensified so much that visibility shrank to nearly nil, forcing us to halt work.
As I drove home on my tractor, the rain-soaked dirt road transformed into a sticky, slippery mass, and the wheels spun, the vehicle constantly skidding. I focused entirely on steering, striving to keep the heavy machine on a relatively safe track. Suddenly, I felt a sharp, searing heat in my pocket. Like someone had pressed a red-hot ember to my thigh. I yelped in surprise and pain, desperately rummaging in my pocket with one hand.
My fingers found the source of the heat. I pulled it out. It was the very same stone. But now it was no longer cold and lifeless. It blazed with heat, as if it had just emerged from the forge. It was so scorching that I could barely hold it in my palm; my skin reddened and began to hurt.
I abruptly stopped the tractor and turned off the engine. The sound of a loud ringing filled my ears, and my heart raced wildly in my chest, seemingly attempting to break free. At that moment, realization hit me. I recalled that scorching summer day, the shadow of the old woman, her quiet yet assured voice. Her words resounded in my memory with alarming clarity. Here I sat in the cabin, while the rain drummed endlessly on the metal roof, merging with the buzzing in my temples. Fragmented, terrifying thoughts rushed through my mind. What was about to happen? Perhaps the engine would explode? Or the tractor would tip over into this gooey sludge? Or lightning would strike us? The danger loomed invisibly nearby, palpable yet intangible, like an electric charge in the humid air.
And then I made my decision. I resolved to call my wife. I just wanted to hear her voice. I needed to tell her and our son how much I loved them, just in case. The reception was dreadful; voices broke through noise and static, but I managed to connect.
“Veronica, how are you doing there?” I asked, my own voice seemed foreign, constricted.
“We’re at home, with Artem. Where are you stuck? Lunch is getting cold, and we’re waiting for you,” her calm, familiar voice came through.
As the stone in my hand grew even hotter, it stopped just burning; it now caused genuine pain, as if I were holding a piece of molten metal. I squeezed it so tightly my knuckles turned white.
“Veronica, listen to me carefully. If something were to happen to me…”
At that very moment, I saw it. Right before me, about a hundred meters away, the towering old poplar by our fence, which I’d seen out of my window every morning, began to lean unnaturally. Its trunk, sturdy and familiar, cracked loudly enough to be heard over the rain’s din and the cab’s glass. It was falling. Slowly and inexorably, like in a terrifying dream. It was descending directly onto the road, onto the very spot where I would have found myself in mere seconds, had I not stopped. But that was not the most horrifying part. The tree’s heavy, water-laden branches aimed straight for the roof of my own home.
“Veronica, get out of the house! Immediately!” I yelled into the receiver, my voice filled with such desperation that I frightened myself. “The poplar is falling! Right onto our house!”
I heard her frightened scream in response, it broke off, followed by a crash, the sound of shattering glass, and the line abruptly went dead. A dreadful buzzing filled my ears.
I restarted the tractor, my heart was racing madly now. I drove faster than I ever had before, ignoring the ruts and flying mud from beneath the wheels. Approaching the house, I encountered a horrifying sight: the old poplar lay flat, its top embedded in the roof, destroying it, while the powerful trunk had smashed through the wall and collapsed directly into the kitchen. The very kitchen where my wife was meant to be setting the table.
At that moment, two figures burst from around the corner of the house, from beneath the shed’s eaves. My Veronica, pale and trembling, and our Artem, clinging to her leg. They were alive. They were safe and sound, apart from the shock that lingered in their wide eyes. They had heard my desperate shout over the phone and had managed to rush out of the house mere moments before the massive tree crashed down on our home.
I leapt from the cab and ran towards them, embracing them both, feeling the tremors throughout my body. Only then did I recall the stone. I reached into my pocket. The stone had turned cold again. An ordinary, smooth pebble that showed no sign of its recent heat.
As the evening settled, and the first waves of emotions subsided, the neighbors helped us manage the wreckage, and we sat at a makeshift table on the porch. I recounted to my wife the entire story — the hot day, the old woman named Maria, and the enigmatic gift, the foretelling stone. Veronica listened intently, not interrupting, her face initially showing skepticism that transformed into a deep, concentrated thought as my tale unfolded.
