The orphan girl who inherited a small house deep in the woods went out to pick mushrooms and found an airplane. One look inside the cockpit changed everything…
After leaving the orphanage, seventeen-year-old Lida received something unexpected: a small house nestled in the wilderness, left to her by a grandmother who had passed away long ago. The half-ruined home stood alone—on the edge of the forest, as though forgotten by the world.
No one awaited her. Nothing connected her to her past. And so, she took it as an opportunity to begin anew. A simple life—but one that was entirely hers.
On the third day, tired of the endless cleaning, Lida went into the woods to clear her mind and search for mushrooms. She wandered farther and farther until she stumbled upon a strange clearing covered in soft moss. In the middle of the trees, as if fallen from the sky, stood an old airplane—almost whole, though overgrown with roots and covered in rust, as though it had been claimed by the forest.
Curiosity overpowered fear. Lida climbed into the cockpit—and screamed: in the pilot’s seat sat a skeleton in uniform, frozen in its last moment of life. Around its neck hung a medallion… with her name carefully engraved on it.
From that instant, everything changed. What began as an attempt to start fresh became a deep dive into a mystery reaching back to wartime—one involving missing crews, secret missions, family connections… and something far greater than she could understand.
Lida froze, clutching the edge of the cockpit. The air was stale, heavy—thick with the scent of rust, mold, and forgotten time.
The skeleton stared at her with empty sockets. It looked as if it had been waiting.
Tearing her gaze away, she reached out for the medallion. Her hands trembled. Her breath faltered. Carefully, as though performing a sacred act, she lifted it from the chain.
On the back were etched the words:
“To Lida. When you grow up—find me.”
Her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded as if trying to escape her chest.
“What…?” she whispered, her fingertips ice-cold.
The pilot’s uniform had been preserved astonishingly well—almost as if time had passed him by. Crumpled notes in English lay on the instrument panel. One of them read:
“Mission 13. Northern Sector. Classified.”
She didn’t know English—but she understood the number.
A cursed number.
When she finally left the cockpit, the sun was low. The forest was thicker, the air heavier. Every rustle seemed amplified. She ran home, forgetting the mushrooms, the medallion clenched tightly in her palm.
The next morning, an unshakable pull drew her back to the forest. Not fear—but a deep unease, as if something demanded her return.
But just before she could leave, she heard a creaking sound in the attic. The house was still—too still for anyone else to be there. Lida climbed upstairs and found an old suitcase filled with letters. One was addressed to her:
To my granddaughter Lida. If you’ve come back.
She opened it and read:
If you are reading this, it means you’ve found the plane. Tell no one. It isn’t from our time. And maybe—it came for you.
Her skin tingled. Everything happening was far from normal. But one question consumed her: if the pilot knew her name—who was he?
The next morning, she woke as if someone had called her in a dream. Her mind spun with questions:
How did he know me? Why me? Who was the man in the cockpit? And how did Grandma know all this?
Determination beat out fear. She dressed warmly, grabbed a flashlight, and returned to the forest.
Each step was a challenge. Branches seemed to close in behind her, trees whispered above.
When she reached the clearing—the plane was gone.
Only soft moss, young grass, and silence. No metal, no rust, no wreckage. As if it had all been a dream.
Lida searched frantically. Nothing. Somewhere far off, a woodpecker tapped.
And then—a twig snapped.
She spun around. A shadow moved between the trees—tall, vague.
Her heart stopped. The shadow stilled too. A moment later—it vanished.
But she knew: someone had been watching. Perhaps, had been watching all along.
That night she couldn’t sleep. The air was damp. The floorboards creaked. And something outside seemed to watch through the window.
She read the letter again:
The plane will return if you remember. You’re not just an orphan, Lida. Your blood remembers more than you think.
Those words sent chills through her.
Sitting on the floor, holding the medallion, she felt the air ripple. The room shivered—like space itself had shifted.
From the wall, shapes emerged—like water forming outlines. There, dimly lit, sat the pilot. His eyes were alive. And he was looking straight at her.
“Lida…” came a muffled voice, like it echoed through water.
The medallion heated in her hand.
“Who are you?! Why are you calling me?!” she cried out.
He didn’t move. His lips just whispered:
“Remember the coordinates.”
And then—gone. The room stilled. Normal again.
