Chapter IX opens with winter still pressing down on the village, unforgiving in its bitterness and relentless in its grip. The death of Nikolay marks not just a personal loss, but a breaking point in the household, where grief must now coexist with daily survival. Food supplies dwindle as the family stretches their resources, and even the simplest meals require effort and sacrifice. Kiryak, often loud and unrepentant at night, stirs frustration in the household with his careless routines, only to offer feeble apologies by morning. Outside, the cold is unrelenting, biting through worn clothes and sealing the ground beneath layers of ice. The livestock suffer silently, their starvation a cruel echo of the family’s own scarcity. All around, the snow seems endless, not just in its reach but in the despair it brings, turning every task into an endurance test.

Even in this bleak season, time continues to move. Slowly, spring forces its way through the frozen shell of winter, bringing warmth that softens both the soil and the spirit. Streams, once locked in silence, rush forward again, carrying away the remnants of frost and ushering in the sounds of returning birds. When the cranes fly overhead, their haunting cries pierce the stillness, stirring something deep in Olga’s chest. The flooded meadows shimmer under the sun, reflecting both beauty and memory. For Olga, the thaw awakens longing—not just for warmth, but for change. Her gaze scans the open landscape with silent hope, pulled forward by the urge to break from the weight of sorrow. Spring, though brief in appearance, signals an emotional turning point that no one in the household dares to ignore.

A decision forms quietly but firmly—Olga will leave for Moscow, a return to service that feels less like defeat and more like escape. Kiryak, too, prepares to leave, hoping for work elsewhere, though his reasons lack the clarity and purpose Olga carries. Their journey forward is underscored by the pain of what they leave behind. The memories of Nikolay still haunt the village paths, the church bells, and the quiet corners of the home. Farewell is not just spoken to the people but to the pieces of a life shaped by hardship and interrupted dreams. Olga’s features, hardened by months of grief and labor, reveal how much she has changed. What innocence once lingered in her expression has been replaced by determination and quiet sorrow.

Her final moments in the village are marked by silent observation. She looks at the church, once a place of comfort, and then at the house, now emptied of laughter. Neighbors nod their goodbyes, their faces a mix of sympathy and weary understanding. Though many have judged or misunderstood her, their eyes reveal a shared truth—they all carry burdens shaped by the same bitter soil. There is no drama in her exit, no grand announcement, only the steady steps of someone moving forward with no illusions. Her heart is heavy, but within it is a flicker of resilience, born not from ease but from enduring. Leaving doesn’t mean forgetting; it means choosing to keep going.

Olga’s feelings are tangled as the road opens before her. She doesn’t hate the village, yet she can’t remain tied to its slow unraveling. Her thoughts stretch between anger and affection, sorrow and strength. She sees the flaws in those she’s lived among, but also their humanity—their coping, their endurance, their small moments of kindness. Life here is not cruel by choice but by necessity. Through her eyes, we witness both the grit and grace of rural living, where hardship is constant, but so is connection. Her departure becomes more than a physical relocation; it marks a psychological shift from enduring to acting, from stasis to motion.

The story closes on a note that is neither triumphant nor tragic, but human. Olga walks away changed, and while her destination may hold new challenges, she is no longer the same woman who once waited passively for happiness. Her struggles have carved out something deeper—an understanding of pain, and more importantly, of possibility. In that quiet realization, the narrative finds its strength, offering not a resolution but a moment of clarity. The village, for all its flaws, will go on, and so will Olga. The season has changed—and with it, so has she.