Chapter 1: The House at the Edge of the World
Seventeen-year-old Lida had never belonged anywhere. Her earliest memories were of the orphanage: the gray corridors, the echoing voices, the way the sunlight never seemed to reach the far corners of the dormitory. She had grown up surrounded by other children who, like her, had no one. Yet, she always felt alone.
The day she turned seventeen, the orphanage director called her into the office. She expected the usual lecture about responsibility and adulthood, about how she would soon be on her own. Instead, she was given a letter.
It was from a lawyer in a distant town, informing her that she had inherited a property from her grandmother—a woman she had never met, whose name she barely recognized from a faded birth certificate. The letter was formal, impersonal, but the words burned with possibility.
A house, deep in the forest. Her house.
The journey was long and uncomfortable. She traveled by train, then by a battered bus that wound through endless fields and forests. The final stretch was on foot, following a narrow path that twisted through ancient trees. The house appeared suddenly, as if conjured by her longing: half-ruined, covered in ivy, standing alone at the edge of the world.
No one was waiting for her. There were no neighbors, no village nearby, not even a stray dog to welcome her. The silence was overwhelming, but Lida embraced it. For the first time, she was free to shape her life.
The house was modest—two rooms, a kitchen, an attic. The roof sagged in places, and the windows rattled in the wind. But it was hers. She spent her first days cleaning, scrubbing away years of dust and cobwebs, patching what she could, and learning the rhythms of the forest that surrounded her.
On the third day, after hours of cleaning and rearranging, she craved fresh air. The forest called to her, promising peace and perhaps a few mushrooms for supper.
Chapter 2: The Clearing
The forest was vast and wild, unlike any she had known before. The trees were ancient, their trunks thick and gnarled, their branches entwined like the arms of sleeping giants. The ground was soft with moss, and the air was cool and damp.
Lida wandered, basket in hand, searching for mushrooms. She found a few—brown caps, white stems, nothing remarkable. But she kept going, drawn deeper by the sense that the forest was alive, watching her, testing her.
After an hour, she stumbled into a clearing unlike any she had seen. The moss here was thick and springy, and the air shimmered with a strange stillness. In the center, half-hidden by ferns and tangled roots, was an airplane.
It was an old model, battered and rusted, its wings twisted but mostly intact. Vines crawled over the fuselage, and the nose was buried in the earth as if the plane had tried to land and been swallowed by time.
Lida’s heart pounded. She had never seen a real airplane up close, let alone one abandoned in the woods. She set her basket down and crept closer, curiosity overwhelming caution.
The cockpit canopy was open, the glass smeared with dirt and lichen. She climbed onto the wing, her shoes slipping on the damp metal, and peered inside.
She screamed.
In the pilot’s seat sat a skeleton, dressed in a faded uniform. The bones were yellowed, the empty eye sockets staring straight ahead. Around its neck hung a medallion, glinting dully in the dim light.
Lida’s breath caught. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and lifted the medallion. Her name was engraved on it, neat and unmistakable: “Lida.”
On the back, in careful script:
“To Lida. When you grow up—find me.”
Her mind reeled. How was this possible? Who was this man? Why did he have her name?
She barely noticed the crumpled notes on the instrument panel, written in English. One line stood out:
“Mission 13. Northern Sector. Classified.”
She didn’t understand the words, but she recognized the number. Thirteen. An unlucky number.
When she finally climbed out of the cockpit, the sun was setting. The forest seemed darker, the air heavier. She hurried home, clutching the medallion, the mushrooms forgotten.
Chapter 3: The Attic
That night, Lida barely slept. The image of the skeleton haunted her dreams. She woke before dawn, shivering, the medallion clutched in her hand.
She tried to make sense of it, but nothing fit. Her grandmother had died before she was born. Her parents were gone, their faces lost to memory. She had no family, no history—just this house and now, this impossible mystery.
As she made tea in the cold kitchen, she heard a creak from the attic. The sound was sharp, unnatural. She hesitated, then grabbed a flashlight and climbed the narrow stairs.
The attic was filled with shadows and dust. Old trunks and boxes lined the walls. In the far corner, she found a battered suitcase. Inside were letters, tied with a faded ribbon.
One envelope was addressed to her:
“For my granddaughter Lida. If you return.”
Her hands shook as she opened it.
“If you are reading this—it means you found the airplane. Keep silent about it. It is not from our time. And perhaps it has come for you.”
Lida’s skin prickled with goosebumps. The words felt heavy, dangerous. What did her grandmother know? What was the truth behind the airplane—and the man inside?
Chapter 4: Echoes
The next day, Lida woke with the sense that someone had called her name in a dream. The forest seemed to press against the windows, whispering secrets.
She tried to focus on ordinary things—repairing a broken chair, sweeping the porch—but her thoughts kept returning to the clearing. How could the pilot know her name? Why had her grandmother warned her to keep silent?
