Бесплатный фрагмент - Sepia sunset

Author’s Preface

The first time I heard the phrase «sepia sunset,» it stuck in my mind. There was something in that play of words — fading beauty filtered through the lens of time and memory — that I found incredibly moving. It was like a memory of a love that was lost, but not forgotten.

Thus, the idea for this book was born.

Sepia Sunset is the story of Edith and Arthur, a couple who spent almost six decades together. Sixty years is a lifetime, filled with joy, sorrow, compromise, and, of course, love. But what happens when love, like an old photograph, fades and becomes cracked with the patina of mutual resentment? Can it be restored?

This story is not merely a fantasy about time travel. It is an exploration of human relationships, of how easy it is to lose one another in the daily grind and how difficult, yet possible, it is to reconnect. It is a reflection on the power of art to heal and recover what was lost.

While working on this book, I thought a lot about my own relationships, my parents, and all the couples I have met along the way. Every love story is unique, yet they all face common challenges: misunderstanding, disappointment, fear.

I hope that Sepia Sunset will make you think about your own love story, about the moments you cherish, and those that might need healing.

After all, it is never too late to rewrite your story, even when all seems lost.

Sincerely,

Madina Fedosova

Introduction

Resentment hung in the air, thick and cloying, like the stale smoke in a rundown bar. In the small, cluttered living room, where every piece of furniture seemed to hold the imprint of their shared life, another fire was slowly but surely igniting.

Edith, her face a roadmap of wrinkles etched by life’s storms, stood by the window, mesmerized, staring out at a dreary row of identical houses dissolving in the gray autumn drizzle. Rain drummed against the glass, echoing the melancholy tune playing in her soul.

In her eyes, usually so lively and sparkling, swirled a despair seasoned with the bitterness of years of disappointment. Dreams once bright and bold now seemed like a distant, unattainable fantasy.

She had wanted to be a director, to make films, to tell stories, but life — as always — had other plans. And now she was here, in this small, dismal suburb, living out her days, knitting endless scarves and drowning in memories of what might have been.

Arthur, slumped in his favorite, worn-out armchair, resembled an old, threadbare teddy bear that had lost its charm. His gray hair had thinned, revealing a shiny bald spot. His hands, once strong and confident, now trembled, struggling to hold the TV remote.

He avoided Edith’s gaze, fixing his eyes on the flickering screen as if salvation from the oppressive silence dividing them could be found there, amidst the endless stream of news, talk shows, and intrusive commercials.

A silence that screamed louder than any words, drowning out even the TV’s blare.

He knew he was at fault. He knew he had shattered her dream, mocking her passion for cinema and making her feel inadequate. But admitting it was beyond him. Pride, his eternal companion, wouldn’t allow him to apologize.

Fifty-seven years. Fifty-seven years that had turned into a long, exhausting war with no victors, only losers mired in a swamp of mutual reproaches and unspoken regrets.

Every day was like the last: morning coffee brewed in silence, a meager lunch eaten in front of the television, and separate beds in a bedroom where love had once reigned.

Today promised nothing different, until Arthur, suddenly, acted on an impulse born more of desperation than anger.

He rose from his chair, walked over to the old cabinet in the corner of the room, and opened its creaky door.

Inside, among dusty boxes and old belongings, lay it — Edith’s old movie camera, the symbol of her unfulfilled dream.

And Arthur, with a sudden, inexplicable fury, grabbed it and headed for the trash can.

Edith flinched as if struck. She turned slowly, and her eyes flashed with anger mixed with pain. «What are you doing?» she hissed like a snake.

Arthur remained silent, his face contorted in a grimace of rage and shame. He tightened his grip on the camera, as if afraid he might change his mind.

He thought that by getting rid of this old thing, he was also ridding himself of the burden of the past, of the reproaches Edith never voiced but which he constantly felt.

He wanted to erase the memory of her disappointment, her shattered dreams, everything he believed he had failed to give her. Foolish, of course. But at that moment, it seemed like the only way out.

«You wouldn’t dare!» Edith screamed, rushing at him. She tried to wrench the camera from his hands, but Arthur pushed her away, misjudging his strength. Edith staggered and fell to the floor, hitting her head on the corner of the coffee table. Darkness clouded her vision.

Arthur froze in horror. «Edith!» he rasped, rushing to her aid. He dropped to his knees beside her, trying to revive her. But Edith lay motionless. Her face was pale, and a crimson stain slowly spread on her temple.

At that moment, as if in response to his despair, the room began to flicker. The walls wavered, colors dimmed, and the world around them dissolved into pixels. Arthur felt dizzy, nauseous. It was as if he were falling into a black hole.

And then everything vanished.

When his sight returned, Arthur gasped for air as if emerging from icy water. The dreary living room with its musty smell and faded wallpaper was gone, like a bad dream. Under his feet was wet cobblestone, not a worn-out carpet. He stood in the middle of an unfamiliar street, lashed by rain that stung his cheeks with icy needles.

Around him rose majestic Art Deco buildings, as if stepped out of an album on the golden age of architecture. Arthur remembered reading about them: the strict geometric forms, the rich ornamentation, the pursuit of luxury and elegance. Seeing them in person was staggering. Like vintage toys, cars from the 1930s — Packards, Cadillacs, Duesenbergs — rolled down the wet pavement, their headlights glinting in the rain puddles.

People dressed in elegant suits and hats hurried about their business, urging each other on with phrases straight out of an old movie. «Hurry up, Mr. Johnson, tickets for The Maltese Falcon are selling out!» «Madam, your corset is divine, but I fear you’re late for your meeting with Mr. Capone!» Arthur was utterly bewildered. Where was he? What had happened? Had he lost his mind? Or was this some kind of insane prank?

But most importantly — where was Edith? His heart hammered wildly, skipping beats. Was he delirious? Was this «reality» only in his mind? He was afraid to look back, afraid his worst fears would be confirmed.

But he turned and saw her, standing beside him, looking around in confusion. On her face, usually etched with wrinkles like a map of their lived years, was an expression of astonishment and fear. The wrinkles were still there, but the expression… It was something new, something long forgotten. And most astonishing of all — there was no trace of the blow on her head. No bruise, no scratch, nothing. As if that terrible scene in the living room had never happened. As if time had turned back.

