The Somnambulist s Debt

The Somnambulist’s Debt
It began at the camp. A dusty August, the scent of pines, and swings that creaked in time with our breathing.
We didn’t play with dolls. We played at "leaving."
Marina said:
"It’s not scary there. There is only silence. Like being underwater, when your ears pop."
Nastya was the first to agree. She was always honest. If she was your friend, it was to the end. If she believed, she believed with her whole heart.
We coached her:
"Exhale everything. All of it. Until your ribs go hollow."
Then we pressed. Fingers on the throat—cold, alien. We leaned on her chest, forcing out the last scrap of oxygen.
Nastya went limp quickly. Her face turned to porcelain, translucent. Her eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites—like two blank buttons.
"Enough!" Marina shouted.
Fear struck us. We began to shake her, slapping her cheeks.
Nastya opened her eyes. But she wasn't looking at us. She was looking through us, to where the pines merged with the sky.
"I saw it..." she whispered. "There’s a door. No handle. Light spills from underneath, like it’s breathing. I didn’t have time to go in. Marina, you have to bring me back there. Promise."
Marina nodded. Scout’s honor. The deal was struck.
Then came the storm. The ambulance got stuck in the muddy ruts. Marina screamed, clawing at the stretcher while the doctors tried to jumpstart Nastya’s heart.
"She asked to go back! I promised!"
Marina didn't know that Nastya had already died in the infirmary. Quietly. As if she had already slipped away on her own.
Twenty years passed.
Marina walks through the city. A neat dress. Clean hands. A calm face. A proper life where nothing ever happened.
But she never woke up. She is still there—on the dusty grass, holding Nastya’s hand.
Conscience is a chain. It won’t let Marina simply drink coffee or watch a movie. She looks for Nastya in every girl she passes, in every woman with a similar gaze.
She approaches from behind. She embraces them. Truly, tightly.
"Nastenka, you’ve lost yourself in dreams. I’ll help. I promised."
Her fingers settle on the throat. This isn't malice. It’s honesty. It’s the responsibility for that old deal.
Marina whispers into an ear while the body in her arms thrashes in spasms:
"Breathe deeper... float up... I’m bringing you back to reality."
Every time, it feels like she’s almost there.
The hour hasn't ended yet.
Marina is simply fulfilling a promise. She is the guardian of someone else's dream—a dream with no exit.
Author's Note:
This is an authorized English translation of the original story "Секрет Насти Ворониной. Сомнамбула" by Romeo Gabashvili.
© 2026 Romeo Gabashvili. All rights reserved.