**“To Eat”**

People are terrifyingly egocentric. For the most part, ask anyone, and almost everyone will argue with foaming mouths, in categorical belief of the exceptional solitude of humanity in the Universe, providing “scientific” proof of it and violently tearing apart any “pseudo-scientific” notions about anything metaphysical. Personally, I had my own view on this matter: I allowed the possibility of something beyond, but rarely thought about it due to being busy. So I was neither a fervent mystic nor an exceptional skeptic — rather, I was a deeply indifferent inhabitant of this world, unconcerned with other worlds. My mornings began with thoughts of work and a horse-sized dose of coffee, not about inhabitants of the subtle realm. My mornings were almost identical: coffee, jumping into clothes, getting into the car, and diving into work.

One such Tuesday morning in March, I was awakened not by an alarm but by a call from my colleague, who sadly informed me of the passing of our chief accountant. The news saddened me but did not surprise me: Inna Alexandrovna had been suffering from duodenal cancer, and her death had been foreseen back in December, when doctors had shrugged their shoulders. At work, everyone was talking only about funeral obligations — wreaths, financial assistance, and other tributes — after which the day proceeded as usual — alive, as they say, the living.

The funeral was on Thursday. March winds, slushy snow covering the cemetery paths, a gray low sky. That year, March was terrible — a complete continuation of February, except for the piercing winds. The funeral procession was modest. There were more colleagues than relatives. The farewell was brief: duty to the cold outweighed duty to memory, alas, and no one wanted to risk catching pneumonia or even a cold.

After the burial, I headed to my car, lost in thoughts about the futility of existence and the inevitability of death. Passing the cemetery chapel, I noticed a figure on the very first line of graves, the one adjacent to the chapel wall. The figure surprised me. It was a child, small, about six or seven years old. I hadn’t seen him among the mourners, and besides us, there was only one other procession, but it was very small and consisted only of elderly people. The child looked in my direction, but his face was hidden by an enormous hat, so I could not see his eyes. Maybe a beggar from the church? Quite possibly.

I went into the church. After lighting candles and briefly speaking with the priest, I came out and, turning toward the cemetery exit, suddenly noticed the same child — now he was standing behind a grave slab not far from the exit. Now he was visible very clearly. It was, as I had said, a boy. On his head was something that had once been a yellow fur hat, now matted into a solid mass, an enormous dirty-brown lump, completely hiding his face. His outerwear was a coat — possibly a parka; the style and color were only vaguely recognizable — something brown-green. The coat was from someone else’s shoulders, and the pants were simply enormous, gathered in accordion folds at the bottom and worn to the extreme. He still looked at me — although I could not see his eyes, I felt his gaze on me. I called to him, but he did not move. Then I decisively walked toward him. It should be noted that, although I was a misanthropic person, my disdain never extended to the elderly, children, or animals. I could not bear when people were indifferent to the weaker. I felt sorry for the boy. He was clearly a beggar, possibly homeless or from an alcoholic family.

— Boy, take some money, — I said, simultaneously taking out my wallet.

The boy did not move, only slowly shook his head in refusal.

— Can I help you in some way?

— Eat.

He was not a beggar, he was a hungry, freezing child. Something ached inside me (probably a heart, rarely active in my life).

I frantically considered options for feeding him and realized that, aside from church prosphora (bread used in Orthodox liturgy), there was nothing edible in this area. I had only chewing gum in my bag, which wouldn’t do. But on the way, I had seen a small shop at a bus stop — there would definitely be food.

— Hey, kid, come with me, we’ll figure something out, — I forced myself to say in the friendliest tone possible.

He slightly nodded and started walking toward the exit. I took this as agreement and quickened my pace to catch up. At that moment, as we aligned, the boy suddenly took my hands. His frozen fingers gripped my palm painfully — how cold that hand was! He must have been frozen to the bone.

My car was parked right by the main gates. I hurried to open the rear passenger door and helped my little companion climb in. As I closed the door, my gaze involuntarily fell on the boy’s feet. I had not been able to see them before, as they were hidden under the folds of his pants. I saw the feet.

