Evening. The sun was gradually beginning to set, bathing the local fields and forests in a pink glow. A battered Lada 8 drove along the lifeless highway, passing through a multitude of beautiful landscapes. Police Captain Igor Plakhov was at the wheel, finally returning home from a long business trip. But he wasn't interested in the beauty around him; he was looking for a place to spend the night.

Plakhov glanced at the map again; he clearly remembered seeing a couple of motels along the road when he was driving here. But no matter how long he drove, he had yet to find a single hospitable place; it was as if they had all vanished.

The sun sank even lower, and Igor was beginning to regret not staying at the hotel he'd passed an hour ago. But the room was too expensive, so he decided to save money and find another.

He would have happily spent the whole night behind the wheel, but his body wasn't quite happy about it. He was getting sleepy, perhaps due to the previous night's lack of sleep or the day spent traveling. His eyes were already starting to ache from the monotonous views, the endless trucks and empty villages.

Igor yawned tiredly, thinking it was time to find some quiet spot, as he'd be spending the night in the car, when he suddenly noticed a sign on the side of the road. On the opposite side was a cardboard sign reading "Accommodation. 150 rubles per person." The sign was leaning against a nearby car. Plakhov immediately turned around on the empty highway and parked next to it.

As soon as he turned off the engine, a woman emerged from the car next to him. She looked to be in her fifties, with brown hair, a colorful blouse and skirt, and red-rimmed glasses. Igor followed her example and went out to meet her.

"Hello, would you like to stay overnight?" She greets him with a warm smile.

"Hello, yes. The price hasn't changed, has it?" Plakha asks, glancing at the sign.

"Oh, well, of course not. The price is still the same. We have a private house, and we provide a room. And I see, will you be alone?" the woman giggled, glancing at the empty car. Igor nods approvingly.

"Well, then follow me, we're not far from here." She loads the sign into the trunk, starts the engine, and pulls out onto the highway. Igor follows her; they're on the main road for about ten minutes before turning onto a dirt road. After driving over bumps and kicking up a small storm of sand, they reach a summer cottage community. After passing overgrown streets, they park on the outskirts, near a high fence. Igor doesn't even immediately notice the exposed roof of the house, hidden behind corrugated metal.

The woman notices him staring in surprise at the impossibly high fence and answers the question he hadn't yet asked: "It's to keep thieves out while we're away."

Opening the gate, they walk inside. The property features neatly arranged flowerbeds, a small bathhouse, and the cozy house itself. The house was two stories high, its brick façade painted a soft blue, white shutters adorning the windows, and smoke billowing from the chimney.

The woman opens the heavy door and lets Igor in first. Once inside, he immediately smells the fresh wood, and warm light illuminates the tranquil interior. Footsteps approach in the hallway, and a man peers out from the corner. He looks about the same age as the woman. His blond hair is starting to grey, he adjusted his aviator glasses, and a smile spreads across his face. "I see you've found a new guest."

"Aha. I completely forgot to introduce you. My name is Margarita, and this is my husband, Roman," she coos, locking the front door. "Nice to meet you, my name is Igor." Plakhov shakes the man's hand.

"What a wonderful name," Margarita mutters, then adds, "Let me show you to your room, and then we'll discuss payment."

Igor follows her; they go up to the second floor and head for the far door. Inside, Igor sets his bag on the floor. The room was small, with a cozy bed in the middle, adorned with decorative pillows. Opposite it was a table with a neatly tucked-in chair. A window was hidden behind the curtains on the opposite side. Plakhov takes out his wallet and pays for his stay. Margarita happily accepts the bill. She then continues giving a tour of the house, showing where the bathroom and kitchen are.

"Would you like some tea? You must be so tired from the journey." Margaret puts the kettle on the stove and lights the gas.

"Yes, why not?" Plakhov agrees, sitting down on a stool. Margaret drops a tea bag into a mug and pours boiling water over it. "Where are you headed, if it's not a secret?"

"To St. Petersburg. My business trip is finally over, so I'm heading home."

"Great. And what do you do that they send you to such a remote place?"

