Last summer brought such sweltering days that the air over the fields shimmered like a quivering water surface, and the ground released a heat haze that made every breath feel scorching and thick. I was repairing my tractor right in the middle of a boundless field—the transmission had broken down, leaving the iron giant helplessly frozen among the golden wheat. The sun blazed mercilessly, its rays piercing like heated needles with no refuge in sight. There wasn’t a whisper of wind, nor a hint of coolness. An overwhelming silence reigned, broken only by my steady breathing and the crisp chirping of crickets nestled in the grain.
Suddenly, as if a long-awaited cloud had occluded the exhausting light, a shadow fell over me. I raised my head, wiping sweat from my brow with a greasy sleeve, and there she was. An elderly woman stood right before me. How she had appeared in this desolate place was a mystery. She materialized silently, almost ghost-like, as if she had risen from the very heat, from the shimmering haze.
“Could you spare some water, dear?” she spoke, her voice soft and hoarse, reminiscent of the rustle of dry leaves underfoot in late autumn.
I silently handed her my army canteen. With her gnarled, time-worn fingers, she took it and sipped a few small gulps while gazing steadily at me. Her eyes were cloudy and milky, seemingly filled with the stories of countless lived years. Yet, despite their outer veil, her gaze was surprisingly sharp and penetrating, as if she were seeing through me, perceiving all my thoughts and secrets.
“They call you Lev. A mechanic. Your wife’s name is Veronika, and your little boy is Artyom,” she said slowly, sending a chill down my spine despite the forty-degree heat.
My astonishment was uncontainable, but I attempted to maintain my composure. Our hamlet was small with just a few houses, and all residents were well acquainted with one another, if not by face, certainly by name.
“You guessed it, grandma. And what should I call you?” I inquired politely, reclaiming the canteen.
“Call me Maria. I come from a distant hamlet beyond the forest, from Sosnovy. Thank you for the water and your kindness. I will repay your goodness in kind,” she said, and her hands began rummaging through the deep pocket of her worn apron.
She produced a small stone. It appeared perfectly ordinary—gray, smooth, polished by time and presumably countless touches. It could rest at the bottom of any river or by the edge of a rural road, and I likely would have never noticed it.
“Take it,” she extended it to me. “When the darkest hour approaches, when the greatest danger is near, it will become hot. It will burn in your palm like fire. Then you will know—the end is near. Day for day, hour for hour.”
“What are you talking about, grandma? You tell fairy tales,” I scoffed, yet I still took the stone. It was cold and smooth.
“These are not fairy tales, Lev. I possess a heavy and unbearable gift—I see when a person’s road comes to an end, when their path concludes. It is a heavy burden. But you helped me, offered me water without denying me, and I will help you. Always carry this stone with you. Do not part with it.”
She turned and slowly walked away, saying not another word, never looking back. She vanished into the heat haze as quietly as she had appeared. I stared at the stone in my palm, shrugged, and tucked it into the pocket of my work trousers. Minutes later, immersed in the task of fixing the complex machinery, I completely forgot about the strange encounter.
Time passed. A year more. September arrived, unexpectedly rainy and dreary. The sky was constantly covered with heavy leaden clouds, from which cold streams of water poured without end. We were working in the far field, harvesting sunflowers, their wet, drooping heads sadly nodding under the weight of raindrops. By lunchtime, the downpour intensified to such an extent that visibility dropped almost to zero, forcing us to cease our work.
I drove home on my tractor. The rain-sodden dirt road had turned into a sticky, slippery mush, the wheels spun, and the vehicle constantly skidded. Fully focused on steering, I struggled to keep the heavy machine on a relatively safe path. Suddenly, I felt a sharp, searing sensation in my pocket—like someone had pressed a hot coal against my thigh. I yelped in shock and pain, and with one hand, I frantically searched my pocket.