“If it wasn’t for your call…” she whispered quietly, gazing off towards the devastated kitchen. “If I hadn’t heard your voice, so scared… I would have been setting the table. We would have been sitting there, Artem and I… at that table…”
She didn’t need to finish; I understood everything. We sat quietly holding hands, and in this silence lay an entire universe filled with the horror we had endured and immeasurable gratitude.
The next day, I ventured back to the distant hamlet of Pine Hollow to find Maria. I was directed to a small, almost toy-like house on the very edge of the settlement, right by the forest. I knocked on the crooked door.
“Come in, Lev,” her familiar hoarse voice called from within. “I knew you would come today. Step inside, don’t be shy.”
I crossed the threshold. She was sitting at a simple wooden table, gazing at me with her cloudy but perceptive eyes.
“Thank you,” I exhaled, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “You saved my family. You saved them.”
“Not me, dear,” she shook her head. “It was the stone that warned you. It was you who acted rightly, humanely — you didn’t think of yourself, your safety, but your loved ones, your family. That is the true strength.”
“Where did you get this… gift?” I asked, sitting on a stool across from her.
She sighed heavily, her gaze drifting somewhere far away, as if she were observing something distant, invisible to ordinary people.
“Since birth. My mother had the same gift, as did her mother. We can see the glow of life, and we know when it begins to fade, when it approaches its end. Usually, we remain silent, you know? Who would want to know their last hour in advance? It’s a heavy burden. Yet you… you did a good deed for me, just out of kindness, asking nothing in return. Those like you should be helped and cherished.”
“And the stone? What is this stone?” I wouldn’t cease asking.
“Just an ordinary stone, a river pebble. There’s nothing special about it. But I enchanted it, aligning it with your fate, with your life. Now it is tied to it by an invisible thread. When it heats up, it means the greatest darkness is approaching. But know this, Lev, its power is not limitless. It can work in this way only once.”
“Once?” I echoed, my heart skipping again. “But it already worked! Yesterday…”
Maria smiled. Her smile was light, but sadness lingered in her eyes.
“The warning worked. You diverted death; you outsmarted it, changing what seemed unyielding. Now you have a new date in the book of fates. Very distant. Very distant. The stone will heat up again when your new hour arrives. But it won’t be soon, Lev. Not for a long time.”
“But when exactly?” I pressed on, unable to restrain my curiosity.
“I won’t tell you,” she replied firmly. “You don’t need that knowledge. Such insight is a curse, not a blessing. Live your life. Raise your son, love your wife, help others. And always carry this stone with you. When it grows hot again, you will have some time. Time to say everything, to bid farewell to everyone. This is all I can give you. It is the most precious gift.”
I left her feeling an incredible weight in my heart, filled with varied thoughts. Yet, within it also resided immense, boundless gratitude. Gratitude for this second chance.
Five years have now passed since then. The stone remains with me, sitting in my deepest pocket, always cold, ordinary, unremarkable. Sometimes, especially in the evenings, I take it out, rest it in my palm, and simply look at it. I try not to think about the future, not to speculate, not to build assumptions.
I have learned to live. To live each new day as if it could be my last — I hug my Veronica tightly every morning, I teach my growing Artem to drive the tractor, I help neighbors repair fences and collect harvests. Because I know that when this small gray stone in my pocket burns again, there will be no second chance. There will only be time. Time to say goodbye.
Maria is a figure I have never seen again. A year after our conversation, I learned she quietly passed away. She simply fell asleep and did not awaken. She knew her day; I have no doubt about that. She was aware and at peace.
Just before her death, she entrusted an envelope to a neighbor. Inside lay a note written in an uneven, trembling hand: “Pass the stone on to my son when he grows up. He will need it. M.”
This woman bore a strange, incredibly heavy gift. The burden of seeing what remains hidden from ordinary eyes. Yet she employed it for good. She imparted not knowledge of an end, but the significance of every moment lived.
And now I guard this stone. I wait. But I do not wait with fear. I simply live. Fully, with love in my heart, grateful for every new dawn, for every clear, cold day gifted to me and my family.
And the stone in my pocket remains silent, and in its silence lies my entire life.