"Yeah, I work in the police," Igor says, not going into details. Margaret's fingers hover over the decanter for a split second, but she quickly moves away, diluting the tea. "Great. Here, take it."

Igor takes the hot mug from her, taking his first sip of the soothing liquid. The last time he'd had something warm was his morning coffee at a gas station. He was glad he'd found a place to stay and didn't have to spend the next day with a sore back from sleeping in the car. He began to talk with interest.

He looked at the house, the floral wallpaper, the kitchen units, the stove. Gradually, he began to feel himself drifting toward drowsiness, his eyelids growing heavy. He yawned unconsciously, and Margarita noticed. "I think the journey has worn you out. Lie down and rest. What time should I set your alarm?"

"Seven," Igor mumbled sleepily, heading upstairs. He no longer remembered how he'd collapsed on his bed, not bothering to take off his coat. All he remembered was falling into a sweet slumber.

Igor woke up feeling finally well-rested; the room had brightened, signaling the dawn of day. He lazily rolled onto his side, his hand automatically reaching for his pants pocket to grab his phone. But to his surprise, his fingers brushed bare skin; with his sleepy head, he didn't immediately realize his pants were missing. He sat up immediately, wearing only a T-shirt and shorts. Igor looked around the room, trying to find his scattered clothes, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Then memories flooded back; he clearly remembered not having undressed. The thought of being undressed while he slept was strange and wrong. But the lack of clothes anywhere in the room only confirmed it. Perhaps it was a strange display of concern, or an unwillingness to soil the bed linen with street clothes, Igor wondered.

He decided to go out and ask about his things, but the door was locked. He tried the handle several times, but it wouldn't budge. Then Igor knocked insistently on the door. "Hey! Excuse me! The door's locked! Anyone here?"

But there was no answer; there was silence on the other side. But they couldn't have left, thought Plakha.

Then he decided to go to the window; maybe they were outside and hadn't heard him. He opened the curtains, and the bright morning light blinded him. He winced and moved closer to the glass. There was no one outside, and only then did he notice the decorative bars on the window. He turned the handle and opened the window. Igor leaned close to the bars, trying to peer behind the house. He saw that his car was no longer parked where he'd parked yesterday. It was as if it had vanished.

"What a bitch!" Igor hissed. A theory was already forming in his head: maybe this was a trap, designed to steal cars from unsuspecting travelers. Or maybe they'd left him here to rot. He tried to remove the bars, but they wouldn't budge; they were so well installed. He really didn't want to be stuck here. Suddenly, he heard approaching footsteps outside. Maybe he'd just dreamed it all up and it wasn't what it seemed. The key turns in the lock and the door creaks open. Margarita and Roman stand in the doorway, smiling like a sweet elderly couple in a photograph. Plakhov relaxes slightly; perhaps it was just a misunderstanding. "Good morning, where are my things?"

Margarita steps forward, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. "Things? Oh, honey, you don't need them."

"What do you mean, don't need them? I have my documents, keys, phone..." Igor is confused; maybe they're joking with him.

"And you don't need all of that." She places her hand on his shoulder, gently massaging it. Plakhov shakes her hand off, and he steps away from them. "Enough. This isn't funny anymore. Give me my clothes and things, and we can go our separate ways."

But the couple is closing in on him. Roman tries to calmly explain, "Sorry, but this won't do."

Igor senses the situation growing tense; he takes a couple more steps back, holding his hands in front of him warningly. "What's going on here? You want something from me, right?"

"Yes, we'd like to 'adopt' you," Margarita babbles, her answer leaving Igor stunned. "What?"

The wheels are turning in his mind; this isn't the answer he expected. Maybe he's run into two crazy people, he thinks. "But... I have parents, and besides, I'm almost thirty. I don't think I fit the mold of an 'orphan.'"

"No, you're exactly what we need. You see, we had a son before, about your age, but we lost him last winter. And you look so much like him." Margaret looks away sadly.

"I can understand your loss. But I'm not him. Let's just separate peacefully and forget about it," Plakhov tries to reason with them.

"No, I don't think so. I think you need to digest this, we'll be back a little later." They both leave. Before Igor can reach the door, it locks right in his face. What kind of crazy delusion has he just fallen into?