To my grandmother Annushka

Annushka was always lying down. In her final years, all she did was pray, clean her side of the house, and lie down again. Night turned into day, and day into night. She had been alone for a long time, and probably a dozen Christmas trees had already ended up in the trash before Annushka quietly accepted: this was how it would be now. “Our Father… Save and Protect.” She used to embroider floral towels with her thin, bent fingers, twisted by rickets — piercing cloth with a fine needle until gardens bloomed from thread. But now, nearly blind, she could only see the shadows of her woven tapestries through the cataract lace that covered her eyes. There were no more pansies or peonies blooming by the porch, no clever cat named Tobik, and no warm scent of morning pancakes.

For many years, I was a musician. A singer. A producer. I knew how to craft sound and silence, how to make hearts beat in rhythm. But the more I sang, the more something inside me vanished. As if I was giving away more than I ever received. The years passed, and neither applause nor lights could save me from the thick veil I lived behind. It was a fog. A trance. A depression thick as smoke. And I knew exactly how to disappear — simply by doing nothing at all.

When it became unbearable, I went to the Atlantic Ocean. Not for inspiration. For myself. I sat before that cold infinity and asked for nothing. I simply listened to how it breathed — as if it knew I was dying and chose to stay beside me until I came back to life.

Now, I am a teacher. I no longer sing to be liked. I speak so that people remember who they are. So they can walk through their own darkness, destruction, and rebirth. Now I guide others — not because I have answers, but because I’ve been to the bottom. I’ve stood in the fire. And I can stand with those who choose to live.

Now the cold Atlantic Ocean will always remind me of Annushka. He, too, is silent and knowing. He, like her, simply stays near when it’s time to change fate.

Annushka passed quietly, at dawn, when the trees were just beginning to lull the crickets to sleep. Her thin, curled body folded into itself like a child’s, resting on a pillow embroidered with her own flowers — and she took her final breath. She was buried in a valley far from her home — that’s how it happened. Five years ago, I returned to that valley and left a seashell on her grave — one the Black Sea had given me.

Sometimes Annushka visits me in dreams — in moments of great transition. As if she stands beside me, watching as I tear apart the laws of my lineage, rewriting destiny, unraveling the sorrow woven into her towels.

Annushka always knew I would become a magician. A woman who would change everything. She never said it — but I know she knew.