A story that
will find you again

With Dasha, the camp seems to acquire a face — businesslike, collected, like that of a person who not only bears responsibility for everything but is used to being obeyed. She speaks confidently and smiles as if she knows not only the rules, but also the exact moment when you’re about to break them. And she keeps moving things forward the whole time — not letting you get stuck in doubt.

There’s no sense of threat coming from her — right up until you start to insist. Then, through the caring tone, metal shows through: “Everything depends on you,” “Don’t push it,” “There will be punishment for words and actions.” It becomes clear: kindness here isn’t a character trait, but an operating mode.

And still, it’s easier to breathe next to her. Because when everything around feels like a dream, and memory stubbornly clings to a past reality, Dasha at least looks like this isn’t chaos, but a system she’s studied inside and out.

Lyuba is the girl next to whom “Sovyonok” suddenly stops feeling like a set piece. She gets embarrassed, blushes, and looks at you as if she believes in you in advance — and then immediately gets frightened by her own trustfulness. Even the words “we have” sound natural coming from her, like from someone who truly feels at home here.

Around her, everything becomes everyday and human: “How did you sleep?”, “If anything — let me know”, “Want me to show you?”, “Let’s do it tomorrow.” She knows how to be helpful without pressure — and at the same time there’s a quiet persistence of an assistant who carries everything on her shoulders, even when no one asks. Her care doesn’t demand gratitude, and that makes it awkward.

The strangest thing is that her sincerity is too real for a place where almost everything looks staged. You want to believe her — and at the same time check yourself: do I believe Lyuba, or am I just looking for at least one “normal” support.

Kristina carries herself as if she already has a map of the elagery in her head — with all the exits, dead ends, and traps. Serious and collected, she speaks calmly and precisely, like someone used to managing situations rather than asking. Next to her, you quickly find yourself in the role of a student.

Irony and cold competence combine oddly in Kristina: she can crack a joke, and a minute later confidently lead you into somewhere dark and unpleasant — and you go simply because she’s not afraid of anything. Even when she pretends to be bored, it’s obvious: she calculates everything and remembers everything. And it’s as if she already knows how the conversation will end.

In her company, there’s a constant feeling that you’re being read — not as a person, but as a problem. It’s irritating… until you realize that these are exactly the kind of people who survive here: those who stay collected when everyone else is in inner disarray. However, perhaps “survival” isn’t Kristina’s only goal.

With Vika, a conversation isn’t an exchange of words, but a test of reactions. What matters to her isn’t “what you’ll say,” but “how you’ll react,” and she knows how to find sore spots quickly and unerringly. Her smile is bright, but sticky, like a mask she doesn’t take off even at night.

She pricks with small remarks, comes up with hurtful nicknames, and pretends it’s all just a game. But in the dark, another layer suddenly shows through: where it’s genuinely scary, she grabs your hand and immediately explains it away as “convenience,” just to avoid admitting weakness. Even her caustic little songs sound like armor: better I turn everything into a joke myself than let you accidentally see that I’m uneasy too.

She seems plastic and deliberately bright — as if on purpose. But in reality it’s just a way to stay invulnerable when the world around keeps throwing one challenge after another. So which one is she really — bold and biting, or fragile and vulnerable?

Anya feels like motion: sharp steps, a firm handshake, a strong slap on the shoulder. She laughs loudly, speaks straight, and doesn’t tolerate sticky uncertainty. With her, it’s hard to pretend to be “neutral”: she’ll make you take one side or the other anyway.

There’s a lot of challenge and freedom in her, and it doesn’t sound like a metaphor but like her main need — to go beyond what’s allowed and see what happens. She easily invites you — to play, to dash off into the forest — and just as easily pulls back if you’re not ready. No offense, no “well, fine then”: she simply notes that you didn’t decide.

And for all the bravado, something sometimes slips through in her — not weakness, no! — a kind of fatalism, since she herself didn’t plan to end up here and isn’t happy about the camp at all. That’s why her energy feels not like a role, but like a way to keep this place from capturing and reshaping her essence.

Mila seems to live slightly apart in the camp — as if she has her own route that doesn’t match the schedule. She’s quiet, cautious, knows how to disappear in a way you only notice afterward. Today she’s not among everyone else; tomorrow she’s back in the forest feeding squirrels — and for a moment, the world becomes simpler.

It’s hard to talk to her not because she’s silent, but because you start choosing your words more carefully. She looks frightened, but there’s an explorer’s interest in that fear — someone used to observing rather than interfering. And when she suddenly starts talking about owls, about the eagle owl, about what animals are afraid of, it feels like she’s not talking about the forest at all.

And she also draws — clumsily, “stick-stick-cucumber,” but recognizable down to the smallest details, as if she sees people a bit more accurately than they see themselves. And because of that, there’s something important about her: as if she knows what she needs… but can’t yet say it out loud.