Maryna was still staring at the mockup on her MacBook when the CEO’s message flashed across the company messenger. “Everyone to the conference room. Immediately. ”
By the time she reached the glass doors, her chest was tight.
Oleksii Viktorovych sat at the head of the long table, pale, speaking without looking up. Funding was stopping. The Ukrainian office was closing. Key clients had frozen their budgets.
Four years of work, a team of twelve, a salary of 120,000 hryvnia a month—gone in ten minutes. “We’ll pay severance according to the labor code,” he said. “I’m sorry. ”
That evening Maryna let herself into the apartment on Pozniaky and called out to Roman.
He came out of the bedroom in sweatpants, phone in hand. “How was your day? ”
“The company closed. They’re shutting everything down.
”
Roman blinked. “What do you mean? ”
“Exactly what I said. No money.
Everyone out. ”
He was quiet for a moment, then started typing again. “You’ll find something new, right? ”
“Maybe.
The market is bad right now. It could take months. ”
“Okay. ”
Something in his tone made her tense, but she was too tired to push.
The next day she sent out dozens of resumes. The answers were cold, standard rejections. When Roman came home, he asked from the doorway, “Any luck? ”
“Nothing yet.
It’s only the first day. ”
“Right. ” He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out a yogurt. “So how much money do we have?
”
She followed him. “What do you mean? ”
“Savings. For when your search drags on.
”
Maryna bit her lip. There was a little over 100,000 hryvnia on her card. Nothing else. They had always spent everything.
“A few months of basics, I think. ”
“A few months. ” He put down the spoon. “And if you don’t find a job by then?
”
“I will. I have a strong portfolio. ”
“But what if you don’t? ” His voice sharpened.
“Then I have to support you? ”
She felt like she’d been slapped. “Roman, we’re a family. For two years I paid for everything.
You brought home fifteen thousand a month. ”
“First of all, you didn’t support me. You helped. Second, that was mutual help, not—“
“Not what?
I bought your suit for interviews. I paid for your English courses. When you sat at home for six months, who paid for food? Who bought the furniture, the dishes you eat from?
”
“I was looking for myself. ”
“Free internships for six months. ”
His face reddened. “Things change, Maryna.
Now you’re sitting without work and you want to spend my money. ”
“Your money? We couldn’t cover utilities and groceries on your salary. ”
“At least this apartment is mine!
” he shouted. The words hung in the air. She stared at him. “Say that again.
”
He looked away. “Forget it. ”
“No. Repeat what you just said.
”
He straightened, and his eyes went cold. “The apartment is mine. I’m not going to feed a freeloader in my house. ”
“Freeloader.
” She laughed without joy. “When I was buying you a twenty-thousand-hryvnia suit, was I a freeloader then? When I paid for your courses? When I carried you for two years?
”
“I’m not going to listen to this,” he said, slamming his fist on the table. “I didn’t sign up to support an unemployed wife. ”
“Fine. I’ll leave.
”
“Leave. ”
He didn’t try to stop her. In the morning, after he left for work, she packed her bags. She left her keys on the kitchen table, next to the dishwasher she had paid for, and walked out without looking back.
She didn’t call her parents. They lived hundreds of kilometers away, and she refused to become a burden. Renting in Kyiv would burn through the last of her money. She sat in a cheap café, staring at rental listings she couldn’t afford.
Then she saw it: “House in Stara Vilshanka. 100,000 hryvnia. Needs repairs but livable. All utilities on site.
”
It was almost everything she had left. It was also an escape. She called the number. A hoarse voice answered.
“Selling very urgently. My aunt died. None of the relatives want the house. ”
Within an hour she was sitting across from a man who introduced himself as Valerii Stepanovych.
He spread papers on the fast-food table. “The house is solid. I just need to close debts fast, so I’m giving it away. ”
The scheme sounded suspicious.
But despair pushed her forward. They drove to the village in his battered Lanos. Stara Vilshanka was a dying village: a few dozen houses along one road, half with blind, broken windows. The house stood at the far edge behind a tall, overgrown fence.
Maryna walked inside. The rooms smelled of dry wood and old books. There was a huge bookshelf, embroidered cloths on the walls, an overgrown apple orchard out back. She felt something she hadn’t felt in days: quiet.
“I’ll take it,” she said. The next morning she paid him in cash at a notary’s office. Valerii counted the bills with practiced speed, signed the receipt, and pushed a set of keys across the table. “Congratulations on your purchase.
”
She rode the old bus to the village with two suitcases and a one-way ticket. At the gate, an elderly woman was watching her. “And who are you? ”
“Maryna.
I just bought this house. ”
The woman’s face stretched. “Bought it? From whom?