On the floor, a piece of paper had appeared—like it had fallen out of time. On it:
Latitude 62.001. Longitude 47.744. 12:13 — don’t be late.
Lida trembled. But resolve began to rise.
The next morning she woke early. The wind stirred, the forest whispered. Something was waiting.
At exactly 12:12, she stood at the clearing. In her hand—a watch. Her heart—pounding with the time.
12:13.
The medallion flared. The air twisted into a spiral—then, just as before, the airplane appeared.
Not a dream. Not a trick. Real. Solid. Just like before.
But this time—she understood: this was not the end. It was the beginning.
Now, the cockpit door was open.
Lida approached. The pilot’s seat was empty. On the panel lay a new paper. She picked it up.
It was a child’s drawing: a girl holding hands with a man in uniform. Below it read:
“Dad and me. Lida, 4 years old.”
Her breath caught. The world shifted.
“Dad?..” she whispered.
A twig snapped in the forest again.
Holding the drawing tightly, thoughts raced through her mind:
Dad? But how? Why is he here? And why now?
The medallion vibrated—almost like it felt her fear.
Behind her, a rustle.
She turned. At the edge of the clearing, a shape moved. At first—just a shadow. Then a face: pale as ash, mouthless. Eyes—human, yet not.
It didn’t move. But Lida felt it:
If I run—it will follow.
She backed slowly toward the plane. The door was ajar. Inside, on the pilot’s seat, lay another medallion—identical to hers.
Lida picked it up… and heard a voice:
“They are coming. You must act, Lida. Only you can end the cycle.”
“Cycle? What cycle? What’s going on?!” she screamed in her mind.
The creature at the clearing’s edge stepped forward. Smooth. Silent. No rush. It knew—time was nearly up.
Lida entered the plane and slammed the door.
The cockpit came alive. Dim lights flickered on. The instrument panel glowed—though no wires powered it.
A button labeled “START” pulsed like a heartbeat.
Outside—silence. But beyond it, something unseen stirred.
Lida reached for the button. Held her breath. Pressed.
The world jolted. A flash of gray light filled the cabin—as if time had torn.
Outside, the forest vanished.
In its place—an airbase. Cold. Frozen in time. Planes, signals, people in uniform. And among them—him.
The pilot. Her father. Alive.
He looked at her.
“You made it. Now choose: stay… or return.”
Lida was speechless.
Behind her—loneliness, the orphanage, the empty house. Here—her father. A man who shouldn’t exist. But waited for her.
“Choose,” he said. “Your decision matters.”
She looked through the glass—beyond time. The same clearing. The same plane. The same her. The cycle. A loop.
“Why me?” she asked at last. “Why you?”
He looked at her with pain.
“Because you’re more than a daughter. You are a result of a choice.
I flew that mission knowing I wouldn’t come back. It was to cross the time rift. To pass on the coordinates. But something failed—I got trapped in time, like a fossil.
Your grandmother knew. She was warned. But you—you’re the first to find me. The rift opens every 50 years. And you’re 17. Right when it begins again.”
A dull thud echoed on the plane’s shell.
“He’s here,” whispered her father.
“Who?” she asked.
“The Cycle Keeper. He doesn’t speak. But he isn’t an enemy. He’s a guardian. Watching those who cross the lines.”
From behind the plane, the creature emerged. Not as a monster—but a memory. A reflection.
“He… was me?” she breathed.
Her father said nothing.
Then the creature reached out—to the medallion on her chest.
And she understood.
If she stayed, she’d be with her father—outside of time.
If she left—she could pass on the truth, stop the cycle.
But her father would vanish forever.
And she’d be alone again.
The medallion warmed. A voice spoke—gentle, familiar:
“You are stronger than you believe. You are the key. Choose with your heart—and time will hear you.”
Lida clenched her fist. Stood between her father and the creature.
“I can’t lose both.
But if I stay—this will all repeat. And no one will be saved.
I’m sorry…”
She gave the medallion to the creature.
The plane shook. A flash. Time shattered.
“Lida!” her father called. “Thank you. For everything.”
And then—silence.
Epilogue
She woke up on the floor. Sunlight played in the dust. Everything was back. Almost.
Near her lay a burned piece of paper.
On it—only a few lines:
The cycle is complete.
Pass it on.
Your blood remembers.
Lida stood. Walked to the window.
The forest was the same. But now—she knew the truth.
And the shadow was gone.