⏱ ~3 min reading
Marinka came to her grandmother's for the holidays. On the second day she became bored. The phone reception was poor. Grandma said: go for a walk, look at the lilac in the garden. But Marinka wanted to read.
Grandma's books were on a high shelf in the living room. The books were old, with worn covers. Marinka stood on a chair and ran her finger over the spines.
One caught her eye - with a thin cloth cover the color of a faded sea. Without a bright picture. The title was slightly faded: "The Girl from Sosnovaya Street.".
— Grandma, can I?
— Take it. I read it when I was a child.
Marinka settled down on the sofa. She opened it. The pages were yellowish, the font was a bit strange, with neat serifs. It smelled of old paper and something else—like an old closet.
«This will be boring,» thought Marinka. A book from the 1980s. Grandma’s.
But she started reading. The first few paragraphs were difficult—the letters seemed cramped. After two pages, it got easier. After five—Marinka couldn't even notice the font.
The book was about a girl named Ira. Ira lived with her mother and grandmother. She loved to draw. She was ashamed to show her drawings at school. She had a friend with whom they shared one album for two — they drew together. Ira was afraid of thunderstorms. And she loved the smell of bread from her mother's oven.
Marinka read and couldn't stop reading.
«"I also like to draw. I'm also shy at school. I'm also afraid of thunderstorms. And Olea and I have one album for two.".
How did this writer aunt know?
Grandma came from the kitchen. She brought a cup of compote. Marinka almost didn't notice.
— Curious?
"Grandma. It's like it was written about me.".
"And I was so surprised once," said the grandmother, sitting down next to her. "I thought I was the only one like that— timid, quiet. But it turned out that many girls are like that.".
Marinka looked at her grandmother. At her wrinkled face. At her gray hair, pinned back with a simple hairpin.
— Grandma. Did you draw as a child too?
— I drew. I still have the album — in the attic. If you want — I'll show you.
Marinka nodded.
They sat in the garden all day. Grandma brought her old album—it had drawings made with colored pencils. The sun. A cat. A house with a triangular roof. On each drawing—a small caption—in Marinka's handwriting, only as if older: "Elena, 8 years old.".
— Grandma. I used to draw like that too when I was younger.
— I know.
When Marinka went to bed in the evening, «The Girl from Sosnova Street» was lying on the bedside table. The book was forty years old. And Marinka was ten. And yet, the book was about her.
Marinka stroked the binding. It was soft and worn. She hadn't read more than half of the pages yet.
It seemed to her that there were no years between her and the girl Ira from the book. They were like friends who met after a while. It was just that Ira came earlier. Marinka now.
Grandma turned off the light.
— Will you finish reading tomorrow?
— Tomorrow. And I'll read it again.
— And then give it to Olya.
— Dam.
The book lay nearby. Silent. Old. Alive.
💡 Page friends never get old.