Happiness begins beneath a quiet sky as vast as the hopes harbored by men living far from cities. The two shepherds, one old and nearly toothless, the other young and alert, sit by their flock through the night, joined by an estate overseer. Together they trade tales—not of sheep or work—but of fortunes hidden in the earth, of magic, curses, and long-forgotten men who once brushed shoulders with the supernatural. These stories, while half-believed, offer more than entertainment; they serve as emotional refuge. The land they live on is immense, harsh, and indifferent. Treasures buried beneath it become metaphors for something deeper—something they cannot quite name but feel pulling at them nonetheless.

As the elder speaks of Yefim Zhmenya—a man feared, perhaps envied, for his rumored pact with dark forces—the tale takes a strange turn. Yefim is said to have cursed villagers, drawing illness upon them as easily as wind shifts across the steppe. His death left behind not just silence, but whispers of silver and gold guarded by spirits, untouchable by ordinary men. The old man’s tone, cracked and low, suggests that perhaps these stories are not just myths. He may not have seen such treasure, but he’s lived long enough to know that people shape their lives around belief, not facts. The young shepherd listens with a mix of awe and skepticism. His eyes remain fixed on the dark outline of the horizon, as if waiting for treasure to rise like the moon.

The estate overseer remains quiet through most of the exchange, his polished boots and stiff coat a sign of his distance from the shepherds’ world. He sees these tales as distractions, quaint superstitions from minds dulled by isolation. Yet something in the old man’s certainty unsettles him. In a world that often gives so little, even illusions can sustain a man. The overseer wants to scoff, but can’t. He knows that without these stories, nights like this one would stretch unbearably long. Legends about cursed coins and glowing spirits become a form of survival, just as important as bread or fire.

As night leans toward morning, the sky begins to lighten and the stars fade. Their talk wanes too, leaving behind only thoughts unsaid. The young shepherd, hesitant but emboldened by the old man’s tale, asks when they’ll begin searching for treasure. The elder doesn’t laugh. He only shrugs, as if to say, “We already are.” The land before them, wide and empty, feels different now. Not richer, but fuller. The promise of something hidden—just out of sight—hangs in the air like mist. That promise, no matter how faint, is enough to keep their spirits upright under the burden of another long day.

Treasure in these stories rarely refers to coins alone. It speaks of freedom from toil, of recognition, of finally resting without worry. For peasants and shepherds whose lives are marked by monotony and hardship, such dreams offer more comfort than truth ever could. The idea that somewhere beneath the soil lies a key to another life can turn an ordinary evening into something meaningful. Happiness, in this sense, is not a destination. It is a shared tale, a collective yearning wrapped in fantasy. These men do not find treasure, but in voicing their hopes aloud, they reclaim a sliver of control in a world that usually ignores them.

As the flock stirs and the first heat of day brushes the steppe, they resume their roles—watchers, wanderers, men bound to the earth. The overseer departs with his mind clouded, not by belief, but by something more disorienting: possibility. The shepherds say little as they move, but the young one’s pace quickens slightly. In a land where time crawls, any reason to move faster is worth holding on to. Whether cursed gold waits beneath their feet, or just the satisfaction of imagining it, they walk forward with something they didn’t have the day before. A story, a sliver of wonder, and a fragile hope that even the harshest life can hold moments of imagined light.

In the vast openness of the Russian steppe, happiness does not come in the form of riches. It lives in belief, in the gentle comfort of stories shared under the stars. For men who work the land and live at the mercy of its cycles, such moments become priceless—fleeting reminders that even in a world of hardship, dreams remain free.