«Arthur, what is this?» she whispered, grabbing his arm with such force that his bones ached. Usually, her touch was soft, cautious, as if she were afraid to cause pain, but now… «Where are we? What’s happening? Is this a dream? If it is, I want to wake up!» The genuine terror in her eyes made Arthur flinch involuntarily. She was afraid not only of the unknown, but that he, Arthur, was somehow responsible for this madness. «My God, Arthur, what have you done?»

Chapter 1

A City in Sepia Tones

The rain, Chicago’s eternal companion, lashed the pavement with such force it seemed an angry celestial plumber was determined to flush the entire city of its sins. Droplets hit the sidewalk, splattering like tiny exploding grenades.

Neon signs reflected in the wet asphalt, creating a bizarre play of light and shadow that reminded Arthur of frames from old film noirs — The Maltese Falcon, Double Indemnity, The Big Sleep. I wonder if real gangsters lived like this? flashed through his mind. Drank bourbon, hatched schemes, and listened to jazz until someone put a bullet in their head?

He shivered, trying to hide from the biting wind in his old, weathered coat, which seemed to remember the days of his courtship with Edith. Well, at least I never threw this out, he thought, gratefully remembering Edith’s grumbling about «that old rag»: «Arthur, you’ve been wearing it for half a century! It’s time to part with this relic! It probably remembers the dinosaurs!»

And, as if in mockery, the wind carried a snippet of melody from a nearby bar: «I don’t want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart…» Ironic, thought Arthur, how far we are from that now…

He looked around, trying to latch onto something familiar, something that would anchor him back to reality. But everything was alien, as if he had stepped into a museum whose exhibits had come to life.

Majestic Art Deco buildings stood like proud skyscrapers straight from an architecture textbook. They’d fit right in Miami, on Ocean Drive, Arthur thought, they’d be appreciated there.

Vintage automobiles — Cadillacs and Packards with gleaming chrome grilles — rolled down the wet cobblestones with a dignity that suggested they were destined not just for travel, but for history books and style icons. I bet each one has its own story, Arthur thought, a story of love, betrayal, success, and ruin, like in a Fitzgerald novel.

People dressed in elegant suits and hats, as if they’d just stepped out of a jazz club, looked like they’d walked off the cover of Esquire magazine. I wonder if they’ve even heard of jeans? crossed his mind. Probably consider them for laborers and ruffians. Oh, Edith, if you could see this! You’d surely say, «Arthur, everyone here looks like they’ve stepped out of a glossy magazine!»

The whole scene looked like a set for an old movie, a living page of history. And Arthur suddenly understood: «But this is a set… and it seems we’re the stars of this picture.»

«Where are we, Arthur?» Edith whispered, trembling like an aspen leaf caught in a sudden storm. She tightened her grip on his hand, and Arthur felt her fingers, usually cool and dry like autumn leaves, digging desperately into his palm, seeking an anchor.

The sheer terror in her eyes made him recall his grandmother Agafya Timofeevna’s words, known for their sharp wisdom: «Fear, like rust, eats at the soul, and bleak anxiety is worse than any disease.»

He had no answers himself. It had all happened so suddenly, so unreal, he still couldn’t believe it. Only one thought circled in his head: I must be dreaming. This is just a bad dream, like the ones I get after too much smoked sausage. But for some reason, he was afraid to pinch himself. What if it turned out he wasn’t asleep?

Then what? Then he was in a film with no director, and the script was being written by some mad screenwriter?

Suddenly, like angry beasts unleashed from a cage, two men emerged from the dark mouth of an alley. They wore dark, ill-fitting suits, as if borrowed, and felt hats pulled low over their eyes.

Hats, by the way, in those days weren’t just headwear but a kind of calling card, a sign of belonging to a certain circle. Though which one, in this case, Arthur preferred not to find out, remembering the saying: «Let sleeping dogs lie.»

They were shouting fiercely at each other in a coarse, guttural dialect, a mix of Polish and Italian, waving their arms as if conducting an invisible orchestra playing a funeral march.

In one man’s hand, a short-barreled revolver glinted like a sinister spark in the night — a Colt or a Smith & Wesson; Arthur was no firearms expert, but he’d seen them often enough in movies, especially ones with Humphrey Bogart.

Statistically, Chicago in the 40s had more guns per capita than anywhere else on the American continent. Rumors said even the mail carriers carried a pistol, just in case.

So much for the «City of the Big Shoulders,» Arthur thought with grim irony, quoting Carl Sandburg, more like the «City of the Big Bullets.»

Arthur and Edith, like a pair of frightened rabbits, froze in place, paralyzed with a terror as if they’d been doused with ice water. They had never seen anything like it, not in their quiet, suburban life where the biggest crime was a parking violation, nor even on television.

This wasn’t like a reality show; it was a living page from the crime chronicles, a newspaper headline like «Chicago in Flames Again! Gangland Shootout on the North Side!» where every frame was saturated with the smell of gunpowder, spilled whiskey, and the fear of death.

In that moment, Arthur suddenly understood what real fear was, not just the mild anxiety before a doctor’s appointment or watching the evening news full of alarming reports about the war in Korea. This was a fear that paralyzed movement, stole your voice, and made your heart pound in your chest like a trapped bird desperately trying to escape. And Arthur thought: So this is what real hell is like. Not fire and brimstone, but this soul-freezing terror that makes you want to curl up in a corner and never come out.

«Oh, my God,» Edith whispered soundlessly, gripping Arthur’s arm so hard he felt her bones crunch.

Her eyes reflected pure panic, mixed with a strange, morbid curiosity.

«Is this all real? Are we really in a movie?»

She had always dreamed of being on a film set, of seeing how movies were made, but it seemed reality was far more terrifying and dangerous than she could have imagined.

And I always said movies were my life, she thought with bitter irony.

They turned a corner, hoping they had shaken their pursuers, though Arthur, frankly, already felt his lungs were about to burst and his knees were buckling. Not as young as I used to be for this kind of running, crossed his mind, time for calm walks with a cane. And then, as if by cruel fate, just a few meters away, they ran headlong into a man standing leisurely by the entrance to a dimly lit club, from which muted jazz sounds drifted. Clubs back then, by the way, weren’t just places of entertainment but a kind of «neutral territory,» where members of different factions could meet, make deals, and settle their problems.

