Surrounded by rye fields, the train station consisted of a platform and a ticket booth. Above the birch grove that sprawled between my raring-to-go group and Vishenky, the golden cross of the church sparkled in the blinding late-morning sun. The calm air smelled of cut grass and cornflowers. Only Luke’s whistling disturbed the countryside’s tranquility. Each trill sliced my sleep-deprived brain into pieces.
SOUL OF THE UNBORN ON AMAZON