Chapter VIII reveals the slow erosion of wonder in the village of Zhukovo, where once lively tales and half-whispered legends have been replaced by plain talk of debt, hunger, and land disputes. Stories of buried treasure or ghosts have all but vanished, traded for complaints about taxes and the local Zemstvo, which Osip blames for the village’s steady decline. The villagers speak plainly now, with little left to dream about. Men, hardened by labor and disappointment, regard religion as something tolerated rather than believed in. Women like Granny and Marya cling to customs out of habit more than conviction, crossing themselves without knowing why. Even the old church is more a backdrop for funerals and holidays than a place of faith.

Among them, Olga stands out—not because she preaches or scolds, but because she listens and reads aloud from the Gospels. Her quiet devotion earns her a kind of respect, especially from those who still find comfort in religious words. When she goes on pilgrimages, it’s not to escape, but to find moments of peace. She always returns with a softer heart and a firmer sense of purpose, tending to her family with fresh resolve. But her faith doesn’t spread far. Zhukovo’s reality weighs too heavily, and even religious holidays turn into excuses for drinking sprees that often end in violence. What should be holy days become blurred by noise, anger, and regret.

A rare moment of spiritual unity comes with the arrival of a sacred ikon, carried into the village with reverence and awe. For a few days, people gather together, praying sincerely and hoping for something to shift—health, good weather, or maybe just peace of mind. The ikon offers a pause, a feeling that maybe not everything is lost. Faces soften. Even the gruffest men lower their eyes in silence. It is as if the village remembers what faith once felt like. But when the ikon leaves, so does the mood. The hope it brought evaporates, leaving behind only deeper longing.

Daily life quickly returns to its grim rhythm. The poor work themselves to exhaustion, while the well-off begin to think about their legacies, planning elaborate funerals as if ceremonies could buy them peace in the next world. Death is not feared by the poor in the same way—it’s seen as a release, an end to their aching hands and empty stomachs. What they dread more is illness, the slow, humiliating decline that comes with pain and helplessness. A small cough can spark panic. People whisper about who might die next, as if fate could be bent by their worries. There is no doctor, only old remedies and a deep fear that sickness means the worst.

The villagers’ view of life and death becomes almost transactional. Few expect joy; they settle for endurance. Children grow up watching their elders bend under the same loads, learning early that hope is dangerous. Even kindness is rare—small acts, like a warm meal or shared blanket, are treasured precisely because they are so unusual. Yet despite everything, some spark remains. Olga continues to read. She continues to believe, even if no one else fully shares it. Her resilience isn’t loud, but it is steady. And in that, there’s a quiet rebellion against the apathy that surrounds her.

Zhukovo is not painted as cruel, but tired—its people shaped by weather, work, and years of disappointment. Faith flickers but rarely catches fire. Most have learned to live without expectation, focused only on what the next day might demand. Even so, in its own subdued way, this chapter reminds us that meaning can be found in repetition, in the small, persistent choices to care or reflect. While the village waits for nothing, Olga waits for something more. Whether that “more” ever comes isn’t clear. But her belief, however faint, marks a difference. In a place where dreams have faded, belief itself becomes an act of courage.