My fingers brushed the source of that heat. I pulled it out. It was the same stone. But now it was not cold and lifeless. It blazed as if freshly pulled from the furnace. It was so hot that I could barely hold it in my hand; my skin turned red and began to hurt.
I abruptly halted the tractor and shut off the engine. A deafening roar rang in my ears, and my heart raced wildly in my chest, threatening to burst free. At that moment, realization struck me. I suddenly recalled that scorching summer day, the shadow of the old woman, her quiet but assured voice. Her words echoed in my memory with disturbing clarity. I sat in the cabin while the rain continued its relentless drumming on the metal roof, the sound merging with the ringing in my temples. Fragmented and frightening thoughts raced through my mind. What could happen? Perhaps the engine would explode now? Or the tractor might overturn in this muddy sludge? Or maybe we would be struck by lightning? Danger was lurking nearby, unseen yet palpable, like an electric charge in the moisture-laden air.
Then I made a decision. I decided to call my wife. Just to hear her voice. Just to tell her and our son how much I loved them. Just in case, for the utterly unimaginable. The connection was terrible, my voice distorted through noise and interference, but I managed to get through.
“Veronika, how are you?” I asked, and my voice sounded foreign to me, muffled.
“We’re at home, with Artyom. Where are you stuck? Lunch has long been cooling, and we’re waiting for you,” came her calm, familiar voice through the receiver.
Meanwhile, the stone in my hand grew hotter. It no longer just burned; it caused real pain, as if I were gripping a piece of molten metal. I squeezed it so hard that my knuckles turned white.
“Veronika, listen carefully. If… if something happens to me…”
And at that moment, I saw it. Right before me, about a hundred meters away, the old mighty poplar, which grew right near our fence—visible from my window each morning—was leaning unnaturally. Its trunk, strong and familiar, cracked audibly, even through the storm noise and the glass of the cabin, bending ominously. It was falling. Slowly and inexorably, like a terrifying dream. It was crashing right onto the road. Right to the spot where I would have been in ten, at most fifteen seconds, had I not stopped. But that wasn’t the worst part. The tree’s leafy crown, heavy with rainwater, was headed straight for the roof of my own house.
“Veronika, get out of the house! Now!” I yelled into the phone, my voice filled with such despair that I frightened myself. “The poplar is falling! Right onto our house!”
I heard her frightened, breaking scream in response, followed by a crashing sound, the noise of shattering glass, and then the connection abruptly cut out. An annoying buzzing signal filled my ears.
I restarted the tractor, my heart currently leaping out of my chest. I drove faster than I ever had, ignoring the potholes and splashes of mud from beneath the wheels. As I approached the house, I saw a horrifying scene: the old poplar lay flat, its crown smashing into the roof and destroying it, while the powerful trunk crashed through the wall and collapsed directly into the kitchen. The very kitchen where my wife had just been about to set the table.
Just then, two figures dashed out from around the corner of the house, from under the shed. My Veronika, pale and trembling, and our Artyom, pressed close to her leg. They were alive. They were safe and unharmed, apart from the fear etched in their wide eyes. They had heard my desperate cry on the phone and managed to escape from the house literally a fraction of a second before the immense tree crushed our home.
I leapt from the cabin and ran to them, hugging them both, feeling the tremors course through my whole body. And only then did I remember the stone. I reached into my pocket. The stone was cold again. An ordinary, smooth pebble that showed no signs of its recent heat.
That evening, once the initial emotions had settled, and neighbors helped us clear the debris while we sat at a table temporarily set up on the porch, I recounted the entire story to my wife. The tale of the hot day, the old woman named Maria, and the strange gift—a prophetic stone. Veronika listened without interruption, and initially, disbelief was written on her face. But gradually, as I narrated, it shifted to deep, concentrated thought.
“If it weren’t for your call…” she murmured quietly, gazing towards the ruined kitchen. “If it weren’t for your voice, so frightened… I would have been setting the table. We would have been sitting there… at that table…”
She did not finish, but I understood everything. We sat silently holding hands, and in that silence lay a universe of experienced terror and boundless gratitude.
