Chapter One: The Beginning

  In the evening, while I, Olga Mishanina, was sipping coffee and discussing first grade challenges, the last year of preschool, and the exhausting job search, I kept thinking: there had to be a way to earn more. The salaries being offered were far lower than what was truly needed to survive.

  "You know the war was supposed to start today?" Anya asked me. We'd known each other for a while, and our kids often played together.

  "Yes, yes," her husband Tolik added.

  "Come on!" I laughed. "What war? I've got so many plans. This can't be happening."

  "They have nothing better to do," my father would’ve said. "Work, work, and more work."

  We finished our coffee, and I went home with my little bunny, Tanyusha.

  Kyiv was beautiful that evening. It was cold, as February always is, but our apartment was cozy and warm. Around New Year’s, I had hoped something would change. But definitely not like this. They had promised—no more wars. And yet… here we were.

  After dinner, my daughter and I went to bed. Our puppy, Knopik, scratched at the door as usual. I always kept him out of the room at bedtime.

  A week later…

  I woke up at 4 a.m. ready to scold the puppy for howling like someone had died. But it wasn’t his fault. The air raid sirens had terrified him.

  That morning, as I dressed Tanyusha for preschool, I had no idea that day would stay with me for the rest of my life.

  We dressed, grabbed Knopik, and headed out—only to find the preschool sealed off. A paper sign on the door read: “Closed.”

  I insisted on speaking to someone. I was ready to cause a scene—someone should have warned us! But the response from the teacher shook me:

  "Ma’am, the war has started. Didn’t you hear the sirens?"

  I looked at my phone—and then everything changed. Knopik had tried to warn us. But we hadn’t listened.

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  We spent the first few weeks hiding in shelters. Food was scarce. Life truly had changed.

  Every TV, radio, and phone told us the same thing: Wait it out.

  Eventually, I found a job—but the commute was brutal. Four hours each way.

  Then came my birthday…

  We’d planned ahead: food, guests. My friend, Tanyusha’s godfather, said he’d bring alcohol—despite the unofficial “dry law” we were all under. You can imagine.

  The celebration began. Everything seemed fine… until that night, when the shelling started.

  This time, my daughter and I decided to go down to the basement. But something was different. The darkness was thick, like fog. Even my phone flashlight barely cut through it.

  Still, we went in.

  And then we saw it…

  A green, wooden, antique door. We opened it and stepped into… a shop.

  But not just any shop. The kind of place you see on vintage Instagram accounts. Retro-style everything.

  Milk in glass bottles. Eggs in straw baskets. Shelves lined with jars of honey, jam, and compote. Freshly baked bread lay in wooden bins, covered in linen cloths. No plastic—only wood, glass, fabric, and natural materials.

  Soft, warm light poured from round lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The whitewashed walls had a hand-finished, slightly rough texture, like in old village homes. The ceiling was high, and the windows stretched from floor to ceiling—not displays, but real windows. Pale, scattered sunlight streamed through them, making everything feel magical and unreal.

  It smelled like fresh bread, warm milk, and something else… something like a forgotten piece of childhood.

  Tanyusha and I stood in the aisle, awkward in our jeans, puffy coats, and muddy boots. We looked completely out of place.

  “Miss, how did you get here?” a young woman asked.

  She wore a floor-length gown, elegant and styled like something from the 19th century. Her waist was cinched, her sleeves long, her satin skirt shimmering. Her hair was done up neatly, and her voice held polite curiosity.

  I stammered, "We… we were just trying to wait out the alarm. Do you know when it’ll end? My phone’s acting weird…"

  I held it up. The screen flickered oddly.

  Nothing felt right. Nothing felt real.

  Tanyusha turned her head, eyes wide as she took in the baskets, shelves, and hand-painted signs.

  Knopik cowered in the corner of my bag, not making a sound.

  The shop was nearly empty—just us, the woman, and an elderly man behind a wooden counter.

  I had the strangest thought: this place felt real… but also like a dream. A fairy tale. Something long forgotten but suddenly returned.

  The woman stepped closer. Her eyes were the color of autumn skies—warm, thoughtful, but tinged with concern.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said gently. “This isn’t a place for… accidental travelers.”

  I froze. Tanyusha clung to my hand.

  “We… we were just hiding from the bombing,” I explained. “There’s a war. Didn’t you hear?”

  The woman frowned. “War…” she repeated, as if tasting the word. “There haven’t been wars here in a long time.”

  She touched my sleeve. It suddenly felt heavier. I looked down. My coat now looked faded, like it had just been pulled from a dusty old trunk. It smelled faintly of smoke.

  “What is this?” I whispered.

  The woman glanced back at the elderly man. He gave a slow, solemn nod.

  “You’ve crossed a border,” she said. “Sometimes, when disaster strikes your world, old paths reopen. Very old paths.”

  “Paths?” I echoed.

  “Between worlds,” she whispered.

  Tanyusha pressed closer.

  The woman smiled softly, like a mother comforting a scared child.

  “Don’t worry. No harm will come to you here. But if you want to go back… you’ll need to take the path.”

  “What path?”

  She gestured us behind the counter. Behind shelves of jam jars and sacks of flour, a hidden door stood. Small. Almost invisible.

  “This is a portal. But it can only be opened by someone whose heart is untainted by fear. Only those who still believe in kindness, in love, and in wonder,” she said seriously.

  Tanyusha’s grip on my hand tightened. Her eyes were wide, but she wasn’t scared.

  She believed—with the pure, fearless belief of a child.

  The woman smiled again, even warmer now:

  “Perhaps your daughter is meant to guide you.”

  And then I understood:

  We weren’t lost.

  We had arrived.

  We were in the place where even despair can become the beginning of something new.

  The place where magic begins.