The town of Beregova was unlike any other. Nestled deep in the frostbitten wilderness of Russia, its people carried a secret as ancient as the land itself: everyone here was born knowing the exact day they would die. The knowledge arrived at birth, whispered like a lullaby in the cradle, a truth they bore like a shadow.
For most, it was a comfort. Death was no surprise, no thief in the night. Families prepared feasts for final days; goodbyes were deliberate, and lives were lived without fear of the unknown.
But for Ivan Orlov, this certainty became a curse. His death day was supposed to be five years ago.
Ivan had spent the past half-decade as a ghost among the living. On June 12th, at age 27, he had bid farewell to his family, written letters to his few friends, and even spent his last hours sitting by the riverbank where he’d grown up. He had waited for death as one might wait for a storm—resigned, helpless. Yet the clock had struck midnight, and his heart had kept beating.
At first, there was relief. Then confusion. Then dread.
By the time dawn broke, Ivan had become an anomaly. In Beregova, nobody outlived their death date. The town's elders, keepers of its ancient lore, could not explain it. Some muttered about a divine error. Others whispered about a curse.
Over time, the townsfolk grew wary of him. Ivan, once a carpenter, found his work drying up. People avoided his gaze in the marketplace. Parents pulled their children away when he passed. They called him “perezhivshiy”—the one who outlived.
On a particularly cold winter morning, Ivan sat alone in his cottage, nursing a glass of vodka. The isolation had become suffocating, yet he found himself unable to leave Beregova. Something bound him to this place, though he couldn’t say what.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Startled, he stood and opened it to find an old woman bundled in layers of wool. Her face was lined with years, but her pale blue eyes burned with intensity.
“May I come in, Ivan Orlov?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you.” Without waiting for an answer, she stepped inside, her boots crunching on the wooden floor.
Ivan shut the door, frowning. “What do you want?”
“I am Galina,” she said, settling into his worn chair by the fire. “I’ve come to help you.”
“Help me?” He laughed bitterly. “Unless you can explain why I didn’t die five years ago, I doubt you can.”
Galina’s gaze was piercing. “What if I told you that you were not meant to die that day?”
Ivan froze. “What are you talking about?”
“There are forces at work here, Ivan. Forces older than Beregova, older than the knowledge of death itself. Sometimes, a life is spared for a reason.”
Galina told him a story. Long ago, before Beregova’s people knew their death days, they lived like everyone else, blind to fate. One winter, a traveler arrived in the town, a man with eyes like the night sky. He brought with him a gift—the knowledge of death, which he claimed would free the townsfolk from fear.
But the gift came with a price. In exchange for this knowledge, the traveler demanded something in return: the occasional sacrifice of a life. Every generation, one person would be chosen to defy death, to exist in limbo, neither fully alive nor fully dead. These outliers, the perezhivshiy, were bound to the traveler’s will.
“The traveler’s name was Moroz,” Galina said. “And you, Ivan, are his chosen one.”
Ivan stared at her, his pulse racing. “That’s… that’s insane.”
“Is it?” Galina countered. “Think about it. Why do you linger while others pass? Why does the town shun you, even though you’ve done nothing wrong?”
He didn’t want to believe her, but deep down, a part of him knew she was right.
“What does Moroz want with me?” Ivan asked.
Galina’s expression darkened. “That, I do not know. But I do know this—if you don’t find him and break the pact, you will remain trapped forever.”
The journey to find Moroz began that very night. Galina handed Ivan a map, its surface marked with strange symbols. “Follow this,” she said. “It will lead you to his domain.”
Ivan packed what little he had and set off, the biting wind gnawing at his face. The path led him deep into the wilderness, where the snow fell heavier and the trees grew gnarled and twisted.
Days blurred into nights. He encountered strange sights along the way—a frozen stag with eyes that glowed, a river that ran red beneath the ice, whispers in the wind that seemed to call his name.
On the seventh day, he reached a clearing. At its center stood a house made entirely of ice, its walls shimmering in the moonlight. Ivan approached cautiously, his breath fogging in the frigid air.
The door opened before he could knock.
Inside, the house was impossibly warm. A fire burned in a hearth carved from ice, and seated before it was a man dressed in dark furs. His eyes were black as coal, and his smile was both welcoming and unsettling.
“Welcome, Ivan Orlov,” the man said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Ivan’s hands balled into fists. “Are you Moroz?”
The man inclined his head. “I am.”
“Why did you choose me?” Ivan demanded. “Why am I still alive?”
Moroz chuckled. “Alive? Is that what you think you are?” He stood, towering over Ivan. “You are neither alive nor dead, boy. You exist because I willed it.”
“Why?” Ivan shouted. “What do you want from me?”
Moroz’s smile faded. “There is a balance in this world, Ivan. For every life, a death. For every death, a life. You are my tether, my anchor to the mortal realm. Without you, I cannot walk among your kind.”
Ivan’s stomach churned. “You’re using me.”
“Call it what you will,” Moroz said with a shrug. “But know this—if you sever the bond, you will die as you were meant to five years ago.”
Ivan wrestled with the weight of Moroz’s words. Could he truly let go of the life he’d clung to for so long? Did he even have a choice?
“I won’t be your pawn,” Ivan said finally, his voice firm.
Moroz raised an eyebrow. “And how do you plan to stop me?”
Galina’s voice echoed in Ivan’s mind: “If you don’t find him and break the pact, you will remain trapped forever.”
Ivan reached into his coat and pulled out a shard of ice he had taken from the river—the same river where he had waited for death five years ago. The shard pulsed with a faint light.
Moroz’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that?”
Ivan didn’t answer. He plunged the shard into his chest, and a surge of energy coursed through him. Pain, cold and searing, exploded in his veins.
Moroz let out a roar, his form flickering like a dying flame. “What have you done?”
Ivan collapsed to the floor, gasping. The ice shard had melted, but he felt… whole. For the first time in years, his heart beat with clarity.
The house of ice began to crack, the walls splintering. Moroz’s form dissolved into mist, his screams echoing into nothingness.
When Ivan awoke, he was lying by the riverbank in Beregova. The sun was rising, its light reflecting off the frozen water.
He stood, his body aching but alive. Truly alive.
As he walked back into town, the villagers stared at him, their eyes wide with awe. For the first time, they did not turn away.
Galina met him at the edge of the village. “You did it,” she said, her voice filled with quiet pride.
Ivan nodded. “The bond is broken.”
“And now?” she asked.
He looked at her, a faint smile on his lips. “Now, I live.”
For the first time, Ivan Orlov was free—not from death, but from the fear of it. In a town where everyone knew their end, he had become something new: a man who lived without knowing, and without fear.
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