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.