Stubbornness overcame fear. She dressed warmly, grabbed her flashlight, and set out for the forest.
The path was harder to find this time. The trees seemed to shift, closing behind her, their branches weaving a net overhead. She stumbled over roots and pushed through thickets, her heart pounding.
When she reached the clearing, she stopped in disbelief.
The airplane was gone.
There was no sign of metal, no twisted wings, no cockpit. Only soft moss and young grass, as if nothing had ever disturbed the earth.
Lida dropped to her knees, searching for any trace—an oil stain, a scrap of fabric, a piece of glass. Nothing. Only the distant tapping of a woodpecker broke the silence.
Then—a branch snapped behind her.
She spun around, heart racing. A shadow flickered between the trees: tall, indistinct, gone in an instant.
Chapter 5: The Stranger
Lida ran home, breathless, the medallion burning in her palm. She locked the door and sat by the window, watching the forest.
As dusk fell, she saw movement at the edge of the trees. A figure stood there, half-hidden by the shadows. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew—somehow—that he was connected to the airplane.
She waited, fear and curiosity warring inside her. The figure didn’t move. Finally, as darkness swallowed the forest, he disappeared.
That night, she dreamed of flying—soaring above the trees, the wind in her hair, the world far below. She was not alone. The pilot sat beside her, his face shrouded in shadow. He turned to her, and she saw her own eyes reflected in his.
“Find me,” he whispered.
She woke with a start, her heart pounding.
Chapter 6: Letters from the Past
The days blurred together. Lida spent hours in the attic, reading the letters her grandmother had left. Most were mundane—shopping lists, recipes, notes about the weather. But some were stranger.
One was written in a shaky hand:
“I have seen the lights again. They come at night, silent and cold. I think they are searching for something. Perhaps for me.”
Another, dated years before Lida’s birth:
“The pilot came to me in a dream. He said he was lost, that he needed help. I think he is trapped—between worlds, between times. I don’t know what to do.”
Lida traced the words with her finger, trying to piece together the story. Her grandmother had known about the airplane. She had seen the pilot, dreamed of him, feared him.
But why had she left the house to Lida? Why had she written, “Perhaps it has come for you”?
Chapter 7: The Vision
One evening, as rain lashed the windows, Lida sat by the fire, the medallion around her neck. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift.
She saw the forest, dark and endless. She saw the airplane, gleaming in the moonlight, its engines silent. She saw the pilot, his face hidden by shadows.
He reached out to her, his hand cold and insubstantial.
“Help me,” he whispered.
She woke with a gasp, the medallion hot against her skin.
She knew what she had to do.
Chapter 8: Into the Forest
At dawn, Lida packed a bag: water, bread, a blanket, the flashlight, the letters. She slipped the medallion into her pocket and set out for the forest.
The path was clearer this time, as if the trees had decided to let her pass. She moved quickly, her fear replaced by determination.
When she reached the clearing, she stopped.
The airplane was there.
It looked different—newer, brighter, as if it had been restored by some unseen hand. The cockpit canopy was open, and the pilot sat inside, his uniform crisp, his face hidden by a cap.
Lida approached slowly, her heart thundering.
The pilot turned to her. His eyes were kind, sad, familiar.
“Lida,” he said. “You found me.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“I have waited a long time,” he said. “I am lost. I need your help to go home.”
Lida swallowed. “Who are you?”
He smiled, a gentle, sorrowful smile.
“I am your grandfather.”
Chapter 9: The Story Unfolds
He told her everything.
During the war, he had been a pilot on a secret mission—Mission 13. His plane had been caught in a storm, pulled off course. He crashed in the forest, but something strange happened. Time twisted around him. He could not leave, could not die, could only wait.
Her grandmother had found him, cared for him, loved him. But he was trapped—caught between worlds, unable to move on.
When Lida was born, her grandmother had hoped she might be the key. The medallion was a link, a promise.
“I have waited for you,” he said. “Only you can free me.”
“How?” Lida whispered.
He handed her a crumpled note, the same one she had seen in the cockpit.
“Read it,” he said.
She unfolded the paper. The words shimmered, shifting before her eyes. She read aloud:
“Mission 13. Northern Sector. Classified.
To return, the circle must be closed. The one who bears my name must set me free.”
As she spoke, the forest grew quiet. The air shimmered. The pilot smiled.
“Thank you,” he said.
He faded, dissolving into light.
The airplane vanished.
Lida stood alone in the clearing, the medallion warm in her hand.
Chapter 10: Home
She walked home, her mind spinning. The house felt different—warmer, brighter, as if a shadow had lifted.
She spent the next days cleaning, repairing, planting flowers. She read her grandmother’s letters, cherishing each word.
She was not alone. She had a family, a history, a home.
Sometimes, at night, she dreamed of flying. The sky was endless, the stars bright. She knew her grandfather was free, and that she had given him peace.
And in the quiet of the forest, she found her own.