The man was dressed in an impeccable, perfectly tailored three-piece suit that was undoubtedly made by the best tailor in town. On his head sat an elegant fedora, tilted jauntily to one side as if he’d just stepped off the cover of Esquire. He was smoking a cigarette, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the rainy air, and looking at them with a contemptuous, sidelong glance, as if appraising zoo exhibits. His gaze held a mix of boredom, disdain, and a strange, cold curiosity.

«In a hurry, night owls?» he asked, his voice soft, almost velvety, but with a steely firmness and threat beneath, as if he were ready to bare his claws at any moment. «What’s the matter, having a disagreement on the night streets of Chicago?» His voice held a light mockery, as if he were privy to everything happening in this city. «Sorry, we just…» Arthur tried to explain, breathless from running and nerves. But the man interrupted him, raising a hand in an elegant suede glove.

«Quiet, quiet,» he said, shaking his head. «No need to get so worked up. In this city, it’s best not to attract unnecessary attention. Especially if you’re not from around here. And you, I see, are clearly not local.» He gave them a contemptuous once-over, scanning them from head to toe. «What brings you to this city, and, most importantly, what do you need here?»

«Sorry, we just… got lost,» Arthur stammered, feeling his voice betray him with a tremble. He had never been a good liar, and now, when his life depended on it (or so it seemed), his words sounded pathetic and unconvincing.

Edith, still gripping his arm so hard he thought he’d be bruised, nodded in agreement, trying to look as innocent as possible. «We’re not from around here. We… came from far away,» he added, trying to justify themselves.

Chaos reigned in Edith’s head. She still couldn’t believe this was happening to them. Somehow, they had ended up in the heart of gangster Chicago, a city she had only read about in books and seen in movies. Fragments of memories, images from old films she loved so much, flashed through her mind like a kaleidoscope: chases, shootouts, fatal beauties in shimmering dresses… My God, what are we doing here? raced through her head. She remembered a line from Casablanca: «We’ll always have Paris.» But where was Paris here?

The man raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, as if he’d heard the funniest joke in his life. His lips curved into a slight, contemptuous smile that, Arthur thought, could freeze even the most hardened thug. «Came from far away, you say? To Chicago? In the middle of the Great Depression?» He shook his head. «This city isn’t for tourists, Mr… eh… and Mrs.?» He looked at them questioningly, expecting an answer. His voice held a light mockery. «Especially since you look like you’ve just been spat out by the alley.» He blew a thin stream of smoke, examining them from head to toe as if appraising goods at a market. «This city doesn’t like tourists, especially those who show up at this time and under these circumstances. There are plenty here looking to make a living not entirely honestly. And you, by the looks of it, have attracted someone’s attention. And, if I’m not mistaken, you’re in serious trouble.»

At that moment, Arthur recalled a quote from some crime novel: «You can live in Chicago for ten years and then wonder how you’re still alive.»

Arthur felt his heart pound wildly. Did he understand? Did he know what had happened? «We… we didn’t do anything,» Arthur hastily objected. «We were just walking…»

The man laughed, short and dry, like a gunshot. «Walking? In this neighborhood? At this hour? In such company?» He took a step closer, and Arthur caught the scent of his cologne. It was a sharp, heavy smell that, he thought, reeked of death and vice. «I don’t know how you were ’walking,» but you’re in serious trouble now, and I advise you to be careful.» His gaze became even more intense, as if trying to look right into their souls, to understand who they really were. «And, if I’m not mistaken, you’re in dire need of help.»

At that moment, from the alley they had just fled, came the sound of rough voices and footsteps, growing louder and louder. Arthur cursed under his breath. Damn it! This is what our ’walk’ got us! he thought, realizing they had almost no time left.

The man, hearing the noise, instantly changed. His contemptuous expression turned wary, and a fire ignited in his eyes that made Arthur shudder involuntarily. He quickly glanced at them, assessing the situation in seconds, then, as if making a decision, said with firmness in his voice: «Seems you’ve got trouble. And I have a proposition you’ll find hard to refuse…» He leaned closer, lowering his voice: «If you want to save your skins, you’d better follow me.» He pulled a gold watch from his pocket, glanced at it quickly, and added: «Time’s running out.»

Edith looked at Arthur, and the fear in her eyes made him uneasy. It was a deep, animal fear, as if she sensed something terrible. He saw his own fears, his own confusion and despair reflected in her eyes. What do we do? her eyes seemed to scream. Trust this stranger, who, judging by his clothes and manners, was connected to this dangerous world, or try to escape on their own, with no idea how?

Scenes from The Maltese Falcon flashed before her eyes, where the characters were constantly drawn into intrigues and betrayals. She had always loved that film, but now there was no room for romance. The voices were getting closer, the footsteps louder. She had no time to think. She felt Arthur squeeze her hand, and that contact, like an electric shock, brought her back to reality. She knew that Arthur, despite all his grumbling and conservatism, would always be by her side, no matter what.

Arthur, in turn, glanced at Edith, trying to assess her condition. Her face was pale as a sheet, her lips trembling. He understood she was scared to death. His heart was racing, his mind in chaos. He had always been a cautious man, preferring a bird in the hand to two in the bush. But now, with his and Edith’s lives hanging by a thread, he had to make a decision in seconds. What did he even know about this stranger? Maybe he was one of these gangsters himself? Or maybe he genuinely wanted to help?

A quote from some ancient treatise flashed through his mind: «When standing on the edge of an abyss, any step could be your last.» He understood that any choice could be fatal, but inaction was not an option. He had to do something.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, and looked into Edith’s eyes. He saw his own determination, his readiness to take a risk, reflected in them. He gave her a barely perceptible nod, letting her know he had made a decision.

«Well,» Arthur replied, addressing the stranger. His voice sounded surprisingly calm, though everything inside him was shaking. «We agree.» He paused for a moment, gathering his courage, then added: «But we want to know where we’re going and what to expect.»

