© Madina Fedosova, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-1772-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Author’s Preface

This book was born from darkness.

When I was nineteen, the world I knew collapsed. It didn’t shatter in an instant – it began to slowly, inexorably dissolve, losing its color and sound, slipping through my fingers along with my memory. At first, there were only warning signs: dizzy spells I blamed on fatigue, headaches that seemed like mere nuisances on the path of everyday life.

But soon, the nuisance became a wall. The wall turned into a labyrinth from which I believed there was no escape. Navigating it was terrifying. Vague diagnoses were replaced by one that was clear and cold as a blade. My world shrank to the size of a hospital room, to the circle of light I could still make out, while everything else drowned in darkness. I began to lose my sight, my hearing, my strength. I forgot what happened yesterday. My future, once so bright and promising, narrowed to the next IV drip, the next pill, the next injection.

The words of doctors and acquaintances – «many people die from this,» «it’s rare at your age, but it happens» – hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating bell. Thoughts of impending death were not abstract philosophy – they were concrete and physically palpable. They were the chilling terror at three in the morning, when you feel utterly alone facing an infinite, silent void.

I prayed. I wept. I despaired. And I hoped. Cycles of flare-ups and remissions stretched over two long years. Life turned to shifting sand: today you can almost walk, tomorrow you can’t lift your head from the pillow.

But this story is not about illness. And it is certainly not about defeat.

This story is about the light we find in the deepest darkness. About the beauty we can see even when our eyes are failing. About the love that becomes our anchor, our voice, our memory, and our hands when our own betray us.

Amelia is not me. Her story and her path are different. But the darkness she walks through is chillingly familiar to me. The despair that whispers for her to give up – I have heard its whisper. And the strength that compels her to pick up a brush and leave her mark – that is the very strength that made me fight.

I wrote this book as a reminder. To myself and to anyone who might find themselves in their own labyrinth.

A reminder that even the most difficult struggle is itself a victory. That every painful day is still a day of life. That our worth is measured not by our achievements, but by the depth of our feelings, the sincerity of our love, and the courage with which we face our dawn, even knowing sunset will follow.

I found my way out. I am healthy now, and every new day is a priceless gift. And I believe that a fragment of the strength that helped me lives on these pages.

If this book finds someone who is struggling, who is afraid, who feels alone in their fight – then it has fulfilled its purpose.

You are not alone. And as long as you are breathing, you are writing your story. May it be filled with the light you can find even within yourself.

With faith in your strength,

Madina Fedosova

Part One
The Garden’s Dawn

Chapter 1
Endless Summer

The sun in Kent in July is not just a celestial body; it is the undisputed master of the world. It floods everything with a generous, thick, almost tangible light, transforming the most mundane things into something magical. Long shadows from old, sprawling oaks lay crisp silhouettes on the ground, and the air shimmers with heat, filled with the chorus of cicadas, their monotonous chirring the soundtrack to this perfect day.

Amelia was running along the edge of a lavender field, and she felt as if she were flying. The warm, sun-cracked earth sprang softly beneath her bare feet, and countless purple blossoms brushed against her palms, leaving an intoxicating, spicy scent on her skin. It was everywhere – in the air she breathed deeply, on her lips, in the strands of hair escaping her loose bun. She was twenty-seven, and her whole life lay before her, like this endless, purple sea stretching to the horizon. She felt every muscle of her strong, young body, every breath, every jubilant beat of her heart – fast as the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings.

She slowed her pace, threw her head back, and spun in place, arms outstretched, letting the sun flood her face with liquid gold and the world turn into a dazzling, fragrant kaleidoscope of blue sky, emerald green, and lilac waves.

«You look like that girl from The Sound of Music,» came a beloved, slightly mocking voice from behind, pulling her from the heavens back to earth. «Only instead of the Alps, it’s a farm in Kent, and instead of a meadow, it’s lavender!»

She stopped, breathless, her wind-tousled hair the color of ripe wheat, and turned. Luca was standing at the edge of the field, leaning against an old, time-weathered wooden gate. He was swinging her delicate summer sandals, which she’d kicked off by the car the moment she saw this purple splendor. He looked at her with that smile that made his stern, Eastern European features – high cheekbones, a straight nose, a serious brow – incredibly soft and young.

