The voice message arrived at 11:14 PM. Daryna meant it for their mother. She hit the wrong contact. Lesya listened to it twice, lying in bed with the phone above her face.
“Mom, I already called Prostir. Told them she has disciplinary problems. That they didn’t lay her off in Kyiv — she was fired. Let her sit at home a while.
She doesn’t need to go anywhere yet. ”
The interview was at ten the next morning. The first one in months. The only studio in Poltava where her experience counted for something.
Lesya put the phone face-down on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the air raid siren started up. She didn’t move. She lay there and listened to the city hold its breath.
The all-clear came while she was still staring at the ceiling. The city went back to its night noises. Somewhere a dog barked. She didn’t sleep until four, and she didn’t cry once.
She’d come back to Poltava in November with two suitcases, a laptop, and the feeling that she’d lost. Her studio, Context, had lost its office to an August strike. Saturday hit, nobody hurt. But the studio couldn’t start again, and the director gathered everyone on a Zoom call and said he was sorry.
His face in a small square on the screen. He meant it. She could have stayed in Kyiv, tried freelance. But her mother called that same evening and said, “Lesyu, come home.
Your room is empty. I’d be glad. ”
So she came home. Not because she wanted to.
Because she was too tired to invent another answer. Daryna showed up that same night with her husband, no call first, parked in front of the gate and walked in like she owned the place. “You did the right thing coming back,” she said from the doorway, looking at the suitcases in the hall. “Kyiv is just nerves right now.
Nothing more. ”
Lesya put the kettle on and said nothing. Daryna had a gift for saying the right things in the wrong tone. The tone that said I told you so.
At dinner, their mother asked about Kyiv. Daryna’s husband ate in silence. Daryna talked about her deals — nine years in real estate, every developer in the city, clients who recommended her. She didn’t brag.
She wove it into every conversation like jewelry, impossible to miss. “That studio, Prostir, is growing fast,” she said between courses. “Roman Vasylenko is the director. Serious man.
I know him — we handled a few properties together. If you want, I can put in a word. ”
Lesya looked up. “I already sent my resume.
”
“Oh. Well, then. ” Daryna reached for the bread. “I just meant the connection is there, if you need it.
”
Lesya nodded and didn’t go back to the subject. She knew her sister well enough to understand: if Daryna put in a word, she’d know every step Lesya took. Lesya didn’t need a middleman. She needed a job she’d gotten on her own.
For weeks she worked on her portfolio — reworked old projects, took screenshots, wrote cover letters — sitting at her childhood desk between the bookshelf and the window. At night she read, or lay and listened to her mother pace the kitchen at 2 AM because she couldn’t sleep either. Daryna called once a week, asked how things were, and always found a way to ask whether Lesya had heard from Prostir yet. Lesya answered short.
Daryna never did anything bad. She just called. Just asked. And every time, after the call, Lesya opened her laptop and checked her email with a knot in her stomach she couldn’t name.
The invitation came on a Tuesday. Name, date, time, address. Lesya read it three times, then opened her old project files to prepare. That’s when she found it, almost accidentally.
Her 2016 diploma project: the reconstruction of an abandoned textile factory on Podil, turned into affordable housing. She’d called it “Another Floor. ” Her professor said it was too bold for the market. Lesya hadn’t agreed, but she’d kept quiet.
She opened the file and looked at the sketches. The idea was good. Still good. She saved it to the interview folder, added three more projects, closed the laptop, and went to make coffee.
At 11:14 PM the phone vibrated on her nightstand. The voice message from Daryna to their mother. About the disciplinary problems. About the firing that wasn’t a layoff.
A clean, specific lie, delivered in a calm voice that knew what it was doing. Lesya listened again, searching for anything she could have misheard. There was nothing ambiguous. “Let her wait a little.
She doesn’t need to get in there right now. ”
She put the phone down and closed her eyes. In the morning, her mother stood at the stove. Eggs, tea, bread sliced thin.
