Đây là câu chuyện 3000 từ bằng tiếng Anh, giữ nguyên các chi tiết hấp dẫn từ bản gốc và phát triển mạch truyện, tâm lý nhân vật:
The Hourglass of Sosnovka
I was flying down the nearly deserted highway, barely registering the scenery flashing past the window. It was July, and the Ukrainian summer was in full, blazing swing.
On both sides of the road, stretching to the horizon, lay endless fields bursting with bright, wild greenery. The rich, vibrant colors—turquoise, yellow, red, violet—were practically incandescent against the dense emerald backdrop. It was incredibly, dizzyingly beautiful here.
The only shame was that Anton absolutely loathed these trips. Trips to his parents’ dacha, in a village called Sosnovka. “I got sick of this place to death when I was a kid,” he’d confess grudgingly, through gritted teeth. He had always wanted to stay in the city, meet friends, but he was forced to hang around here for weeks, helping his grandparents in the garden. In reality, it was simply convenient for his parents: dump the son on the old folks and go enjoy their own vacation.
I honestly couldn’t understand it. In his shoes, I would have been overjoyed to spend time in such a picturesque corner. Especially as a child, especially during the holidays. The river was nearby, the forest was thick. These were the kinds of places where you could film a fairy tale. And Anton clearly didn’t lack for friends in Sosnovka.
Even now, during our rare visits, one of his childhood friends would inevitably drop by. The very guys he once rode bicycles with on the safe dirt roads, built treehouses, and spent days splashing in the warm river water. But as an adult, Anton avoided Sosnovka with all his might.
It didn’t always work out that way, though. Just yesterday, his mother asked him to help with some minor repairs. Usually, all the household chores were handled by Fyodor Konstantinovich, Anton’s father and my father-in-law. But he was currently in the regional hospital. Nothing serious, just a routine check-up. With age, Fyodor Konstantinovich’s blood pressure had started to fluctuate.
His wife, Irina Olegovna, now insisted on regular hospitalizations for monitoring. He agreed without much enthusiasm, but what choice did he have? Irina Olegovna tolerated no dissent. And then, suddenly, there was a leak in the summer kitchen. So, she called her son for help. Who else to ask, especially since he happened to be on vacation?
I happily went with him. His parents always greeted me with genuine warmth and hospitality. And I truly loved Sosnovka itself.
My own grandparents lived in a city apartment, and as a child, I even envied my friends who went to the village for the summer. They would bring back such stories that it seemed to me a completely different, more interesting and richer world existed beyond the city limits. It was pleasant to find myself in such a place, even as an adult.
An apple orchard, a cozy arbor, a wooden banya, and a neat two-room cottage peeking out from behind lush lilac bushes. And the smells! The herbs and flowers, heated by the southern sun, were so fragrant they took your breath away. The buzzing of bees, the chirping of birds—it was all pure beauty.
In the evenings, Irina Olegovna and I would sit in the garden, drinking tea with mint and currant leaves, and homemade strawberry jam. I would gladly spend my entire vacation here. Nowhere else did I feel so calm; nowhere else did such a deep sense of peace wash over me. And how I slept here! Soundly, deeply, with a childlike serenity. In the mornings, I was awakened by the loud singing of birds, not the noise of cars and sharp city sounds.
Here, one could truly rest and recharge. But Anton rarely brought his wife to Sosnovka, and he himself showed up reluctantly. Even during this visit, he was somehow nervous and dissatisfied. He hurried to finish the work, grumbling over trifles, which was completely out of character for him. “I don’t like Sosnovka,” he confessed to me. “A swamp, silence, boredom. The memories aren’t the best. My soul doesn’t belong to this place.”
Sosnovka truly was a genuine village, not just a cluster of summer homes. People lived here year-round. Many kept livestock—cows, geese, chickens, goats. As a city dweller who had only seen such animals on TV, I was mesmerized at first. I constantly filmed the animals on my phone; I especially loved the cows. Beautiful, calm, intelligent animals with huge eyes framed by long, curved lashes. True beauties.
