Arseny woke up after darkness had fallen. His arm knocked against Ustina’s dangling arm. Her arm was cold. It would not bend. The coals in the stove had long gone cold but something still gleamed ever so slightly in the small oil lamp under the icon of the Savior. Arseny brought a candle to the lamp. He held it cautiously so as not to extinguish the last fire remaining in the house. The candle flared (not immediately) and lit the room. Arseny looked around. He gazed attentively, noticing every little thing. Scattered items. Broken little pots of remedies. He did not miss a single detail, because it all allowed him to continue not looking at Ustina. And then he looked at her.
Ustina was lying in the same position as yesterday but she was completely different. Her nose had sharpened and the whites of her open eyes were sunken. Ustina’s face was alabaster but the tips of her ears were a minium red. Arseny stood over Ustina and feared touching her. He was not experiencing disgust; his fear was of a different nature. There was nothing of Ustina in the body sprawled out in front of him. He extended his palm to her half-bent leg and cautiously touched it. He drew his finger along her skin: it turned out to be cold and rough. It had never been like this during Ustina’s life. He tried to straighten her leg but was unable, just as he was unable to close her eyes. He was afraid to apply pressure. Whatever he touched was, perhaps, very fragile. He covered Ustina with a bedspread, everything but her face.