Chapter III begins with the quiet stir of morning settling over the village, where golden sunlight softens the outlines of hardship. Marya, wrapped in her usual silence, walks to church alongside others, their heavy steps and heavy thoughts barely stirred by the soft rustle of dew-laced grass. As the service unfolds, their poverty remains invisible to the finely dressed newcomers from the grand house, whose presence only sharpens the line between privilege and necessity. Marya watches them without speaking, but her thoughts race. She feels the unbridgeable distance between those with choices and those bound to the soil. The ritual of mass, instead of uplifting her, brings a flood of quiet frustration. It is a moment of communion that only seems to reinforce their exclusion.

Yet tradition continues to dictate the rhythm of village life. One such practice is sending young boys to Moscow in hopes of a better future. What once began as servitude under noble families is now a faint shimmer of opportunity—an escape, however narrow, from poverty. Nikolay, a familiar figure in the community, once walked that very path. His story, shared with pride and laced with sorrow, resonates among the villagers. They see in him both inspiration and warning: success earned, but not without cost. His memories fill the air like a second sermon. Beneath his words is the unspoken truth—that leaving is as much loss as it is gain.

As the villagers gather in his hut, the quiet act of reading from the Gospel offers comfort. Faith becomes a thread that ties the weary hearts together, letting them share not just belief but longing. Granny listens with a mixture of reverence and reflection. The children, wide-eyed and still, sense the importance of the moment even if the words elude them. This shared listening transforms the cramped space into something sacred. In this flicker of unity, the weight of daily burdens seems lighter. The Gospel, read aloud, becomes more than scripture—it becomes memory, legacy, and healing.

Once home, reality swiftly returns. Granny fights with the geese, her apron flapping as she defends her garden like a general guarding borders. Her voice, sharp and persistent, cuts through the morning air, as she scolds both man and beast. The chickens squawk and scatter while she tries to restore her fragile domain. Each day’s survival depends not only on effort but on vigilance. The old man grumbles nearby, more shadow than participant, embodying the wear of long years and deeper silence. Their exchanges, though laced with irritation, pulse with a rhythm as familiar as prayer.

The household breathes with layers of tension and care. Grandchildren hover near, absorbing the moods and murmurs of their elders. Granny’s eyes, tired yet alert, scan constantly for anything that might threaten her tightly held order. A misplaced bucket or an unruly goat can unravel an entire morning. In this small world, nothing is too trivial. Every detail matters. The old tales she repeats are more than stories—they are warnings, values, and threads that connect past to present.

This chapter, in its winding simplicity, captures the layered textures of village life. It’s not just a setting—it’s a cycle of effort, faith, and memory. Marya’s observations, Nikolay’s reflections, and Granny’s routines weave together into a shared life that is at once rooted and restless. Within the quiet chaos of everyday tasks and whispered prayers, a portrait of endurance is formed. There is no resolution, only the persistent rhythm of people doing their best with what little they have. The weight of their world doesn’t disappear, but they carry it together, step by step, breath by breath.