The boy was barefoot. White as snow. He had been standing barefoot in the snow all this time. I was filled with horror and anger. How could the world of adults treat a child like this?!

— Where do you live? — I asked.

— Here, — his voice was quiet and low, almost unnaturally calm for a child. The monosyllabic answers were surprising, but given the situation, his stupor seemed understandable.

I quickly got into the car, turned the heater to +32 degrees Celsius, and drove toward the store. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror, trying to see his face, but in vain. The boy remained silent — not a word. Shocked, I thought.

When we arrived at the store, I asked him, looking in the mirror, what he liked and what I should buy, but he shrugged.

— Wait in the car and warm up, I’ll be back.

In the store, I picked up everything I could — from meat pies to cartons of milk — but could not decide exactly what to get. My mind raced with thoughts of what had happened to the boy and how I could help him. After paying for two bags of food, I rushed back to the car. I opened the door and was stunned: it was empty. The rear seat was empty. He was gone. But where? He said he lived near the cemetery, and we had driven quite far by walking standards. I was upset and confused. I decided to drive back — maybe he was walking along the road? But in the evening twilight, I found no one. Returning home, very upset, I went to sleep.

The next day was busy, and I forgot about the barefoot boy. Exhausted, I came home, didn’t go out, as I normally would on Friday. I had dinner and fell asleep.

I rarely wake up at night; usually, trips to the bathroom, thirst, and other needs do not disturb me until morning. But that night, I woke up and lazily went to the toilet. Here it is necessary to describe my apartment layout. I have two bathrooms, one near the bedroom, but the tank had some problem, so I had to use the guest bathroom. To reach it, I had to exit into the corridor and pass by the entrance door. Half-asleep, I walked to the bathroom, but returning, I was fully awake. I passed the entrance door, and something in my peripheral vision seemed wrong. Looking at the door, I froze. The handle slowly moved down and silently returned to its place. I thought it was a trick of my sleepiness, but the movement repeated. Someone in the hallway was slowly fiddling with the handle. The clock showed 2:43. There was a concierge in the building. Who was it? My ex? Thieves? Someone mistaken? All these questions could be easily clarified with a peephole, but some intuition, some premonition immediately gave me the answer that this was very bad. Meanwhile, the handle continued moving, and a light knocking was added. I cautiously approached the peephole and looked.

I forgot that one needs to breathe. Horror and unreality gripped me. There, under the door, stood a small figure in a dirty yellow hat with snowy white bare feet. It was the same child. How? How could he be here?

He did not move. He just stood there.

I recoiled from the door. Maybe a dream? I felt myself, looked in the full-length mirror. No. Not a dream. Then my gaze fell on the balcony door. I always drew curtains — big windows, large balcony; I disliked morning sunlight. Somehow, I had left the curtains open in the evening. Now, in the pale moonlight, I could see a dark figure in the far corner. It moved toward the balcony door. And then I saw him again. The boy, or rather what had seemed a boy, approached the door and pressed his hands to the glass. It was locked. Then he raised his eyes to me again. Fear and panic paralyzed me. I could neither scream, move, nor speak. I only tried to inhale, but it felt as if air had been sucked out of the room, my lungs were constricted by an icy rope. It seemed I had fallen into snow and could not breathe. I could not look away from the window, and he suddenly opened that enormous black mouth and said:

— Eaaat…

The sound was guttural, deep, like a pipe. The primal horror it caused me was so intense that I heard the end of the word through a haze. I fainted.

I came to on the floor by the bed. The phone lay nearby — fully charged. Convincing myself it was a dream, I stared at the balcony door. At first, everything seemed to confirm the dream theory, but upon closer inspection, I saw two small handprints on the inside of the glass. My last thread of sanity snapped. The balcony was covered in dirty, dried footprints. Behind the entrance door, the same. I did not know what to think or where to run. I only knew that speaking of it might get me committed. I replayed everything in my head — from what I learned from my terrifying, laconic visitor, I knew only two things: he was hungry, and he lived near the cemetery. He lived? He wasn’t alive — that much I could assert against reason. His cold hand was not frozen but dead. No warmth came from the palm; the white, bloodless feet were those of a corpse.