“Did you sleep well? ”
“Sort of,” Lesya said, and sat. She watched her mother divide the eggs onto plates and thought: did she know? Daryna sent the message to her.
So either she already knew, or she was about to find out and say nothing. Lesya couldn’t decide which was worse. “You have the interview today? ”
“Yes, at ten.
”
“Dress well. First impressions are everything. ”
Lesya looked at her mother’s back and said nothing. She left the house at 9:15 with her portfolio folder, her phone, her keys.
At the door she turned. Her mother stood in the hallway with the look Lesya knew from childhood — worry covered with a smile. “Lesyu. Are you okay?
”
“I’m fine, Mom. ”
She closed the door. Prostir was in a renovated space in an old fabric shop. Big windows, light from both sides.
Lesya stopped in front of the sign, then walked in. Roman Vasylenko was shorter than she’d pictured. Around forty-five, gray at the temples, with a habit of looking at you without blinking. He came out himself, no secretary, and shook her hand.
“Lesya. I’m Roman. Sit, please. ”
The office was small and tidy.
Finished projects hung in frames on the wall. Good work. Nothing extra. Roman opened her resume on his laptop.
“Kyiv. Studio Context, six years. Tell me, why did you leave? ”
“The studio lost its office after the August strike,” Lesya said evenly.
“Part of the team was let go. I was among those cut. ”
Roman nodded. He didn’t ask follow-up questions, just turned a page.
Then, after a pause, without lifting his eyes from the screen: “We received some information that your departure was somewhat different. ”
Lesya didn’t change position. “What information? ”
“A call.
A woman said she was your former colleague. Mentioned disciplinary problems. Said you weren’t laid off. ”
He looked up and waited.
Lesya put her palms on the table. “I can provide documents. The official layoff order, with date and signature. If you want, the director’s contact — he’ll confirm.
”
“Actually, I already checked, before you came. That call was strange. The woman didn’t give her name, spoke confidently, but dodged every clarifying question. I’ve seen corporate games before.
That’s why I invited you in person. ”
Lesya exhaled. Barely noticeable — just let go of something she’d been holding since morning. “Thank you for looking into it.
”
“Don’t thank me yet. Show me your portfolio. ”
He closed the laptop. Lesya opened her folder to the first page.
Roman leaned in, then stopped. He looked at the sketch, then at her. “What is this? ”
“My diploma project.
Reconstruction of a textile factory into affordable housing. 2016. ”
Roman studied the page for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was quieter.
“Interesting. ”
It was in that pause before the word that Lesya felt something cold settle between her shoulder blades. “Are you familiar with the project ‘New Home’? ”
“No.
”
“It’s our current project. Reconstruction of an industrial space into temporary housing for displaced people. The city council funded it. We won the tender in October.
”
He looked at her sketch again. “The concept is very similar to what’s in that project. The zoning. The principle of natural light through a modified roof.
The layout. ”
Lesya waited. “The person who brought us this concept was a realtor we work with. Half a year ago.
She presented it as her own development. We formed a partnership — she sells the finished objects, takes a percentage of the deals. ”
He placed his finger on the sketch in her portfolio. “What’s your realtor’s name?
”
Lesya answered before he finished the question. “Daryna Savchenko. ”
A yellow trolleybus passed the window, a crack running across its windshield. Lesya watched it until it turned the corner.
“She’s my sister. ”
Roman was quiet. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about this project.
From the beginning. ”
So she did. She told him about her diploma, the environmental architecture department, the professor who said it was too bold. She told him about showing the sketches to Daryna during holidays, wanting feedback from someone with market experience.
Daryna had said: “Interesting. But who would buy this? ” And never brought it up again. Or so Lesya had thought.
Roman listened without interrupting. When she finished, he asked, “Do you have proof of authorship? ”
“File creation dates. University documents.
And there’s an archive record in the university database. All diploma students had to register their projects through the electronic system. It was mandatory my year. ”
“Good.