«And what, isn’t this better?» she laughed, running up to him, feeling the earth’s energy surge beneath her soles. «It smells a million times more interesting! The Alps smell of snow and altitude, but here… here it smells of happiness. Real, simple, earthly happiness. Of sun, honey, dust, and lavender. I can smell it, and one day, maybe I can even paint it. Transfer the very scent onto a canvas.»

«Smells like tourists and expensive lavender soap from souvenir shops,» he retorted, but his laughing eyes betrayed his deep enjoyment of the moment.

«Ugh, you’re such a cynic and a snob!» She playfully shoved his shoulder, took her sandals from him, but didn’t put them on. «You, a man of letters, should understand! It’s all about metaphors and sensations. You just don’t know how to feel the moment, to dissolve in it. Right here, right now, Luca. Close your eyes.»

He obediently squeezed his eyes shut, lifting his face to the sun, and for a moment she admired him: so solid and so vulnerable at once.

«And what am I supposed to feel? Besides my eyelids turning transparent and everything being red?»

«Everything!» She took a deep breath, closing her own eyes to guide him. «Do you hear? The bees are buzzing. There are thousands of them, each busy with its important work. A hawk is crying somewhere far beyond the hill. And the wind… it’s whispering something of its own, murmuring to every flower, every stalk. And the sun… it’s not just shining. It’s warm, heavy, like slow, thick syrup. You can almost touch it. I want to remember this. Every last grain of sand, every last speck of dust in the air. So that one day… I can paint it. Not a picture. But the very feeling of this day. This field. Us being here. So that anyone who looks at it will feel this… this aching, piercing happiness – just to be alive and to be here.»

She opened her eyes and saw he was no longer looking at her with mockery, but with that deep, attentive expression he usually had when reading a truly brilliant manuscript. The look of a man who had seen a whole universe in a single dewdrop.

«You will,» he said simply and firmly, without a trace of doubt. «You’ll be able to transfer even the wind and the scent onto a canvas. I haven’t a single doubt. That is your gift, Amelia. You don’t just see the world, you feel it. And you make others feel it, too.»

They found a secluded spot under a sprawling, solitary apple tree at the edge of the field, from which the first, still green but juice-swollen apples were beginning to fall. They sat on the ground, leaning their backs against the rough, sun-warmed bark. Amelia ran her fingers through the thick, cool grass, feeling its resilience and vitality. An unseen bird chirped in the branches above.

«You know what I’m thinking about right now?» she asked quietly, watching the shadows from the leaves dance on his sun-tanned knees.

«About how to convince me to buy you the entire assortment from that soap shop, so our whole apartment will smell of this field for months?» he suggested, stretching his stiff leg.

«No,» she smiled and leaned her shoulder against his. «I’m thinking about the future. Ours. One just like this… only more, fuller, deeper.»

She paused, gathering her thoughts, trying to put into words the vast, warm, almost overwhelming feeling that filled her.

«I imagine a house. Not in central London, with the hum of cars and streetlights at night. Somewhere here, in the countryside, or in Suffolk, or in Cornwall by the ocean. With big, floor-to-ceiling windows where lilac bushes peek in, and a real garden. Not just flowerbeds, but a proper, large garden where you could get lost. And our children running in that garden. Two. A boy and a girl.»

She spoke, and the picture came alive before her, so vivid and real it made her heart clench with tenderness and a light, tickling fear.

«The girl is just like me, stubborn, with a face forever smudged with paint or dirt, perpetually tangled hair, and a paintbrush in her hand instead of a pacifier. And the boy is your copy, serious, in glasses, with a book under his arm by the age of five. He’ll always be running after her, lecturing her.»

She fell silent to listen to the cicadas and feel his hand cover hers.

