Chapter 1

She stood at the counter, her hands resting on the cool surface of the wooden table. The kitchen was her sanctuary, a place where the world’s chaos could be tamed by the rhythm of chopping and stirring. On the stove, a pot of broth simmered, releasing the gentle aroma of bay leaves and black pepper. It was the smell of her grandmother’s house, of Sundays that stretched forever and the comforting weight of family.

But lately, the sanctuary felt fragile. Outside, rumors drifted like the dust: strange machines seen on the road, their metallic limbs moving with an unnerving precision. Some whispered of white witches—figures cloaked in pale linen who wandered the edges of the forest. And there were darker tales, of cannibals in the abandoned farmsteads, of a world tipping toward an apocalypse that no one could name.

Kristina tried to push the thoughts away. She had a turkey to prepare. Her signature dish, Keptos kalakutų šlaunelės, was a ritual of patience and care. She unwrapped the meat, feeling the weight of the thighs in her palms. The skin was smooth and pale, waiting to be transformed. She seasoned them slowly, rubbing the salt and garlic into the flesh, remembering how her grandmother had taught her to use her fingertips to feel for the bones beneath.

“The secret,” her grandmother had said, “is to respect the roast. It gives you back what you put into it.”

Kristina closed her eyes. The kitchen became a bubble of time, insulated from the dust and the dread. She layered the turkey thighs with sliced onions and sprigs of rosemary from the garden. The oven clicked as it heated, and she slid the roasting pan inside. The heat wrapped around her, familiar and forgiving.

Through the window, she could see the edge of the village. The houses squatted under the pale sky, their roofs shimmering in the heat. A strange machine—gray and jointed like an insect—stood at the crossroads, its head swiveling slowly. No one knew who sent them or why they watched. The village council had tried to speak with them, but the machines only emitted low hums and then stilled.

Kristina turned away. She had no answers for the machines or the witches or the cannibals. What she had was this: the sizzle of roasting fat, the warm glow of the oven light, the quiet company of her own hands working. It was enough for now.

She busied herself with the vegetables. Potatoes from the root cellar, carrots with their earthy perfume, a handful of green beans. Each one she washed and trimmed, the water running over her fingers in a cool stream. The world outside could crumble, but here, in her kitchen, there was order.

When the turkey was nearly done, she opened the oven to baste it. The steam rose in a fragrant cloud, and for a moment, the kitchen was the only place that mattered. She could hear the faint crackle of the recording she had left playing on the radio—a waltz, something from her grandmother’s time. The melody swirled through the room like a ghost.

She thought of her grandmother’s hands, knotted and strong, shaping dumplings on a floured board. She thought of the apple orchard where she had played as a child, climbing the gnarled branches while the blossoms fell around her like snow. Those memories were woven into the threads of her cooking, each recipe a piece of a life that was still unfolding.

But the threads were fraying. The orchard had been cut down last spring, cleared by men who spoke of progress. The grandmother’s house now stood empty, its windows boarded. And the summer itself felt wrong—too hot, too dry, too full of shadows.

A gust of wind rattled the window. Kristina looked up. The machine at the crossroads had moved; it was now closer, its lens-like eye pointed directly at her kitchen. She felt a chill despite the heat. The rumors said the machines sometimes took people away. They called them “robotsi” in the muttered conversations at the marketplace, a word that felt too light for something so heavy.

She pulled the roasting pan from the oven and set it on the stovetop. The turkey thighs were golden, the skin crisp and crackling. She sprinkled a pinch of flaky salt over them and breathed in the steam. This was her anchor, her proof that beauty still existed in the world.

But even as she sat down to eat, the peace was disrupted. A flicker of light—a greenish hue—danced at the edge of her vision. She turned quickly. It came from outside, seeping through the cracks in the curtain. She rose and parted the fabric.

The sky was no longer pale. It was awash in an emerald glow, like the inside of a bottle held up to the sun. The machine had gone still, its head tilted upward. And in the distance, she saw a figure—tall and white-clad, standing at the edge of the forest. The white witch, perhaps. Her cloak fluttered even though the air was still.

Kristina’s heart beat faster. The green light pulsed, once, twice, and then the figure raised an arm, pointing directly at her house. The light grew brighter, flooding the kitchen, turning the steam from the turkey into swirling emerald mist.

She stepped back, her hand brushing the hot pan. The pain was sharp, grounding. But the light did not fade. It whispered, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. And in that whisper, she heard her name.

“Kristina…”

The voice was not her grandmother’s. It was something new, something that had been waiting all summer in the dust and the heat. The roast sat forgotten on the stovetop. The world beyond her kitchen was no longer a distant rumor. It was here, at her door.

And the summer, heavy as a leaden stone, had only just begun.