Chapter I begins with a quiet but heavy journey as Nikolay Tchikildyeev returns to his childhood village of Zhukovo, no longer the man full of ambition he once was. Once a waiter in Moscow, he is now frail and financially defeated, clinging to a thin hope that the village may offer healing or, at least, shelter. With his wife, Olga, and their daughter, Sasha, beside him, the scene they encounter is bleak—crumbling buildings, barefoot children, and a home stripped of dignity. The interior is dark, crowded, and marked by makeshift decor that signals deep poverty. Where memories once provided warmth, now dust and silence fill the space. Their arrival is met not with joy, but with a stillness that feels more like mourning than welcome.

Outside, the landscape initially fools the senses. The green fields and the lazy river sparkle under the sun, accompanied by the faint ring of a church bell that evokes distant comfort. But the illusion fades as the village’s decay shows through. Every house bears the scars of neglect, every corner whispers of years lost to hardship. Olga and Nikolay walk in silence, sensing that beauty here is only surface-deep. It’s not just the place that has changed—it’s that they themselves are no longer who they were. The village is no longer a sanctuary, but a mirror reflecting back their fears. This contrast between appearance and reality adds emotional weight to their arrival.

The home they now occupy is full but not alive. Nikolay’s parents, toothless and slow, share the space with his siblings’ families, all confined to tight quarters. Children sleep wherever there is space, and meals are taken quietly, with only bread and water to pass around. Conversation turns easily toward misfortune: illnesses untreated, plans abandoned, days spent simply enduring. Olga, though not unused to hardship, feels an ache rise as she watches her daughter adapt too quickly to deprivation. There is no place here for individual rest, only the shared weariness of those too tired to change anything. Nikolay begins to understand that survival, here, means silencing one’s despair.

When Kiryak returns that evening, shouting and clearly drunk, the tone in the household shifts from exhaustion to fear. Marya, his wife, flinches instinctively, her body already preparing for the possibility of harm. His presence dominates the room even before he enters it, casting a shadow longer than the doorway. Nikolay listens in silence, realizing that the demons he fled in the city now have different names in the village—alcoholism, violence, resignation. It isn’t illness that might end him, but the suffocating rhythm of rural life, where hope drains more slowly but no less completely. The others pretend nothing is wrong, but their silence speaks loudly.

Olga, watching all this unfold, becomes the emotional compass of the household. She tries to bridge the distance between what was expected and what has arrived. Her instincts to nurture remain intact, though now tested more than ever. The youngest children cling to her stories, while the older ones drift toward cynicism. Even in this grim place, Olga seeks something to hold onto—perhaps a chance for Sasha to know something better, or perhaps just the ability to keep moving forward. The emotional labor she performs is unseen, but it sustains whatever tenderness remains.

The chapter closes with Nikolay sitting alone by the window, coughing softly as night settles over Zhukovo. The cold creeps in even though it’s still summer, and the flickering lamplight exaggerates the room’s shadows. He watches the sky turn black and listens to the rhythmic breathing of the children behind him. He had hoped to return home for healing, but what he found was something else: a truth both painful and inescapable. In this moment of quiet, he begins to understand that coming home doesn’t always mean finding peace. Sometimes, it means facing what was hidden in memory, and learning how to endure it.