“Granny, what’s wrong?” Ivan asked.
Ivan, her fourteen-year-old grandson, believed it was nonsense. A superstition from a time when people blamed the wind for their lost sheep. But this autumn, Zoya grew quiet. She spent hours staring at the northern sky, her wrinkled hands clutching her wool shawl. soushkinboudera
Ivan walked down the mountain. He was thinner, older in the eyes, but lighter. He found Zoya shelling peas on the porch. “Granny, what’s wrong