Chapter 2. Spindle (Part 1)

Zoya’s first memory was the sting of a man’s palm against her cheek and the roar of his voice:

“YOU WHORES!”

The sound cracked through the stale air, loud enough to rattle the thin glass of the window behind him. His handprint burned into her skin, the outline already swelling, hot and bright like iron pulled from a fire.

She sat frozen on the cracked cement floor, her small legs splayed out, bare toes curling against the cold. The house was one of many that stood in the row, all identical — low, boxy structures of pale concrete, their paint stripped by wind and years. Beyond them stretched the grassland, an ocean of green swaying under a flat, endless sky the color of diluted milk.

A gust slid through the half-open window, carrying with it the dry scent of dust and something faintly metallic, like old coins. It made the curtains stir — thin fabric, once white, now yellowed like smokers’ teeth.

She touched her burning cheek. She didn’t cry. She was three years old, and already the part of her that wanted to cry had been buried under instinct — stay still, stay quiet, stay invisible.

A shadow moved from behind the door. Her mother emerged, hair disheveled, eyes sharp. She grabbed Zoya’s wrist and pulled her up, spinning toward the man. They shouted over each other, voices sharp enough to cut. The words were ugly — the kind you could feel even if you didn’t understand them all. Her mother’s free hand jabbed in the air, pointing, accusing. The man’s lips curled back from yellow teeth, spit flying as he threw curses like stones.

That night, her mother took her away. No warning. No farewell.

The sky was already dark when they left. Her mother’s grip was firm, pulling her along the dirt road, a battered suitcase rolling behind them, its small wheels rattling over loose gravel. The sound was steady, like a metronome, marking the start of a rhythm Zoya would come to know well.

Life in Motion

The next years were a blur of roads and roofs, never the same one twice. Cities with strange syllables in their names. Markets where the air was heavy with frying oil, cigarette smoke, and the musky sweat of too many bodies in too small a space. Alleys that stank of sour milk and rainwater trapped in gutters.

Sometimes the language changed between one city and the next. Zoya learned early not to talk much — it was easier to listen, to pick up the meaning of things without words. Her mother spoke enough of each tongue to make deals and find work.

Work always meant men.

The rooms they stayed in were rarely more than boxes. One thin mattress on the floor, its springs groaning when you sat. A bathroom so small you could wash your hands while sitting on the toilet. Cooking, eating, sleeping, living — all done in the same few square meters. In the summer, the air inside thickened until it felt like you were breathing through cloth. In the winter, frost crept along the edges of the window glass.

Sometimes, during a move, Zoya would stare out of bus windows at passing towns — proper towns, with lit streets and houses big enough for two floors. She would imagine living in one of those, maybe with a yard, maybe with a door that locked and stayed locked. But the bus always kept moving.

She learned to pack light. A change of clothes, a chipped enamel cup, a folded scrap of cloth that was once a scarf. Everything else could be left behind.

Everything else would be.

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