The man smirked, and a strange, almost sinister glint flashed in his eyes. «Oh, believe me, Mr… eh…» — he looked at them questioningly, expecting an answer — «you’re better off not knowing. Ignorance is bliss. Just follow me and don’t ask unnecessary questions. And if you do ask, make sure they’re the right ones.» He gestured for them to follow him. «Time’s running out,» he repeated, glancing at his watch again. The watch, by the way, was gold, with an engraving, and looked very expensive. That watch probably costs more than my entire apartment, Arthur thought.

Without another second’s hesitation, Edith and Arthur, like shadows clinging to the walls, followed the stranger, dissolving into the gloom of the alley. They left behind the city’s noise, the approaching voices, and the impending danger, stepping into an unknown full of secrets and perils.

Chapter 2

In the Embrace of the Night

The alley they turned into was narrow and filthy, as if created specifically for dark deeds. This is where they film the bleakest scenes for noir movies, Edith thought, trying not to look down.

The air was thick with the stifling smell of rot and dampness, mixed with the sharp odor of cheap tobacco — «roll-ups,» which, according to Arthur, all the workers smoked back then.

Dirty water squelched underfoot, reflecting the dim light of rare streetlamps, and Arthur tried his best to avoid puddles, afraid of soaking his old shoes. My feet are always cold as it is, he grumbled to himself.

Edith, walking behind him, held his hand tightly, as if afraid of getting lost in this gloomy maze. She was silent, trying not to breathe too deeply to avoid inhaling the stench. A line from some old poem echoed in her head: «A city of sin and vice.»

The stranger, walking confidently ahead as if he owned the place, didn’t even glance back. He walked fast, almost running, as if being chased. From time to time, he cast short, wary glances around, as if fearing they were being watched not only by the gangsters but by some other, even more dangerous forces. His confidence was both frightening and inspiring hope. I wonder who he is? thought Edith. She recalled a newspaper article she’d read years ago: «In Chicago, every third person is a former gangster.»

They walked in tense silence, only the sound of their footsteps and the steady drip of rain from the roofs disturbing the quiet of the night city. Arthur tried to get a better look at their guide’s face, but in the semi-darkness of the alley, it was nearly impossible. He only knew the man wore an expensive, custom-tailored suit and smelled of costly cologne. I wonder how much he earns? Arthur thought. He had never been good at making money.

Suddenly, the stranger stopped at an inconspicuous door deep in the alley, between two scuffed walls covered in incomprehensible graffiti. Probably where some avant-garde artists gather, Edith thought ironically. He pulled a set of old, time-darkened keys from his pocket and, selecting one, opened the door with a quiet creak. This door hasn’t been oiled in a hundred years, Arthur thought.

«Get in,» he said, gesturing for them to enter. His voice was quiet and somewhat weary, but held a strange authority. «And make it quick. We don’t have time for chatter.»

The door creaked open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit corridor that smelled of damp and must. A dim bulb hanging from the ceiling on a dirty wire barely illuminated the space, casting strange shadows on the walls. The corridor was cluttered with old crates and boxes tied with rope. Arthur, stumbling over one, nearly fell, but Edith caught him. «Careful, you old fool!» she whispered, looking at him reproachfully. I really should start exercising, crossed Arthur’s mind.

Arthur and Edith, exchanging glances, cautiously stepped inside as if crossing a threshold into another world. Edith wrapped herself tighter in her coat, trying to warm up. «What is this place?» she whispered.

The stranger, making sure they were inside, locked the door with several turns of the key and turned to face them. In the dim light, Arthur finally got a good look at his face. It was stern, even somewhat grim, with deep wrinkles lining his forehead and cheeks. Life hasn’t been kind to him, Arthur thought. But his eyes, despite the weariness, shone with sharp intelligence and a strange, otherworldly sadness. A small scar was visible on his cheek, which Arthur assumed was from some street fight.

«My name is Jack,» he said, extending his hand to Arthur. His hand was strong and dry, with work-roughened fingers. «And I think,» he paused slightly, «we can be of use to each other.» His voice held a certain mystery, as if he knew something they didn’t.

Edith looked at him distrustfully. «Of use to each other? What do you mean?» she asked.

Jack smirked. «Believe me, lady, I have my reasons. But that can wait. Right now, we need to discuss something.»

«Of use to each other? What do you mean?» Edith, unable to hide her suspicion, stared at Jack as if trying to decipher his true intentions. Her eyes, usually shining with kindness and humor, now held only wariness and distrust. A line from an old movie she’d once watched with Arthur flashed through her mind: «In this city, even the cats carry knives.» Suddenly, Edith realized that perhaps this was exactly the kind of world they had stumbled into. «And how could we possibly be of use to someone like you?» she repeated, trying to sound confident, though everything inside her was clenched with fear. She felt like she was in the jaws of a predator. She scrutinized Jack from head to toe, noting every detail of his appearance: the impeccable suit, the perfectly polished shoes, the gold watch with its engraving. This gentleman’s watch probably costs more than all our furniture put together, a cynical thought crossed her mind. I wonder where he gets that kind of money.

Jack smiled, and a shadow of understanding seemed to flicker in his eyes. He probably saw not only fear but also a degree of skepticism in her. «Believe me, madam, I have good reason to think so,» he replied, his voice soft but with a steely firmness. «In Chicago, as you know, it’s every man for himself. And I’m no exception. But right now, we have more pressing matters. We need to get out of here, fast. It’s… unsettled around here. And I, believe me, am not a fan of unnecessary trouble.» He cast a quick glance at the door, as if expecting it to be broken down at any moment.

Edith and Arthur exchanged looks. Apparently, they had no time to think.

Jack, as if reading their thoughts, continued: «We don’t have much time, and, believe me, I’m not one to waste it. I know who’s after you. And I know why.» He paused, as if waiting for a reaction, then continued: «You’re needed by someone. And this ’someone’ might be able to help you.»

Edith and Arthur exchanged quick, nervous glances. Thousands of questions, seemingly without answers, raced through their minds like a kaleidoscope. Who was after them? Why were they needed? And, most importantly, could they trust this mysterious stranger? They recalled the old film The Suspect — where everything was mysterious at first, and then it got even worse.