Upon the following day, I traveled to the distant Sosnovy hamlet to find that same Maria. I was directed to a small, almost toy-like house at the edge of the settlement, right by the forest. I knocked on the crooked door.
“Come in, Lev,” a familiar hoarse voice emerged from behind the door. “I knew you would come today. Please, enter, don’t be shy.”
I stepped over the threshold. She sat at a simple wooden table, watching me with her milky, yet penetrating eyes.
“Thank you,” I exhaled, feeling a lump fill my throat. “You saved my family. You saved them.”
“Not me, dear,” she shook her head. “The stone warned you. But you acted rightly, as a human ought to—you didn’t think of your own safety that moment, but of your loved ones, your family. That is the true strength.”
“Where does this… gift come from?” I asked, sitting down on a stool across from her.
She sighed heavily, and her gaze drifted somewhere far off, as if she were peering at something very distant, invisible to ordinary people.
“Since birth. My mother had it, and so did her mother. We see the glow of life, and we observe when it begins to fade, when it approaches its end. Generally, we remain silent, you know? Who wants to know their last hour in advance? It is a heavy knowledge. But you… you did me a kindness, just so, with a pure heart, without asking for anything in return. It is important to help those like you.”
“And the stone?” I pressed. “What is it?”
“An ordinary river stone. There is nothing special about it. But I enchanted it, attuned it to your fate, to your life. Now it is connected to it by an invisible thread. When it heats—darkness approaches. But know, Lev, its power is not unlimited. It can only act once like this.”
“Once?” I echoed, my heart skipping a beat. “But it already worked! Yesterday…”
Maria smiled. Her smile was light, but sadness lingered in her eyes.
“The warning worked. You averted death, you outsmarted it; you altered what seemed unchangeable. Now you have a new date in the book of fates. A very distant one. Very. The stone will heat again when your new hour comes. But it will not be soon, Lev. Very long.”
“When exactly?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“I won’t say,” she replied resolutely. “You need not know that. This knowledge is a curse, not a blessing. Live your life. Raise your son, love your wife, and help others. Always carry this stone with you. And when it becomes hot again—you will have a little time. Time to do everything, to say everything, to say goodbye to everyone. That is all I can give you. It is the greatest gift.”
With that, I left her with an incredibly heavy heart, filled with various thoughts. But within it also lived immense, boundless gratitude. Gratitude for a second chance.
Five years have now passed. The stone is always with me. It lies in the deepest pocket, always cold, ordinary, unremarkable. Sometimes, especially in the evenings, I take it out, place it in my palm, and simply stare at it. I try not to think of the future, not to speculate, not to make assumptions. I have learned to live. To live each new day as if it could be the last—I hug my Veronika tightly in the mornings, I teach my growing Artyom how to drive the tractor, I help neighbors fix fences and assist with the harvest. Because I know that when that little gray stone in my pocket grows hot again, there will be no second chance. There will only be time. Time to say goodbye.
I have never seen Grandma Maria again. A year after our conversation, I learned she had peacefully passed away. She simply fell asleep and did not wake up. I have no doubt that she knew her day. She knew and was prepared.
Just before her death, she sent a small envelope through a neighbor. Inside was a note written in uneven, shaky handwriting: “Pass the stone to my son when he grows up. He will need it. M.”
The strange, incredibly heavy gift was carried by this woman. The burden of seeing what is hidden from the eyes of ordinary people. Yet she used it for good. She didn’t offer people the knowledge of an end, but the value of every moment lived.
And now I keep this stone. I wait. But I do not wait with fear. I simply live. Fully, with love in my heart, with gratitude for each new dawn, for every pure, cold day that is granted to me and my family.
And the stone in my pocket remains silent, and in its silence lies my entire life.