Several years ago, my relatives came to Volgograd from the Moscow region for a visit. One day, they were returning from our dacha to the city and were involved in a minor accident on the highway: their car was slightly hit by an oncoming vehicle. The other driver was at fault, and the parties agreed that he would pay for my relatives' upcoming car repairs, and since he didn't have the required amount on him, he left his home phone number so they could contact him (cell phones didn't exist back then). That's how they parted ways. But no matter how many times my relatives tried to contact him, they couldn't get through—no one answered the phone. Then, through information services, they found out his address and went to the home of the man responsible for the accident.
The same man opened the door for them, but upon entering the apartment, they discovered they were at a wake. As the owner explained, that day marked nine days since his son's death. All my relatives' anger at him immediately subsided—the man was in such grief, and they were bothering him over something trivial. They wanted to leave, but the owner asked them to stay and told him this story.
He'd lived comfortably his whole life, had made good progress in the 1990s, his business was successful, and his family was close-knit. But recently, something strange, or rather, terrible, began to happen to him.
It all started with my grandfather—an old, wizened man with a long, snow-white beard and matching gray hair, wearing a floor-length homespun shirt, whom he'd seen in a dream once when he was seriously ill. My grandfather sat down on his bed and said angrily, "What, are you feeling ill? It's only going to get worse! This is just the beginning!" From that day on, misfortunes haunted the man, raining down on him like a cornucopia: his dacha burned down, his business failed, his wife left him, the cars he was driving were involved in several accidents of varying severity, and now his only son had died...
The death of his son was preceded by another inexplicable event: his son was planning to get married soon, and for this occasion, his father was looking for an apartment as a gift. He considered numerous options, but only one caught his eye—it was in a prestigious neighborhood, had a large square footage, and had a good layout. An elderly man opened the door for him and led him through the apartment, deliberately avoiding a closed door leading to one of the rooms. The man was puzzled—why was that?—and demanded to see that room too, as he liked the apartment overall. The man reluctantly opened the door for the buyer, and he saw thousands of candles burning throughout the room, but even they did not dispel the pitch-black darkness. Some candles were barely flaming, some were already partially burned out, and some had completely turned into stubs, smoldering faintly. "What kind of candles are these?" the man was taken aback. "These aren't candles, these are human lives. Look, yours is burning out!" the old man replied.
Terror-stricken, the man rushed out of the apartment. A few days later, he told a friend what had happened. The friend merely laughed at his sensitivity, assuming the old man was simply making fun of a "tough guy," and suggested they go see this prankster old man and negotiate the purchase of the apartment. So they did. But imagine their surprise when a young woman opened the door. Her questions about her grandfather perplexed her—her family had lived in this apartment for many years, and no grandfather had ever been here... One can only wonder where the hapless buyer had really been.
After listening to his story, in a state of slight shock, my relatives did not dare ask him to repay their debt and, having said goodbye, left.
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