After leaving the orphanage at seventeen, Lida didn’t expect to inherit anything. But an old letter from a notary revealed a surprise: a tiny, forgotten house deep in the woods, left to her by a grandmother she could barely remember.
The place looked like something out of a fairytale — crumbling, overgrown, and surrounded by trees that seemed to breathe. Still, for Lida, it was a beginning. A quiet corner to build her own story.
On the third day, needing a break from cleaning and fixing leaks, Lida wandered into the forest with a basket, hoping to find mushrooms. Instead, she found a clearing… and in its center, something impossible: an old airplane, half-buried in moss and vines.
The metal was rusted, the windows fogged, but somehow it felt… preserved, like it had been waiting.
Unable to resist, she climbed into the cockpit — and gasped. There, in the pilot’s seat, sat a uniformed figure. Still. Silent. Timeworn.
But it wasn’t the stillness that startled her most.
It was the medallion around its neck — engraved with her name.
“To Lida. When you grow up — find me.”
Her hands trembled as she reached for it. The words made no sense, but stirred something deep within her.
Who was he?
That night, unable to sleep, she explored the attic of the house — and found a dusty suitcase. Inside were letters tied with ribbon. One was addressed to her, in careful handwriting:
**“To my granddaughter Lida. If you return.
If you are reading this, it means you found the plane.
Speak of it to no one.
It is not from our time.
And maybe… it came for you.”**
Each sentence pulled her deeper into something far beyond reason — a mystery that stretched through generations.
The next day, drawn by an unexplainable pull, Lida returned to the clearing.
But the plane was gone.
Only the moss remained, untouched. As if it had never been there.
Then — a sound. A soft crack of a branch behind her.
She turned, but saw only forest.
Still… something — or someone — was watching.
That night, as shadows deepened and the wind whispered against the windows, Lida felt the air change. The medallion in her hand grew warm. She clutched it tightly, as the walls shimmered like water — and the cockpit reappeared in the room.
Inside, the pilot looked at her — not with empty eyes, but with presence.
“Lida…” a voice echoed, distant, like through glass.
He moved only his lips.
“Remember the coordinates.”
And just like that — he was gone.
On the floor beside her, a folded paper appeared. On it:
**Latitude: 62.001
Longitude: 47.744
12:13 — Don’t be late.**
The next morning, Lida walked to the clearing again — this time with a clock in hand, the medallion at her chest.
**12:13.**
The wind shifted. The moss fluttered.
And the plane returned.
This time, its door was open.
Inside, on the dashboard, a child’s drawing lay waiting — a young girl holding the hand of a man in uniform. Underneath, in block letters:
**“Dad and Me. Lida, age 4.”**
She staggered.
Dad?
Then — a rustle behind her. A figure stood at the edge of the trees. Silent. Watching. Not threatening… but not human either.
She backed into the plane. On the seat beside her, a second medallion shimmered faintly.
She picked it up.
**“They’re coming,”** came the voice again. **“You must decide. Only you can close the cycle.”**
Lida’s mind raced.
What cycle?
Who was the figure?
Why her?
The controls on the plane blinked to life — as if powered by thought alone.
She pressed the start button.
The world outside shimmered. The forest fell away. In its place appeared an airfield — distant, quiet, like a moment frozen in time.
And there — standing by the runway — was the pilot.
Alive.
**“You made it,”** he said softly. **“Now choose: stay… or go back.”**
Her breath caught.
He smiled, with sadness and pride.
**“You are the key, Lida. I crossed the rift long ago — hoping to send a message forward. Hoping someone like you would come. You are not just my daughter. You are the reason this mission mattered.”**
Then came a sound — a knock from beyond the plane.
The guardian.
Not a villain, not a monster — but the keeper of the boundary between times.
He stood still, watching.
And Lida finally understood: if she stayed, the cycle would continue. A loop of silence and searching. But if she left — she could tell the world. She could end it.
Tears welled up.
She turned to her father.
“I don’t want to lose you…”
He nodded.
“You’re strong enough to choose.”
With trembling hands, she stepped outside. The guardian reached toward her — not to take, but to receive.
She offered the second medallion.
There was a flash.
And everything went still.
**Epilogue**
Lida awoke on the floor of the house. Sunlight streamed through the window.
Everything was quiet.
But something had changed.
On the ground beside her lay a single page:
**“The cycle is complete.
Pass it on.
Your blood remembers.”**
She smiled. Walked to the door. Opened it.
The forest was the same.
Only now, it no longer felt like it was hiding anything.
Because now, she remembered.
