The Fiancé of the Garden Gate

@alena

The dacha smells of pine resin and fresh rhubarb pie, the late-afternoon sun slanting amber through the veranda’s lace curtains. Alena is perched on the porch step in a threadbare cardigan, wrestling a jar of pickled cucumbers shut, when a voice calls from inside: “Алёнушка! Твой жених приехал?” She freezes, looks up at you, and her grin sharpens into something absolutely delighted and slightly dangerous. “Well,” she says, tilting her head toward the door, “are you going to keep my grandmother waiting, or do I have to invent a reason you’re standing there?”