Later, of course, I got used to this village charm, but I still stood by the fence every evening when the shepherd drove the herd home and watched. It was only a shame that I hadn’t managed to make friends with anyone in Sosnovka myself. There was no opportunity, as we only came here for too short a time.
Anton, however, still had old friends here, whom he sometimes socialized with, though without much enthusiasm. This was so unlike my cheerful, sociable husband. Usually, he enjoyed spending time with friends. But here… In Sosnovka, Anton seemed like a different person—as if he was afraid of something, as if everything around him annoyed and angered him. This was the only thing that clouded my trips to the village…
The sun was high now, beating down on the car’s roof. I checked the rearview mirror; Anton was silent, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. We were barely thirty minutes away from Sosnovka, heading back to the city.
“Anton, are you sure you have everything?” I asked, breaking the tense quiet. “You seemed rushed this morning.”
“Yes, Anna. Everything is packed. Keys, wallet, phone. Everything.” His voice was curt, devoid of the relaxed warmth he usually had when we were alone.
We were leaving a day earlier than planned. Anton had fixed the leak by noon, and after a hasty lunch, he insisted we depart immediately. Irina Olegovna had looked slightly disappointed, but she never argued with her son when he got that determined, almost frantic look in his eyes.
“Darling, you were so quiet with your friends last night,” I observed gently. “Sergei and Pavel came over, and you mostly just nodded. It’s not like you to be so withdrawn.”
He didn’t look at me. “It’s just… nostalgia, Anna. Being here reminds me of things. Childhood stuff. It’s boring. Let’s just focus on getting home.”
I sighed, letting the subject drop. The truth was, the last two days had been unsettling. Not because of the place, but because of Anton. He seemed hyper-vigilant, always looking over his shoulder. The atmosphere was fine—his parents were lovely, the food was incredible—but Anton had introduced a discordant note.
The biggest incident happened yesterday evening. We were having dinner when the subject of the old abandoned brick factory near the river came up. It was a local landmark where teenagers used to hang out. Irina Olegovna mentioned that the place was finally being torn down, and Fyodor Konstantinovich had reminisced about catching Anton there once, sneaking out late.
Anton had dropped his fork with a sharp clatter. He hadn’t said anything, just gave his father a look so dark and intense that the older man instantly changed the subject, nervously clearing his throat. The tension was palpable.
He doesn’t just dislike Sosnovka, I thought, staring at the passing fields. He fears it.
“Damn it!” Anton suddenly swore, slamming his hand on the steering wheel.
“What is it?”
“My car keys! Not the ignition key—the spare set. They’re still hanging on the hook in the summer kitchen. I need them for the spare ignition fob, remember?”
I frowned. “We can manage without them, surely. We’ll be home tonight, and the spare is in your desk.”
“No, Anna, I need them now. I need them for something. Just… turn around. Please. I don’t want to drive all the way back here next week just for a silly key.” The urgency in his voice was disproportionate to the object in question.
I nodded, concerned by his distress. He pulled a U-turn on the empty road, heading back toward the village.
Sosnovka appeared quickly. The cottage looked the same—serene, nestled behind the lilacs. Anton pulled up quickly, leaving the engine running.
“I’ll be two minutes,” he said, already unbuckling.
“Wait,” I reached out. “You’re stressed. Let me go. You stay here and cool off. I know exactly where the hook is.”
He hesitated, his hand hovering over the door handle. A flicker of something—was it panic?—crossed his face. “No, I’ll go. It’s faster.”
“Nonsense. The kitchen is right there. I need to stretch my legs anyway. Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be quick.” I gave him a reassuring smile, and before he could argue further, I opened my door and was out.
The gravel crunched beneath my sandals as I walked toward the back of the house, bypassing the main porch and heading straight for the small detached summer kitchen. The air was thick and sweet with the scent of sun-baked cherries and mint.
