Noday (The Unknown Day)
Ikromjon Mamajanov

© Ikromjon Mamajanov, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0069-0632-7

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Noday(The Unknown Day)

Chapter 1: The Museum of Memories

Anna sat by the window, her gaze fixed on the playground across the street. The silence was broken by the sharp ring of the doorbell. It was Marta, her neighbor – a woman well into her seventies who possessed a knack for knowing everything, yet carried a heart of genuine gold.

She stepped inside, balancing a small plate of warm pie.

“Anna, dear, I’ve brought you something sweet,” Marta said, her voice dropping to a gentle hush. “You’ve grown so thin. You mustn’t wither away like this.”

Anna forced a faint, hollow smile. Marta sat beside her, searching Anna’s eyes for a long, heavy moment.

“You know,” Marta sighed softly, “when I was young, I was just like you. I wanted to reach out and grab the hands of the clock, to stop time right where it stood. On that day… that terrible day… I wanted to forget everything. But time is a river, Anna. You cannot dam it. You can only learn how to swim in its current.”

As Anna looked at her, she felt the raw ache inside her chest tighten. It had only been two weeks since five-year-old Oliver’s small, white casket was lowered into the earth. Yet, for Anna, it felt as though an entire century had clawed its way past. The world had bled out its colors; everything had turned blurred, ashen, and utterly hollow.

Her home was no longer a place to live; it had become a museum of memories. The tiny sneakers left in the hallway, the half-finished drawing pinned to the fridge, the lingering scent of that familiar baby shampoo on the pillow… all of it was slowly consuming Anna’s soul, day by day. For her, time had frozen at a single point: that horrific moment when the screeching of car tires pierced the air.

Marta took Anna’s hands in hers. Her gaze was steady and resolute

“Anna, my child, look,” she said, pointing toward the sun-drenched street outside the window. “Do not let yourself drown in this whirlpool of agony. These walls won’t offer you solace; they will swallow you alive.”

Marta paused for a moment, then gestured toward the paints and brushes sitting on Anna’s shelf.

“I know how much you love to paint. Pour your pain out of this life and onto the canvas. Come back to life, my dear! Do you remember that park in the city center? The trees are beautiful there right now. Go there. If the world looks colorless to you right now, then create the colors yourself. Distract yourself for just one hour, if nothing else. Doing this doesn’t make you a traitor; on the contrary, it will give you the strength to live.”

Hearing about the park, Anna remembered running there with Oliver a long time ago. Her eyes filled with tears, but this time, alongside the pain, a tiny spark of hope seemed to flicker.

In the center of the park, around a lawn and a tranquil lake, artists had gathered. They were busy with their brushes; some trying to capture the shimmer of the water, others the glow of the setting sun. Anna chose a spot off to the side. Her easel opened with a creak. For several hours, she did not paint the nature around her, but rather the longing deep within her soul. In her painting, the sky resembled the hair of a weeping woman, and the trees looked like helpless arms reaching toward the heavens.

When the painting was finished, she began to sign the bottom corner as was her habit: “Anna.” But when it came to writing the day of the week under her signature, her fingers froze. She realized she had no sense of how many days had passed.

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