These thoughts ran through my mind as I sped toward the familiar cemetery. I did not know who he was or why he came to me, but I knew where I had first seen him… or rather, he found me.

I turned onto the road leading straight to the cemetery gates. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw him on the back seat — staring at me with his empty, sky-like eye sockets. They looked through the mirror, through my face, directly into my soul, sending chills that almost made me swerve into a snowbank. The next second, when I straightened the car, he was gone.

Paralyzed, hands trembling, I ran into the cemetery chapel. The priest looked at me with surprise. He did not immediately understand my scattered words but listened patiently. When I fell silent, he began speaking:

— This happened when Father Alexey served here, in the early 1990s. Times were hard, as you know. Many were in need; the church was big then. Many children were homeless, some with alcoholic parents, some ran away. No one remembers when Malek appeared — probably in the fall — no one knew where he came from or how old he was, whether he had parents. He didn’t speak much, only a few words: “eat,” “mom,” “thank you.” With this small vocabulary, he begged. He always gave the money he collected to Father Alexey, who fed him and provided shelter. That’s how he settled. Parishioners often asked him to help with small chores — pulling weeds, cleaning old flowers and wreaths — for a small reward. Only once did he disappear. Just as he appeared, he vanished. Days gone, weeks gone. Father Alexey and locals searched. Eventually, the police were informed. They found the boy’s body in the forest. He had frozen to death. During life, he was malnourished. Injuries indicated he had been hit by a car. He could not reach this place himself. The driver who hit him had left him in the woods. The boy tried to get out, but injuries, cold, and hunger prevented him from reaching the road. Father Alexey buried him near the north wall of the chapel. Later, a man confessed — he had killed the boy. The driver had accidentally hit him while drunk and then abandoned him. Only later did he appear — first in dreams, then in the night, and finally even in the day. That’s your visitor.

I stood in utter shock. I was no longer a sarcastic misanthrope. Tears ran down my face.

Later, I stood where I first saw Malek — first row of graves by the north wall of the church. A small gravestone, no photo, no name, no past. But he existed. A kind boy, silent but open to all.

— Father Georgiy, why do I see him?

— I do not know. Perhaps your mind was open at that moment, or your thoughts were filled with something that attracted him.

— Why does he follow me?

— You offered help, didn’t you? That’s why he came.

I remembered how he gripped my hand and walked beside me. I recalled the words he knew in life. He knew “mom.” So he had a mother. Someone had passed on kindness and love, giving him part of their soul. Perhaps he needed warmth, the simplest human warmth, which he lacked in life and at death, left alone with fear, pain, and cold.

— What does he want? What should I do for him, if this is even the right way to phrase it?

— It’s quite appropriate. You heard him yourself. He said it. Eat.

— I wasn’t mistaken. But how can I feed him if he’s dead?

— This way: feed the living. The dead need only the food of memory.

… The shop assistant stared at me as if I were insane while I returned with the fourth and fifth bags.

— Here you go, — I said, unloading the bags near the motley group on the church porch. A mischievous boy, about ten, helped me. I said goodbye to Father Georgiy and ordered a memorial service for the soul of the servant of God Mikhail — that’s what Father Alexey named him, since there was no name in the saints’ calendars for Malek.

I never saw Malek alive again. Only in dreams — a week later, he came to me. Still barefoot, still in the same coat. But this time he had taken off his hat, and I saw blue, stream-like, pure, spring-sky eyes. He smiled; all his teeth were there, except the front one, which had fallen out and would be replaced. Malek looked at me and after a few minutes said:

— Thank you.

Then he turned and, looking somewhere far beyond my sight, said:

— Mom.

How little words need to contain everything — in that one word was everything. I realized he was now with his mother, no longer freezing in the forest by the road, no longer staring at the March sky with frozen eyes.

I often visit Malek, bringing him candy and chocolate. But I have never seen or felt anything unusual since. I spoke with Father Georgiy a few times — why did he appear in such a terrifying, final form?