«What do you mean, ’someone’? Who are we to be needed by anyone? We’re just retirees living a quiet life,» Arthur said, trying to sound calm, but his voice betrayed him with a tremble. He knew perfectly well that their quiet life was in the past, beyond the threshold of this strange, mysterious city. A line from his favorite detective novel came to mind: «In this city, no one knows what’s waiting for them around the corner.» It seemed they were now in the thick of that «unknown.»

Jack smirked, as if he enjoyed watching their confusion and dismay. «Don’t be so modest, Mr… what was your name again?» — he seemed to have forgotten their names. Or didn’t want to remember, emphasizing his superiority. «You and your wife are… remarkable people. You just don’t know it yet, which is hardly surprising.» He spoke as if they were characters in an exciting novel, and he was its ruthless narrator. He paused, flicking ash from his cigarette. «And someone is very keen to meet you. An influential man, and, believe me, he has connections you can’t even imagine.»

Edith, feeling goosebumps run down her spine like icy fingers, shuddered. This «someone» was a complete mystery to them, a dark figure in the approaching storm. «Who is this ’someone’? And what does he want from us?» she asked, trying to sound as firm as possible, as if putting up a shield against the impending danger, though inside, everything was churning like in a centrifuge.

She recalled an article in the Chicago Tribune from last year, with a loud front-page headline: «In the Web of Power: How Corruption is Choking Chicago!» The article spoke of shadowy deals, connections between politicians, police, and gangsters, of people who controlled the city from behind the scenes. There were photos of famous gangsters like Al Capone and anonymous silhouettes of influential officials. The caption under one photo read: «In Chicago, even God has to pay taxes.» And Edith thought: Have we fallen into this web? Do we now have to pay the price?

Jack exhaled a cloud of smoke, and in the dim light, his face seemed even more mysterious than before. «That, I can’t tell you right now. But believe me, madam, your interest will be rewarded. He can help you get back home, which I assume is your main concern right now. But in return, he will ask for something.»

Arthur frowned, his eyebrows knitting together, his eyes narrowing. «Ask for what? Money? We don’t have any. Never did.» His tone was sarcastic. He had always been a skeptic.

Jack laughed, and the sound was like a sinister chime in their ears. «Money? Money is small change, mister. Money has nothing to do with it. This man is interested in things that can’t be bought for any amount of money. He’s interested in your… story.»

Edith and Arthur looked at each other. They couldn’t imagine what «story» could possibly interest a stranger.

«Story?» Edith repeated, her voice trembling with excitement. The word sounded completely incomprehensible to her, like a foreign language. What did he mean? What «story» could two elderly people, whose lives were like a calm river flow, possibly have? They had no thrilling adventures, no secrets, no connections to the criminal world. Or so they thought. Maybe the past held secrets they weren’t even aware of? She recalled a quote from an old play: «We are all heroes in someone else’s drama.»

«Yes, your story,» Jack confirmed, his tone enigmatic. He tossed the cigarette butt into a tin can by the wall and turned to them, his gaze like a sharp knife. «He wants to hear your story. The whole thing, from beginning to end. He wants to know everything. And, believe me, it won’t be easy. After all, the truth, as they say, always lies somewhere in the middle, and sometimes — it’s just plain lost.» He paused, his gaze sliding over their faces as if assessing their resolve and looking for a hint of heroism. «Are you ready for that?»

Arthur nervously fiddled with the hem of his old coat, which was long overdue for the trash. He felt they had landed in some surreal play where he and Edith were the main characters. They, two ordinary retirees, were suddenly caught up in mysterious intrigues involving powerful people and their own memories. What if this «someone» was just a madman? And what if they ended up in even deeper trouble? He recalled a phrase from his friend, who, like him, enjoyed a drink: «Life is like a box of chocolates: you never know what you’re gonna get.»

«And what’s in it for us?» he asked, trying to hide his fear, hoping his voice sounded confident enough.

Jack smirked, as if amused by their bewilderment. «First, safety. As long as you’re with me, you’re safe. Second, a chance to return home, to your, I assume, quiet and peaceful suburb. And third… the opportunity to rewrite your story. Or at least change its ending.»

Edith and Arthur exchanged glances. Rewrite their story? What did he mean? It sounded strange and even frightening. Were they supposed to return to the past? And what if they changed something? Altering the past could have unpredictable consequences. She felt a pang in her heart.

At that moment, a noise echoed in the corridor — sharp, like thunder, the stomping of feet and fragments of rough phrases. Someone’s footsteps were growing louder, approaching at a terrifying speed, like a train derailed.

Jack instantly tensed, his face becoming an impenetrable mask, his gaze sharp and probing.

«Seems we’re out of time for long deliberations, my dears,» he said, his voice hard, like a general’s order before a decisive battle. «We need to leave. Right now. And no more questions.»

He grabbed Edith’s hand as if saving her from certain doom, and Arthur, gasping and stumbling, hurried after them, understanding that if he hesitated now, he would be left here forever.

Time was running out, like sand in a broken hourglass, and they had to make their choice — trust this stranger or meet their fate in this dirty alley.

They headed deeper into the corridor, into the unknown, hoping to save their lives, like characters in an old film fleeing an impending catastrophe. And Edith thought: If this is a movie, I demand a retake!

Chapter 3

Labyrinths of the Past

Jack confidently, like an experienced rat-catcher, led them through a narrow corridor that, due to its complexity, resembled the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. In Chicago in the 40s, by the way, there were plenty of such winding corridors, secret passages, and underground hideouts — a result of Prohibition and the mob’s bustling activity.

They passed several doors, behind which, judging by the muffled sounds, some hidden life was bustling: hushed voices, cheerful laughter, the clinking of glasses, music — probably from some underground jazz club. Arthur, trying to memorize the route, looked for landmarks: drawings on the walls, the number of doors, turns, but everything seemed identical and monotonous. The corridor, like a living creature, constantly twisted, turning now one way, now another, as if trying to confuse those within. Soon, Arthur was completely disoriented. I think I’m lost already, he thought, recalling the old saying: «Getting lost in a dark forest is half the trouble, but getting lost in someone else’s soul…»

«Where are we going, Jack?» Edith whispered, trying to keep up with her mysterious guide. She held Arthur’s hand tightly, and in this darkness, he felt like her only anchor, her support. She remembered lines from an Edgar Allan Poe poem: «All that we see or seem / Is but a dream within a dream.» Were they really in some kind of bad dream?

