There Is No Way Out. Andrew Zolt

vines. An old swing creaking gently under the weight of the summer breeze.

      As soon as Alexander stepped out of the car, the silence wrapped around him. Not dead silence – but living. Full of trembling, the breath of grass, the whisper of invisible wings.

      He smiled and said: “It’s so quiet here…”

      Aunt Martha wasted no time in warning him about everything.

      “I envy you,” Alexander said after listening carefully.

      “Envy me?” Aunt Martha looked at him, surprised.

      “Yes, Auntie. Back home, my father and I live in the suburbs. It’s basically a rural area with private houses. I’m sick of waking up to barking dogs and falling asleep to prison songs blaring from my neighbor’s windows. It feels like I’m living behind barbed wire, not in freedom.”

      “I understand,” she said warmly. “Then you’ll rest well here.”

      “I’m sure of it.”

      She invited him onto the porch.

      Over a steaming cup of mint tea, Alexander asked:

      “Is there anything beautiful around here? Anywhere I should go?”

      Aunt Martha brightened immediately.

      “Oh, we have wonderful places!” she said. “Just past the northern trail, there’s a little waterfall. It’s lively, especially after the rains. A bit farther on, there’s an old forest lake the locals call it Swan Lake. There used to be a whole flock of swans there. They’re gone now, but the place is still beautiful. And there’s also the ancient spruce grove, trees two hundred years old, they say.”

      Her voice was warm, like a soft blanket on the shoulders.

      Alexander listened, gazing at the sunset sky where clouds drifted lazily in the golden light.

      “I’ll head out tomorrow morning,” he decided.

      He woke early.

      Mist still lay across the ground like a thin silver veil. The air smelled of moss and rainwater.

      Alexander pulled on his boots, grabbed a thermos of tea, and set out along the trail behind the house.

      The branches of the old spruces wove so tightly overhead that it felt like walking through a green cathedral. The soft carpet of fallen needles muffled his footsteps, and Alexander seemed to drift along in the endless green silence.

      Birds chirped far above, where ribbons of sunlight slipped through the branches. Every now and then a squirrel flashed by, a streak of rusty red.

      Somewhere ahead he heard the faint sound of running water, and his heart stirred with excitement – the waterfall.

      It turned out to be small but charming. The water spilled over a stone ledge, breaking into a thousand sparkling droplets. Tiny rainbows danced in the misty air.

      Alexander sat on a boulder, breathing in the cool, damp air. The sound of the water caressed his ears like a gentle hand.

      He moved on.

      The path narrowed. The grass grew taller. Ferns rose waist-high. The forest seemed to breathe around him.

      Somewhere a grasshopper chirred. A dark bird darted through the trees.

      Finally, he reached the lake. It stretched out in a deep bowl between low hills. The water was black as obsidian, reflecting clouds and the bowed trunks of trees leaning over the surface. The air smelled sweet with reeds, mixed with the sharpness of wet algae.

      And the silence – it was deeper here. Too complete.

      That’s when he saw him. The one the townsfolk had nicknamed “Lurch.” He sat alone on a stone by the water, as still as a carved statue.

      Alexander approached cautiously.

      “Hello,” he said in a near whisper.

      The man didn’t react. He sat perfectly still.

      Alexander was certain he’d been heard. But he didn’t dare repeat himself. He simply stood there awkwardly, ready to turn and leave.

      “Morcant,” the man said suddenly, his voice deep and echoing like a sound from an underground cavern.

      “What? Excuse me?” Alexander stammered.

      “My name is Morcant,” the man turned his head, and Alexander met his gaze.

      Those eyes – piercing and calm – radiated such power and certainty that Alexander felt a chill run down his spine.

      “Alexander,” he barely managed to say.

      “You don’t like dogs, do you?” Morcant asked with a cold smile.

      “How do you know?” Alexander whispered.

      “Let’s just call it a guess.”

      “You’re right. I don’t like dogs, or their brainless owners.”

      “I dislike them too,” Morcant said calmly.

      “So they deserve to die?” Alexander asked.

      “You’re quick,” Morcant said.

      “Just a guess,” Alexander said, finding a little courage.

      “We’ve been introduced,” Morcant said. “Now go. Come to my house tomorrow at noon.”

      Alexander was taken aback by such bluntness.

      “I’ll come,” he said after a pause.

      “Of course you will,” Morcant finished, and turned his gaze back to the smooth, black surface of the lake.

      ***

      Alexander walked along a narrow, moss-covered path until the house of Morcant loomed before him.