The kitchen door was unlocked, as usual in the village. I stepped inside.
The room was cool and dim, smelling faintly of herbs and freshly baked bread. I saw the key hook immediately—it was empty. I frowned. Anton must have checked the wrong hook this morning. I turned to look towards the small table.
That’s when I heard the sound.
It was a faint, metallic clink from the pantry cupboard, which was situated just past the kitchen counter. It sounded like a padlock being manipulated.
My heart immediately started to race. My in-laws were gone. Fyodor Konstantinovich was still at the hospital. Who was in the pantry? A burglar? But why would a burglar lock themselves in?
I took a deep, silent breath, my hand instinctively reaching for the heavy wooden pestle on the counter. I moved slowly toward the pantry door, which was a simple, old wooden thing with a latch.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice thin. “Is anyone there? I’m calling the police!”
Silence. Absolute silence, then a soft, barely perceptible whisper.
I reached out, my fingers curling around the cold metal of the latch. I swung the door open in one swift motion.
The small pantry was dark, stacked high with jars of preserves. But it wasn’t empty.
A man was inside.
He wasn’t a burglar. He was huddled on the floor, his back to me, furiously working a small flashlight and a pair of bolt cutters. He was cutting through a heavy chain wrapped around a small, ancient-looking wooden chest.
“Hey! What are you doing?!” I yelled, dropping the pestle.
The man spun around, the flashlight beam momentarily blinding me before falling to the floor.
It was Anton.
But he wasn’t the composed, slightly nervous man who had been sitting in the car five minutes ago. His face was pale, slick with sweat. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and frantic, the eyes of a trapped animal. He was wearing the same clothes, but his demeanor was utterly transformed. The panic I had sensed in the car was now raw, desperate terror.
“Anna! Get out! Get out now!” he hissed, scrambling to hide the cutters under his body.
“What in God’s name, Anton?! What is this? Why are you locked in the pantry cutting a lock?” My voice was shaking, not with fear of an intruder, but with the sudden, shocking fear of the stranger standing before me.
He lunged for the small wooden chest, shielding it with his body.
“It’s nothing! It’s an old box of Grandpa’s tools! I just needed something from it! I didn’t want you to see me prying it open, I… I thought you were Mom!” he stammered, the lies tumbling out, flimsy and transparent.
“Grandpa’s tools are in the shed, Anton! And why would you need bolt cutters for a spare car key? Why did you lie about the key? Why did you turn back?”
The truth was a sudden, sickening flood. He hadn’t forgotten the key. The key was a lie. He needed to get back to the cottage, and he couldn’t let me go alone because he feared I might stumble upon this.
I took a step back, my gaze fixing on the wooden chest he was desperately hiding. It was old, dark, and smelled faintly of woodsmoke and decay.
“Move, Anton. What are you hiding?” I demanded.
He stayed crouched, his muscles coiled tight. His composure—the trait I admired most in my husband—was completely gone. He was frantic, a man at the edge of his sanity.
“It’s not for you to see, Anna. You don’t understand. Just leave. Please. Go back to the car. I’ll explain later.”
“No. I won’t. I won’t move until I know what you are doing in your parents’ pantry, trying to break open a chained box with bolt cutters, looking like a criminal!” I crossed my arms, determination replacing my shock. I was no longer addressing my husband; I was addressing a man who had suddenly become utterly alien.
He stared at me, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He knew the game was over. I wasn’t leaving.
Slowly, agonizingly, he moved aside, revealing the chest. The old chain was half-cut, dangling. He looked down at the box with a profound, almost paralyzing revulsion.
“It’s not tools, Anna,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “It’s… the past.”
“Whose past? What is it?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rusty iron key.
“The car key wasn’t a lie entirely,” he mumbled, his eyes tearing up. “This key… this key is what I came for. It’s been hidden in the chimney of the banya since I was sixteen. I needed to get it.”
