Писатель Илья Розенфельд

Martha smelled of bleach and cheap laundry detergent. This scent had eaten into her skin, her hair, into her very essence over twenty years of washing other people's floors. She poured the contents of a canvas bag onto the counter. Coins, crumpled bills bound with a rubber band. The money jingled pitifully and quietly. The Tailor didn't even look at the pile of change. He looked at the woman's hands—red, swollen from water and detergents, with cracked nails. “There is exactly enough here,” Martha said, catching his gaze. She hid her hands in the pockets of her old coat. “I saved for seven years.” “For a rainy day?” the Tailor asked indifferently. “For the brightest day. For prom. For Lily, my daughter.” Martha leaned forward, and a fanatical spark of maternal sacrifice lit up in her dull eyes. “I want you to sew her a dress. Not just a beautiful one. I want... I want her to have a different life. Not like mine. I want her not to know what dirt is. Not to count pennies....

The bell above the door chimed dryly, not melodically, as if someone had coughed in an empty room. The Tailor did not raise his head. He was stitching a buttonhole on a cuff — a task requiring a steady hand and complete detachment from the outside world. The client stood at the threshold, shifting from foot to foot, breathing heavily, wheezing in the air saturated with the smell of hot iron and wool dust. “Are you open?” asked a voice, brittle and creaky, like old parquet flooring . The Tailor set aside his needle, removed his glasses, and only then looked at the newcomer. Standing before him was a decrepit old man, a ruin. Gray parchment skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones; his eyes held the murky moisture of fear and pain. He held onto the doorframe as if without this support he would crumble into pieces at any moment. “That depends on why you have come,” the Tailor replied. His voice was even, devoid of professional pleasantries. “I need a suit,” the old man took...

What if the difference between birth and death amounted to just a few seconds? Imagine this: following a genetic catastrophe — a virus or nuclear war — babies on a distant planet began to be born dead. At first, they were stillborn, and no medical device or technology could help. Doctors recorded the date and time of birth and death as one and the same. Thousands of babies died before ever truly being born — or were born already dead. Those who hadn’t lost hope no longer cared whether they had a boy or a girl. They just wanted their child to be born alive. But the harsh reality was stronger than their hopes. This continued for many years. Cemeteries grew larger than cities, and cities turned into cemeteries. Death rates had long surpassed birth rates, and the few remaining survivors refused to start families or have children. Life on the planet had lost its meaning. People stopped trusting conventional medicine. Even IVF brought no results. They began to believe in magic. Medicin...