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 What inno­cence once lin­gered in her expres­sion has been replaced by deter­mi­na­tion and qui­et sor­row.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.