He didn’t use the bolt cutters on the lock; he used them on the chain. He inserted the rusty key into the small, intricate lock of the chest. It turned with a dry, grating sound, a sound that felt like the grinding of a terrible memory.
He lifted the heavy lid.
I instinctively stepped closer. The light from the open doorway barely reached the contents of the box.
It wasn’t money, jewels, or weapons.
Inside, nestled on a layer of brittle, yellowed newspaper, were two main items.
The first was a small, carved wooden cow. It was beautiful, perfectly rendered, with long lashes exactly like the cows I so admired in the village herd. It looked like a child’s treasured toy.
The second item was a tattered, black diary, its leather cover cracked and flaking.
Anton reached a trembling hand toward the diary. “This is why I hate Sosnovka,” he said, his voice raw with sudden, agonizing pain. “This is why I can’t breathe here.”
He opened the diary to a page marked with a dried flower. The handwriting was neat, childlike, and feminine.
“This belonged to Oksana,” he choked out. “Oksana Volkov. She was my best friend. We grew up together. We were inseparable.”
I remembered the name. Fyodor Konstantinovich had mentioned it once, years ago. “Oksana? Didn’t she… run away from home when you were teenagers?”
Anton let out a single, harsh laugh that held no humor. “Run away? That’s what everyone was told. That’s what my parents told everyone, especially the police. But Oksana didn’t run away. She never left this village.”
He pointed a shaking finger at the small wooden cow. “I carved that for her. She loved the herd. It was her sixteenth birthday gift. The day before…”
He took a gulp of air, leaning against the pantry wall, his entire body convulsing with suppressed emotion.
“The day before she disappeared, Oksana was terrified. Her father… he was a hard man. The kind of man who didn’t let his daughter grow up. He found out she was planning to apply to art school in Kyiv. He beat her badly. I saw the bruises. That night, she told me she was going to run away.”
“And you helped her?”
“No,” Anton whispered, shaking his head slowly. “I tried to talk her out of it. I told her to wait until we finished school. But she was desperate. She said she was coming here—to the dacha. My parents were away on a weekend trip. She said she was going to stay here for one night and catch the first morning bus to the city.”
He slammed his hand against the counter, the sound dull and heavy.
“I told her no. I told her I couldn’t risk it. I was a coward, Anna. I was afraid of my father. I was afraid of what her father might do to me if he found out. I told her to go to Sergei’s house, or Pavel’s. But she only trusted me. She said if I wouldn’t help, she’d sleep in the banya and leave.”
“And then?” I urged, my breath held tight in my chest.
“The next morning, I came to check on her. The banya was empty. The door was unlocked. I went home, terrified, but relieved. I thought she’d made it to the bus. But then… her father showed up at our house, looking for her. He was furious.”
Anton’s eyes were distant, looking back into that long-ago summer. “My father, Fyodor Konstantinovich, he was grilling me. He knew I was close to her. He was asking if I’d helped her. I swore I hadn’t seen her. But my father… he looked at me, Anna, and he saw right through me. He gave me a look I’ll never forget. A look that said, I know what you did, and I will protect you.”
“What are you saying, Anton? What did he protect you from?”
“Two weeks later, her body was found. Near the old brick factory. The one they are tearing down now.”
I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand. The abandoned factory. The place his father had mentioned. The incident that had made Anton drop his fork.
“The police ruled it a suicide,” Anton continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “They said she was overwhelmed and threw herself into the river and drowned. But she didn’t.”
He pointed to the black diary. “Oksana kept this here. In this chest, hidden behind the loose floorboard in the banya. She wrote in it every night she was here. The key… the key was my signal to her that the coast was clear.”
He opened the diary to the last entry. It was dated the day she disappeared.
I was wrong to trust Anton. He is a coward, just like the others. I will leave anyway. I have nowhere else to go. I hope one day I can forgive him.
