ifvremya 34

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I remember finding ifvremya on my grandmother’s dusty bookshelf—a thin volume with Cyrillic lettering and no cover art. She only smiled when I asked about it, saying the word meant 'time' in some old dialect. The pages were filled with short, melancholic poems about seasons passing and rivers freezing. I never learned if it was a real language or just her private game, but every time I hear that word now, I think of her hands turning fragile paper.