I want to see all of it. ”
They agreed she’d send the documents by the end of the day. Roman walked her to the exit and shook her hand. Lesya stood outside against the wall.
November sunlight hit her straight in the eyes. She took out her phone: seven missed calls from her mother, all in the last hour. She put the phone in her pocket and walked home. She needed to walk before she could talk.
Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, watching the door. She hadn’t been reading, hadn’t been looking out the window. Just sitting. “How did it go?
”
“Fine. ” Lesya put down her portfolio and opened the fridge, then closed it. “Mom. Did you know Daryna called Prostir?
”
Her mother set the cup down, picked it up, set it down again. “She said she wanted to help you. That you weren’t ready yet. That you needed rest.
”
“She told them I have disciplinary problems. That I was fired, not laid off. ”
Her mother didn’t answer. She looked at the cup.
“You knew,” Lesya said. It wasn’t a question. “I didn’t think she’d— I thought it was just a conversation. ”
Lesya closed the fridge.
She didn’t want to eat. “Roman Vasylenko knows about the ‘New Home’ concept. The one that was stolen from me. He asked for proof.
I’m sending it today. ” She stopped in the doorway. “I don’t know what happens next. But I want you to know.
So you’re not surprised. ”
Her mother looked up with something Lesya didn’t want to decode. Pity. Or pleading.
Or just fear. Lesya went to her room and closed the door. She found the university registration record. June 2016.
Grade: excellent. File uploaded and confirmed by the system. She took a screenshot, then another of the PDF metadata showing the date and her name. She wrote to Roman: “Documents attached.
Let me know if you need anything else. ”
He replied in twenty minutes. “Received. Thank you.
I’ll be in touch. ”
Lesya put the phone down and sat on the bed. Through the wall, her mother paced the kitchen. Back and forth.
Lesya knew that sound from childhood. Her mother walked like that when she didn’t know what to do. Daryna called at 7 PM. “Lesyu.
So. How was the interview? ”
“Fine. ”
“Did Roman make an impression?
He’s serious. I told you. ”
“Yes. You told me.
”
Lesya walked to the window. It was already dark outside. The streetlight across the road was flickering — third week straight, no one came to fix it. “Daryna.
He showed me the ‘New Home’ project. ”
“And? ”
“It’s a good project. You and Roman worked hard on it.
It’s very similar to my diploma. ”
Daryna’s voice went soft. Almost gentle. “Lesyu, you understand that reconstruction of industrial spaces is a trend right now.
Everyone builds like this. It’s not your personal idea. ”
“The zoning. Natural light through a modified roof.
The corridor layout. That’s not a trend. That’s a specific solution. Mine.
From 2016. ”
“But Lesya—”
“I sent Roman the documents. The diploma. The dates.
The university archive. ”
“Why would you do that? ” Daryna’s voice turned sharp. “Do you understand you’re destroying my partnership?
A year of work. A year building those relationships. You walk into one interview and decide to cross it all out? ”
Lesya held the phone and watched the flickering light.
“You called Prostir and told them I have disciplinary problems. ”
“I was trying to help you. ”
“You were trying to keep me out. ”
“Lesyu, you always do this.
Everyone’s against you, everyone’s in your way—”
“I have a recording of your voice message. The one you sent to Mom. You hit the wrong contact. ”
Daryna went quiet.
“What are you going to do with it? ”
“I don’t know yet,” Lesya said honestly. “Goodnight. ”
She hung up and put the phone on the windowsill.
The light flickered once, died for a minute, then came back on. She knew Daryna was calling their mother right now. She knew her mother wouldn’t sleep and would wait for morning to talk. She knew tomorrow would be hard.
But tonight she opened her diploma file and read it, and thought: it’s still good. Roman called at 9 AM. “Lesya. Can you come in today?
There’s something to discuss. ”
She came. Roman was in his office, and next to him sat a woman in her sixties with thin-framed glasses. “Tetyana Boretska,” Roman said.