«To a safe place,» Jack replied without turning or slowing down. His voice held a confidence that Edith involuntarily envied. «No one will find us there. At least, not for a while.»

They walked in silence, concentrating on each step. Only their muffled footsteps echoed in the corridor. Suddenly, an old, crooked staircase leading down opened before them. The staircase seemed built in a time when people were twice as tall. Jack, without a second’s hesitation, began descending, his heavy footsteps echoing. Edith and Arthur, exchanging glances, followed him. «I hope these stairs hold,» Arthur muttered, holding onto the railing like a lifeline. The stairs were steep and slippery, as if designed to test one’s nerves. Arthur struggled to keep his balance, and Edith, afraid of falling, gripped the old, rusted handrail, digging her fingers into it. With each step, it grew colder and damper.

At the bottom of the stairs, a massive iron door awaited them, resembling the entrance to an ancient crypt or a cellar. Jack took a heavy, antique key from his pocket, one that had probably seen the days of Prohibition. He slowly inserted the key into the keyhole, turned it, and the door creaked open.

They found themselves in a large, semi-dark room that had apparently once been a basement or perhaps a storage cellar. The walls were covered with a thick layer of mold, and the air carried a musty smell of dampness, earth, and something else, unclear and eerie. In the corner stood an old, sagging couch that seemed to remember all the sorrows and joys of its former owners, and next to it lay a few empty whiskey bottles. A tattered newspaper lay on the couch. Someone had been here.

«Welcome to my humble abode,» Jack said with irony in his voice, surveying the gloomy shelter. «We’ll be safe here, for a while at least. If we’re lucky.»

Edith, looking around, shivered involuntarily from the cold. The basement, seemingly saturated with centuries of gloom, felt damp and unwelcoming, a refuge for lost souls. Her imagination immediately conjured scenes from old horror films she loved in her youth, where the most nightmarish things usually happened in such places. «And we’re supposed to be safe here?» she whispered, trying to hide her fear, but her voice trembled. A quote from some book echoed in her head: «The darkest place is under the candlestick.»

«Relatively,» Jack replied, shrugging as if discussing something mundane. «In Chicago, you know, there are few places where you can feel completely safe. But this place, at least, doesn’t attract unnecessary attention. No one knows of its existence. And if they do, they’re unlikely to want to come down here. Here, as they say, different rules apply.»

Arthur, coughing, examined the basement, trying not to touch the mold-covered walls. I hope we don’t catch some disease here, crossed his mind. «And how long are we supposed to stay here?» he asked, trying to sound confident, though everything inside him was shaking.

Jack ignored his question. He walked over to the old, sagging couch, brushed off a crumpled newspaper, and with a casual gesture, invited them to sit. «Sit down, make yourselves comfortable,» he said, sitting opposite them. «We need to discuss a few things. And it’s going to be a long conversation.»

Edith and Arthur, exchanging glances, cautiously sat on the couch. It was hard and uncomfortable, as if people had been sleeping on it for years, and it carried an unpleasant smell of dampness. Edith felt the cold seeping through her thin coat and wanted to leave as soon as possible.

«So,» Jack began, pulling a crumpled pack of Camel cigarettes from his pocket and offering it to them. «Help yourselves.» Edith and Arthur politely declined. «As I said, you’ve found yourselves in a rather unusual situation, and I am perhaps the only person who can help you. But for that, you must trust me completely. And not ask unnecessary questions. Are you ready to take that risk?»

Jack’s gaze was serious and piercing, as if he were trying to penetrate their thoughts, to see what they were willing to do to save themselves.

Edith and Arthur exchanged long, meaningful glances again. In Edith’s eyes, usually full of optimism and love for life, now there was only distrust mixed with despair and fear. She felt like she was in a bad dream from which she couldn’t wake up. She remembered a line from an old song: «Dream a Little Dream of Me.» I wish I could just wake up now, she thought. Arthur looked confused and tired, as if an unbearable burden had been placed on his shoulders. He didn’t understand what was happening, and that scared him most of all.

«And what is this ’unusual situation’? And, most importantly, why should we trust you? We don’t know you at all. To us, you’re just a stranger from the street,» Edith asked, trying to speak calmly and confidently, though inside, she was gripped with terror. She knew perfectly well that their future depended on this conversation.

Jack smirked, and something resembling pity flickered in his eyes. «Trust is a luxury few can afford in this city, madam,» he replied, his voice muted. «Here, everyone is for themselves. But you, as I see it, have little choice. Either you trust me and do as I say, or you stay here and wait for your pursuers. As for the situation… Let’s just say you’ve managed to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and in the wrong era. You’ve taken a little excursion into the past.»

Arthur snorted incredulously, his face twisting into a grimace of skepticism. «Into the past? What nonsense are you talking? Is this some kind of joke?» He thought this Jack was just some madman decided to mock them.

Jack shrugged, showing complete indifference. «I’m not going to prove anything to you, mister. I have no need to. Believe it or not. But if you really want to get back home, you’ll have to believe me and do everything I say. No unnecessary questions.»

He fell silent, as if giving them time to think over his words and grasp the seriousness of the situation. An oppressive silence hung in the basement, broken only by the occasional monotonous drip of water from the ceiling. Edith and Arthur felt the tension growing with every second, squeezing them like a vise. They had to make a decision. Quickly and consciously. And without a doubt, their future depended on it. Life or death.

Edith took a deep breath, trying to calm her wildly beating heart. She looked at Arthur, seeking support and confirmation of her decision in his eyes. She thought she saw a slight nod, expressing his willingness to take the risk. They had always been together, always supporting each other. She recalled a quote from a famous book she read in her youth: «Nothing is impossible in life, you just have to believe in yourself and not be afraid to make mistakes.» Now, it seemed, they were on the verge of a huge mistake, but they had no other choice.

