Nika had been walking for a long time, unsure if time was still passing at all. The swamp was biting at her boots, branches scratched her hands, and the fog was growing thicker. The phone had long since lost reception. When she saw the house on chicken legs, her heart practically leaped out of her chest. Then the house fell heavily to the ground. The door opened of its own accord. A boy stood in the doorway. His dark hair was tangled like roots, his green clothes soaked in moss and the smell of damp. His eyes were calm.

"You're lost," he said softly. "Come in."

Nika stood still.

"You... are you...?"

He smiled faintly.

"They're calling me Jaromir. And this is my mother's house."

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Baba Yaga?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "But she's not home today."

He took a step to the side, making room.

"Herbal tea?" You're probably tired.

It was cramped inside, but cozy. The kitchen was connected to the bedroom, the stove, a small bed against the wall. Dried mushrooms hung from the ceiling, bunches of herbs rustled gently, as if breathing. A cauldron by the window, infusions, potions. When Jaromir closed the door, the lock turned itself, quietly, obediently.

"He listens to me," he said, as if reading her thoughts.

He placed his hand on the wall, and the wood responded with a soft crack. The house was alive.

Nika swallowed.

The cauldron by the window gurgled lazily. Something glowed within it with a pale, greenish light. On the shelves stood bottles with labels written in uneven handwriting: sleep without nightmares, warmth in the bones, oblivion, return.

"We sell elixirs," Jaromir said, taking out clay mugs. "Me and my mother. Spells for small things. People from the villages come..."

"And you?" Nika asked quietly. "Are you staying here... alone?"

He glanced at her from under his lashes.

"Always," he replied. "Who would want to stay with Baba Yaga's son?"

He smiled, but there was something deeper in his eyes. Loneliness. "I was looking for a kindred spirit. But no one goes into the swamp."

Jaromir turned to the table and took out a bowl, flour, and dried berries.

"I'll make a cake," he announced lightly. "A simple one. To warm up."

"Now?" she asked, surprised.

"Now," he nodded. "The night is long."

As he mixed the ingredients, he whispered. Quietly. Almost inaudibly. The words were old, sticky with magic, entwined with the cake's scent like smoke. Jaromir glanced at Nika. He watched her intently—he had fallen in love.

She'll be nice, he thought. She'll be warm. She'll love me. She'll stay.

He imagined her arms around him, her calm breath against his neck. How she said his name without fear. How she sat on the bed, wearing the socks he'd made her—soft, green, mossy, enchanted to keep her warm. His face flushed.

"Do you like sweets?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes..." she replied cautiously.

He smiled wider.

"That's good."

He put the cake in the oven. The fire ignited on its own. The love cake would bring them closer together, him and Nika, two lonely hearts.