“Architectural consultant for the project. ”
Lesya froze in the doorway. Boretska looked at her over the glasses. “Savchenko.
Lesya Savchenko. ”
“Yes. ”
“I remember your diploma. I was on your committee.
I gave you an excellent and told you it was too bold for the market. ” She placed her hand flat on the table. “I was wrong. The market took eight years to catch up.
”
Roman gestured to the chair. Lesya sat. “I asked Tetyana Mykolaivna to compare your documents with the ‘New Home’ project,” he said. Boretska opened the folder.
“Identical zoning. Identical principle of natural lighting. Even the roof angle — seventeen degrees, written in your 2016 thesis, reproduced exactly in the technical specifications. This is not a coincidence.
It’s not a trend. It’s a specific author’s solution. ”
Roman watched Lesya. “Did you know your sister was doing this?
”
“No. I suspected something. Not this. ”
“But you registered the project in the university system three weeks ago.
”
Lesya blinked. “What? ”
Roman turned his laptop toward her. The registration system.
Date of last verification: October 17. Her login. Her confirmation. “You logged in and verified the record.
That means you had suspicions already. ”
Lesya stared at the date. October 17. Three weeks before the interview.
A month before she found Daryna’s voice message. She remembered that evening. She was going through old files, looking for portfolio material. The system notified her the record was about to hit its retention limit.
She clicked confirm almost automatically. She wasn’t thinking. “Honestly, I didn’t know what I was doing. The system offered to extend the record.
I confirmed. ”
“But? ”
“But I felt something was wrong even then. I just couldn’t name it.
”
Boretska took off her glasses and set them on the table. “Sometimes we protect ourselves before we know what we’re protecting against. That’s not an accident. That’s experience.
”
Roman closed the laptop. “Lesya, I want to offer you the position of lead designer on ‘New Home. ‘ Not because the concept is yours and we owe you something. Because you’re the best person to see this project through.
You know it from the inside, better than anyone. ”
Lesya looked at the sketches on the wall. At Boretska’s folder. Out the window, where the same yellow trolleybus was passing.
“And Daryna? ”
“The partnership will be reviewed,” Roman said evenly. “That’s no longer your problem. ”
Lesya put her hands on her knees and felt her heart pounding.
“Alright,” she said. “I accept. ”
Daryna called that evening. Lesya was eating soup at the kitchen table.
Her mother had set the bowl down without a word and gone to her room. “Roman called me,” Daryna said, no greeting. “He said he’s reviewing the partnership terms. ”
“I know.
”
“Do you understand what I’m losing? A year of work, Lesyu. A year. Clients.
Deals. Percentage. ”
“Really, Daryna? What?
”
Daryna’s voice cracked. “You always did this. You were always better. Always with the ideas, always with the talent.
And I just sell other people’s square meters. ”
Lesya was quiet. She looked at the soup, cooling in front of her. “Daryna.
I hear you. But what you felt — it doesn’t excuse it. ”
“I know. ”
A pause.
“Are we still sisters? ”
Lesya took the bowl to the sink. Turned on the water. It ran loud.
“Goodnight, Daryna. ”
She hung up, turned off the water, and stood there holding the edge of the sink. The streetlight outside was burning steady. No flicker.
She didn’t know when they’d fixed it — it just, somewhere along the way, started working right. Her mother opened her door, stopped at the kitchen entrance. “Lesyu—”
“I’m tired, Mom. Let’s talk tomorrow.
”
Her mother stood a moment, then went back to her room. Lesya heard the door close. She sat down and opened her laptop. Roman’s email: formal confirmation of the position, start date, terms.
In two weeks it would be real. Not in Kyiv, not in Poltava — for people who’d lost their homes and were looking for new ones. She closed the laptop and sat in the dark. The phone lay beside her, silent.
She didn’t know if Daryna would write again, or if her mother would say something important in the morning, or choose silence again. Whether you could return to what existed before this week. Or whether you should.