«Alright, Jack,» she said, trying to sound as firm as possible, though her voice trembled slightly. She focused her gaze on Jack, trying to understand if he could be trusted. «We trust you. We’re ready to take the risk. We agree to whatever you say. Just tell us what we need to do.» She felt a surge of adrenaline and remembered an old saying: «Nothing ventured, nothing gained.» Well, they could certainly use some champagne right now.

Arthur was silent, but his look spoke for itself. He confirmed her decision with a slight nod, and determination was visible in his eyes. He understood they simply had no other way out, that they were on the edge, and they had to risk everything.

Jack smiled slightly, and in that smile, Edith thought she saw a hint of hidden joy.

«Excellent,» he said, «then listen carefully, because we have very little time.»

He rose from the creaky chair and walked over to an old, rickety table in the far corner of the basement. The table was made of roughly nailed planks, and on it, besides a thick layer of dust, lay an old, time-darkened book in a leather binding and several old, faded photographs. The table seemed to have witnessed many secrets and been the keeper of many mysteries. This table is probably older than both of us put together, Edith thought. Jack took one of the photographs, carefully brushed off the dust, and handed it to Edith.

«Do you recognize this man?» he asked, his voice quiet and focused.

Edith took the photograph, trying not to tremble, and looked at it carefully. It depicted a young man in a military uniform, probably from World War II. His face was handsome, with regular features, and his eyes shone with a special courage and confidence. But despite his attractiveness, Edith couldn’t remember where she had seen this man. His face seemed vaguely familiar, as if she had met him somewhere in her life, but where? When? She tried to strain her memory, but chaos reigned in her head, as if thousands of memories had collided. My memory is failing me, she thought with annoyance.

Edith shook her head in confusion, trying to remember something. Her eyes darted over the photograph, but she still couldn’t latch onto any familiar detail.

«No… I don’t know. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t recall who. It’s like I’m looking at a stranger. Where did you find this photograph?» she asked, trying not to show her confusion. She tried to concentrate, peering into the stranger’s face, looking for any clue that would help her.

Jack sighed, as if tired of their questions. «It doesn’t matter, madam. It’s completely irrelevant now. What matters is that this man is the key. The key to your story. To the very story I asked you to tell. Or, rather, the one you might need to remember.» He stepped closer, leaned in, and pointed at the photograph. «This is Captain John Smith. Or at least, that was his name. And, according to some sources, a very interesting man.»

Arthur, who had been silently observing until now, frowned, his face expressing extreme distrust. «Captain Smith? The name sounds familiar, but where have I heard it? Does he have some connection to us?» His suspicion only grew.

Jack nodded, and a strange spark flickered in his eyes. «The most direct connection. You, Edith, are his granddaughter. And, as far as I know, the last of the Smith line.»

Edith gasped in amazement, her eyes widening. Arthur looked at his wife in surprise, his face showing utter bewilderment.

«Granddaughter? But… how is that possible? We’ve never heard of any Captain Smith. We never had any relatives who served in the army, let alone participated in World War II.»

Edith and Arthur silently processed this, looking at the old movie camera in Jack’s hands. «Captain Smith… and what are we supposed to do with this information?» Arthur finally asked, breaking the oppressive silence. He didn’t understand how his wife’s past could be connected to their current problems.

Jack, smiling mysteriously, pulled a worn Bell & Howell Filmo camera from his pocket, a popular model in the 40s. These cameras were used to shoot both wartime documentaries and Hollywood hits.

«And this is what,» he replied, handing the camera to Edith. «Your grandfather wasn’t just a captain. He was a cameraman. He filmed newsreels, saw the war with his own eyes. And he left you something. Something that can save you both.»

Edith looked at the camera distrustfully. She remembered how in her youth she dreamed of becoming a director, but Arthur always mocked her passion. «But… I never knew how to make real movies. It was just a hobby. And what can this possibly give us? How can it help us get out of here?»

«This camera is special, madam,» Jack replied, and a strange gleam flickered in his eyes. «It doesn’t just film movies. It films the truth. Your truth, your feelings, your memories. It captures not what you see, but what you feel. And if you can make a film about your love… about the love that could still be, the one you lost but can find again… perhaps, just perhaps, you can escape this city and return home.»

Arthur snorted skeptically, crossing his arms. «Sounds like the ravings of a madman. How is that even possible? And where do we start? We have no script, no actors, no sets.» It seemed like complete absurdity to him.

At that moment, a loud knock echoed through the basement. It seemed the door would be broken down any second.

«Seems we’re out of time for arguments, folks,» Jack said, grabbing the camera and pressing it into Edith’s hands. «Either you take it and start filming, tell your story, or you stay here and wait to be found. The choice is yours.»

Edith, without a second’s hesitation, firmly gripped the camera. Her fingers instinctively found the buttons. «What should we film?» she asked, feeling a long-forgotten sense of excitement and hope awakening in her soul.

«Start from the very beginning, madam,» Jack replied, pushing them toward the basement exit. «Remember how you met. Remember what you felt. And show me… love.»

Chapter 4

Lights, Camera… Memories!

Edith gripped the old movie camera tightly, as if it were a talisman, the last ray of hope in the pitch darkness. Her fingers, despite their treacherous trembling, confidently found the start button, as if remembering its location by heart. «Where do we begin, Jack?» she repeated her question, looking at him with hope, seeking approval from a stern director.

«Start filming, for God’s sake!» Jack barked, pushing them forward as if trying to ignite a spark in their cooled hearts. «Improvise! Remember! Feel! Forget all the bad stuff, like scenes cut from a film, and show me the love you once felt! The one you lost! And now… run, before we all get shot like in a gangster movie!» And a thought crossed Edith’s mind: Well, here goes… «Action! Camera! Roll!» — only instead of an assistant director, we have armed gangsters at the door.

He flung the basement door open, and they ran out onto the dark, rain-soaked street, like escapees from a cinema where a gangster shootout had just ended. Black-and-white Chicago of 1948 unfolded before them in all its noir glory, like a living page from a Raymond Chandler novel:

Wet pavements reflected the dim light of streetlamps like molten silver, and the bright lights of neon signs beckoned to «Club 99» and «Luigi’s Place.» Misspelled signs shouted about jazz, liquor, and cheap cigarettes.