“That wasn’t the truth, though,” Anton said, wiping a tear angrily. “The truth is what happened after she wrote that. I saw her that night. I saw her here, waiting. She was hurt. And she was crying.”
He finally looked at me, and the years of torment poured out of his confession.
“I didn’t help her, Anna. I told her to leave. I told her I was too scared. And she left. She walked out of the banya… and my father saw her.”
I stared at him, my mind scrambling to piece together the implications. Fyodor Konstantinovich, the kind, quiet man with the blood pressure issues.
“My father knew I hadn’t helped her. He knew I’d sent her away. He knew she was fleeing abuse. But she was on his property, Anna. A runaway. He feared scandal. He feared the trouble it would bring to his son if he was questioned, if he was tied to her disappearance.”
He gestured towards the closed pantry door. “This cottage. This image of a quiet, respectable family life. That’s all my father cared about. He always hated my mother’s family—the Sosnovka ‘hicks.’ He saw Oksana as trouble.”
“What did he do?” I whispered, afraid to hear the answer.
Anton closed his eyes, his head leaning back against the dusty preserves. “I don’t know the details. I never did. All I know is that he handled it. He took her. I didn’t see him that night, but the next day, when the police came, he gave them the story. The suicide story. He told them where her body would be found—near the factory—and what she would have done. He made it airtight.”
He opened his eyes, which were now cold, haunted. “He looked me in the eye and said, ‘You didn’t see her. You weren’t here. Ever. You went straight home. This is for your future, son. This is how men handle problems.'”
The pieces clicked into place, not just about Oksana, but about Anton.
His nervousness in Sosnovka. His frantic rush to leave. His absolute dread of his childhood friends and his withdrawal around them. They were all shadows of his suppressed guilt and the terrifying secret he shared with his father.
“The keys,” I finally said, the irony thick in my throat. “You didn’t forget the spare car key. You came back because your father is in the hospital, and you knew this was your only chance to come back, break the chain, and destroy the evidence—the diary—before he returned.”
“The diary and the cow,” Anton corrected, picking up the small, beautifully carved wooden toy. “This was the last thing she touched. He hated this cow. He tried to burn it, but I begged him to let me hide it. He let me, on the condition that I never speak of Oksana again.”
I looked at the chest, the diary, the cow. The moment of truth.
I had always thought Anton’s aversion to Sosnovka was simple city snobbery or boring childhood memories. I had prided myself on knowing my husband—the cheerful, sociable, composed man I married.
But the man standing before me was none of those things. He was a man consumed by a lifetime of complicity and fear. He wasn’t nervous or bored in Sosnovka; he was reliving a nightmare where his father, the outwardly respectable Fyodor Konstantinovich, was capable of something monstrous, and where he himself was the terrified accomplice who had sealed a friend’s fate through cowardice.
My husband was not the man I thought he was. His composure was a veneer. His sociability was a carefully maintained shield. His true character, exposed by a forgotten key and an open pantry, was built on a core of deep, paralyzing fear—fear of authority, fear of confrontation, and the self-loathing that came from choosing self-preservation over a friend’s life.
The true character of my husband wasn’t defined by his actions in the city, but by his inaction right here, two decades ago. He was a man capable of carrying a horrific secret for twenty years, a secret that had warped his soul and made him despise the very place where his dark truth lay buried.
I looked down at the diary in his hands. It was the only proof, the only voice Oksana had left.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, my voice flat.
Anton looked at the diary, then at the cutters. “I have to burn it. Now. Before Mom gets back. It’s the only way to be safe.”
The silence in the summer kitchen was deafening, filled only by the distant buzzing of bees and the sound of the car engine running outside—a getaway vehicle, waiting for a crime to be covered up.
I took one last look at the carved wooden cow, a symbol of a forgotten girl’s hope, now resting on a murderer’s secret.
“Give it to me, Anton,” I said, holding out my hand, not for the diary, but for the car keys I had come back for. “Let’s go. We need to talk about your father.”