”
“From Valerii Stepanovych. The nephew. ”
“What nephew? ” The woman set down her rake.
“Child, Lida didn’t have any nephews. She was alone all her life. She willed this house to the school, so they could make a children’s library. ”
For a moment Maryna couldn’t breathe.
She grabbed the cold wire of the fence. “He showed me documents. ”
“Then he’s a fraud. We need to call the police.
”
Maryna sat down on the porch steps. The last of her money was gone. The house wasn’t hers. The neighbor, Valentyna Petrivna, called the local police officer.
He arrived with the school principal, Oksana Mykolaivna, an energetic woman in her fifties. Maryna showed them the fake papers and the receipt. She also found a real will in the bedroom: Lidiia Ivanivna had left the house to the school. “Classic scheme,” the principal said.
“While the inheritance is being processed, these vultures change the locks and sell empty houses with forged documents. ”
The police officer took the papers and fingerprints. “We’ll put out an alert. If he’s working this scheme, he’ll surface.
”
Maryna stood in the middle of the strange yard, her suitcases still by the fence. Her life had collapsed twice in two weeks. “And what did you do in the city? ” the principal asked.
“Creative director at an IT company. But the company closed. And my husband turned out to be someone else as soon as the money stopped. ”
The principal looked at her for a long moment.
“What’s your education? ”
“Philology. Shevchenko University. ”
Maryna expected her to nod and leave.
Instead, the woman’s eyes sharpened. “Our only librarian just retired. We can’t find anyone willing to come here for the salary. Lidiia wanted this house to be a cultural center—a library, a museum for the children.
” She paused. “The position pays fifteen thousand. But since the house is going to the school, I can offer you the job with the right to live here while the investigation is going on. You’d have a roof, legal status, and time to find your feet.
”
Maryna looked around: the old apple trees, the crooked porch, the silence you couldn’t buy in Kyiv. “Can I think until morning? ”
“Don’t think too long. The children are waiting for books.
”
That night Maryna sat wrapped in a woolen blanket in Valentyna Petrivna’s guest room. The country darkness was thick, alive with crickets and distant dogs. She opened her MacBook, the only expensive object she still owned. Three rejections from IT companies.
A fourth email from an unknown address. Subject: “Cooperation proposal, project format. ”
She clicked it. “We came across your portfolio on a specialized platform.
We are an independent creative agency working on cultural and social projects in the regions. We’re launching a major tourism development program in small towns and villages. We need an art director with your experience. Work is fully remote, flexible schedule.
Starting salary: 70,000 hryvnia per month. ”
She read it three times. Remote work. Cultural projects.
Seventy thousand. In the morning she told Oksana Mykolaivna yes. She would run the library. Her new life found a rhythm.
Mornings she sat on the sunny porch with her laptop, designing concepts for the agency. Afternoons she opened the door of Lidiia’s old house to schoolchildren. She helped them find materials, ordered new books, and spent the evenings sorting through the old teacher’s archives for the future museum. A month later, the police officer called.
“We got him. Valerii Stepanovych was caught trying to sell another fake inheritance in Kyiv. We seized a large amount of cash and a stack of forged documents. Your money is in there.
The court has ordered it returned. ”
The pieces were slowly coming back together, but in a shape she hadn’t expected. She was planting lavender bushes by the porch when her phone buzzed. Roman.
“Maryna, hi. ” His voice was uncertain. “I saw your new posts. You really moved to a village?
”
“Yes. ”
“Come on. I thought it was a joke. Stop with the childish offense and come home.
It’s not the same without you. ”
“I am home, Roman. ”
“Seriously? You were a top creative director in the capital.
Now you’re a librarian in a broken-down hut. That’s total degradation. ”
“I’m the head of a modern cultural space and an art director on freelance. And do you know what?
I love it. What are you now in your concrete box? ”
She hung up, blocked his number, and felt lighter than she had in months. May came.
Lidiia Ivanivna’s old orchard exploded into white blossom. The village gathered for the opening of the cultural space named after the teacher. Journalists came from the regional center, along with former students and local officials. Maryna’s money had been fully returned, and the fraudster was in prison.
One of the older graduates stood in front of the new exhibition walls with tears in her eyes. “Lidiia would be so happy to see this. She always said this house should serve people. ”
Maryna stood on the restored porch, accepting handshakes and congratulations, and thought about the strange turns of fate.
Half a year ago she had measured success by her title, her apartment, her salary. Now she lived in a simple village house and felt more alive than ever. That evening, when the last guests had gone, she made herbal tea, sat down at the heavy oak table, and opened her laptop to finish the concept for a new tourist route. The first stars were showing through the open window.
A nightingale sang somewhere in the blooming garden. She smiled, took a sip of tea, and kept working.
