Chapter II opens as the evening quiet settles over the humble home, where each member of the family finds a place to rest. Nikolay, frail and bound by illness, lies atop the warm stove with his aging father beside him, seeking comfort in the heat radiating from the bricks. Sasha, younger and still filled with energy despite the day’s fatigue, stretches out on the floor without complaint. In a separate space, Olga and the women retreat to the barn, the soft rustle of hay beneath them offering a cushion against the hard reality of village life. There, Olga gently consoles Marya, urging her to endure with grace. Her voice takes on the rhythm of prayer as she repeats the scriptural call to turn the other cheek. This moment of sisterly tenderness rises above hardship, echoing a spiritual resilience that holds the women together.

Olga, always reflective, shares memories of Moscow, painting vivid images of its grandeur and order. Her tales float between descriptions of gold-domed churches and the polished manners of the gentry, a world removed from their own. Marya listens in awe but remains grounded in her reality—she cannot read, write, or pray beyond what she has memorized. Her world is limited by the walls of her home and the expectations of marriage. Fear defines her relationship with Kiryak, whose breath of alcohol and tobacco fills her with dread each evening. Fyokla, bitter yet outspoken, voices her disdain for both her husband and the life she feels trapped in. Together, these women reveal a quiet desperation masked by the routines of survival and the roles they have been handed.

The stillness of night is broken by the sudden crow of a rooster, a signal too early to mean morning but too late to be ignored. Silence returns, dense and uncomfortable, until Fyokla rises and slips away, her bare feet moving without sound into the shadows. Her exit is both literal and symbolic—a gesture of defiance or perhaps a search for something less suffocating than the barn’s close air. Olga stirs but does not follow, sensing that some actions require solitude. Outside, the dark still clings to the sky, even as a hint of dawn begins to tint the horizon. Within these moments lies a tension between containment and escape, between duty and longing.

Morning brings with it a softened tone. Olga and Marya walk together toward the church, their steps cushioned by damp grass and their hearts lighter for having shared the night’s weight. The meadow around them glistens with dew, and for a while, the suffering of their lives is replaced by the beauty of simple companionship. Sunlight filters through the clouds, casting a glow over their path, and the open field seems to expand their spirits. Marya, often burdened by silence, allows herself to feel the warmth of being understood. Olga, whose stories had seemed distant the night before, now becomes a source of comfort rather than contrast. This walk, quiet and unhurried, becomes a rare reprieve.

The women reach the church, its modest structure a familiar sanctuary. Inside, the scent of incense mingles with the quiet murmur of prayers. They find a moment of peace in the ritual, even if their minds are still tethered to the chores and troubles that await. Faith, for them, is not so much about doctrine as it is about endurance. The words may blur, but the act of showing up offers something grounding. In these sacred walls, Marya feels less alone. And Olga, despite her experiences in the city, shares in the collective rhythm of belief that binds even the weary to hope.

The chapter captures the nuanced textures of rural womanhood—grief, endurance, and the occasional breath of relief. It is in these subtle shifts, from sorrow to solidarity, that the story breathes its fullest. Nothing changes dramatically, yet everything moves forward, shaped by small acts of kindness and the quiet power of shared experience.