«And you and I will sit just like this, on the porch, drinking evening tea with mint from our garden, watching them race across the lawn as the sun sets and bathes everything in that same golden light. You’ll read me something new, something brilliant and unknown you’ve dug up from a pile of manuscripts. And I’ll be sketching. Not for an exhibition, not for sale. Just to capture that moment. That perfect, ordinary, most important moment of our lives. Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it worth living for?»

Luca put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

«It’s perfect,» his voice was quiet and deep, as if coming from his very core. «As if you read my most secret thoughts. Only in my version, the boy will still play football and get his glasses dirty, not just read books. And the girl… let her be exactly like you. Invincible, beautiful, and made entirely of colors and wind.»

They sat in silence, listening to the rustle of leaves overhead, the tireless buzzing of bees in the lavender, the distant lowing of acow from the other side of the hill. The world hung suspended in a golden-purple haze of noon, frozen in its perfection.

«All of life really is ahead of us,» Amelia whispered, closing her eyes and feeling the warmth of his body merge with the warmth of the sun. «It feels like we can do absolutely everything. Fame, recognition, that porch, the sound of children’s laughter in the garden… There’s so much of it, and it all feels so possible. So close. Within reach. You just have to be brave enough to reach out and take it.»

«We will,» Luca said confidently, kissing the top of her head, her hair most golden from the sun. «We’re only at the beginning of the path, sunshine. This is our endless summer, Amelia. It’s only just begun.»

She believed him. As unquestioningly as she believed the sun would rise tomorrow morning. She smiled, peering into the distance where the purple field merged with the blurred line of the horizon. She saw her future there – bright, sharp, detailed like her best paintings, infinitely long and happy.

She couldn’t know that this very «endless summer» had already come to an end, even as it was just beginning. She didn’t feel how, deep inside, in the most hidden, invisible corners of her brain, the seed of that quiet, merciless winter had already sprouted and sent out its first, relentless roots. And that this perfect, meticulously rendered day would become her greatest treasure and her cruelest memory. The very picture she would try to paint again and again, no longer smelling the lavender or seeing the color purple, when the world around her began to slowly, irreversibly, and inexorably fade.

We think we are losing memories, but in truth, we are losing ourselves. Piece by piece. Until only silence remains – this thought, alien and bitter, flickered somewhere in the back of her mind and then evaporated, washed away by the triumphant voice of the cicadas and the warmth of her beloved’s hand.

 
Chapter 2
The First Crack
 

Returning to London after two days in their Kentish paradise was like plunging into cool, murky water after the bright sun. The contrast was felt in every cell. Instead of the deafening silence, filled only with the buzzing of bees and the whisper of the wind, there was the intrusive, low-frequency hum of the metropolis, composed of the honks of black cabs, the distant rumble of the underground, ambulance sirens somewhere on the Victoria Embankment, and the perpetual sound of tires on rain-damp asphalt. Instead of the intoxicating scent of lavender and sun-warmed pine, there was the complex, layered bouquet of London: the smell of wet stone from old buildings, the sweetish smoke from chimneys in wealthy quarters, the bitter aroma of aged wood from pubs, the scent of freshly cut flowers from a stall at the tube entrance, and the ever-present smell, especially in the mornings, of fresh pastries and fried bacon.

Amelia stood by the large window of her third-floor studio, watching people scurry along the street below like colorful brushstrokes on a gray canvas. In her hand, she clutched a tube of paint as if it were an amulet connecting her to that bygone happiness. The images from the lavender field were still bright, almost tangible: the warmth of Luca’s back under the apple tree, the taste of the strawberries they bought from a roadside stall, the feeling of utter, complete peace.

With a greed born of fear that the memory would fade like an old photograph, she seized her brushes. She didn’t start on a large canvas right away – first, she needed to capture the mood, make quick, impulsive sketches, fix the movement, the play of light, that very «sensation.»

She decided to start with color. With that specific, complex, living purple that she saw not as a pure pigment but as a mixture of a thousand shades: the hazy blue on the horizon, the golden highlights on the buds, the deep shadow under the leaves. She took a heavy wooden palette, placed it in its usual spot by her elbow, squeezed out a drop of ultramarine, added some thick, jam-like alizarin crimson, a pinch of white…

And then it happened.