The air was thick with the smell of tobacco mixed with cheap «Old Crow» whiskey and another elusive scent — the smell of fear and despair, seemingly absorbed into the very walls of the buildings. That year, by the way, Chicago saw a record number of murders, and Edith thought: This smell is probably the smell of death.

The rain poured down as if from a bucket, as if someone upstairs had opened a celestial tap, piercing them to the bone, and Edith imagined frozen homeless people trying to warm themselves under shop awnings, dreaming of a warm bed and a cup of hot coffee. She remembered her grandmother saying: «Poverty is not a vice, but a great misfortune.»

«And where do we run now?» Arthur shouted, trying to be heard over the rain and the deafening jazz from a nearby club. He was completely disoriented.

«It doesn’t matter, old man!» Jack replied, not slowing down. «Just run! And film! Film whatever comes to your mind! Film your memories! Film your love! Film what you want to remember!»

Edith, obeying some inner instinct, like a conductor picking up the baton before a concert, turned on the camera and pointed it at Arthur. The cold metal of the camera felt pleasant against her palm, reminding her of her youthful dreams.

«What do you remember, Arthur?» she asked, trying to speak loudly over the rain and the city’s hum. «What do you remember about our first meeting? What was I like then? Don’t lie to me, Arthur, every detail matters now.»

Arthur hesitated for a moment, as if trying to find any pleasant memories in the labyrinths of his memory, among dusty shelves of forgotten resentments and unspoken words. The rain drummed on the pavement, reminding them of time’s swift passage. Then, as if awakening from a long sleep, a faint smile lit up his face, and he began to speak, stammering, as if he had forgotten how to speak of love:

«I remember… I remember you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. You worked in a little bakery on the corner of our street, I think it was called «The Sweet Tooth,» and you always smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, like a Christmas pie.

I came to you every day for doughnuts, though, honestly, I couldn’t stand them… Just to see you… To see you smile.»

Edith, continuing to film and trying not to drop the old camera shaking in her hands like an aspen leaf in the wind, suddenly smiled, as if seeing the young, lovesick Arthur through the veil of time. A spark of long-extinguished love seemed to ignite in her eyes, like a candle flame lit in a dark room.

«And I remember your ridiculous polka-dot tie,» she replied, laughing through tears that mixed with the rain on her cheeks. «And how you always blushed when I looked at you. You were so shy, like a schoolboy seeing a girl for the first time.» And she thought: My God, am I really feeling something like love again?

Jack, running beside them and constantly looking around, urged them on, not letting them stop: «Faster! Film! Don’t stop! Don’t let them catch you! And remember, your life is a movie now, and your freedom is at stake!»

They ran through the dark, rain-lashed streets of Chicago, like characters in a film noir who know the ending holds either a bullet or bitter disappointment, filming each other as if trying to capture the last moments of life, sensing an imminent parting, remembering the past as if resurrecting ghosts from a distant time, trying to reclaim what was irrevocably lost, trying to revive the love that seemed to have forever left their lives, leaving only a bitter aftertaste of disappointment and regret. And a line from an old song, «The best things in life are free,» which she used to hum while working in that very bakery, echoed in Edith’s head, but she knew that this «free» love, these memories, would cost them dearly, perhaps even their lives.

The rain intensified, turning the black-and-white world into a blurred painting, as if someone had smeared watercolors on a canvas, and Edith and Arthur’s faces glistened with raindrops mixed with tears, as if mourning their lost youth and shattered dreams. They ran, gasping for breath from running and fear, stumbling on the uneven, cobblestone pavement, as if fate itself was tripping them up, and the camera in Edith’s hands continued to capture their chaotic, fragmented memories, like assembling a puzzle from pieces of the past. It seemed the rain was washing away all the excess, all the accumulated husk of the years, revealing only the essence of their relationship, their love and their pain. And Edith thought: Maybe this is why we’re here? To remember that we love each other, despite everything?

«I remember how we went to the movies, Arthur,» Edith continued, breathless from running and effort, as if trying to wrench these memories from time’s grasp.

«You always bought me a huge tub of popcorn, even though you grumbled it was a waste of money, that we should’ve bought a loaf of bread instead. And then you always held my hand, tight, as if afraid to lose me, and I didn’t care what was on the screen — a comedy with Abbott and Costello or a drama with Bette Davis. I just felt safe, just being next to you, like in a cocoon.» She remembered a line from an old film: «Love is when you feel good even in bad weather,» and she thought: Maybe love is that very ’good’ that makes any weather bearable? Now, in this rainy Chicago, surrounded by danger, she understood the meaning of those words as never before, as if she felt it with every fiber of her being.

«And I remember how we danced under the moon on the roof of our old house on the West Side,» Arthur replied, trying to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow with his old checked handkerchief.

«We had no radio, no gramophone, just an old phonograph at the neighbors’, but we sang songs ourselves, off-key and loud, like two drunken cats. And you always laughed at my terrible voice, said a bear had stepped on my ear, but despite that, you always asked me to sing again, just quieter, so the neighbors wouldn’t call the police.» He smiled through the pain in his chest and remembered the song they sang most often, their «love song»: «Let Me Call You Sweetheart,» which he always sang for her, missing every note.

«Yes, you sang terribly,» Edith agreed, smiling through tears, as if recalling a funny anecdote, and her voice trembled with emotion.

«But I loved your voice. It was so familiar and dear, as if I’d heard it since childhood, like a lullaby my mother sang. And even now, in this nightmare, I’d like to hear you sing it for me again.»

Suddenly, as if from hell itself, from a dark, narrow alley where, rumors had it, only shadows and criminals dwelled, where fates were decided and dirty deeds were done at night, a black car shot out — a powerful, gleaming Cadillac Series 62, a symbol of status and wealth in 40s Chicago, the kind gangsters and corrupt politicians rode in. The bright headlights, like spotlights blinding prisoners, dazzled them for a moment, forcing them to squint and feel like targets in a shooting gallery. They immediately knew these were their pursuers, that they had come to take their lives as payment for others’ sins.

«Watch out!» Jack shouted, sensing danger like an experienced boxer anticipating a blow. «Get down! Now!»