mohito
💎
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2025
- Posts
- 15,063
- Reputation
- 34,498
It was a tiny town, barely more than a village, full of old people who refused to die. That meant little work for Yakov Ivanov, a coffin-maker. Business was bad.
In another life, he might have been a respected tradesman with a proper house. Here, he was just "Yakov," nicknamed Bronze, living in a cramped hut with his wife Martha, his tools, his coffins, and his violin all in one room.
He made coffins efficiently, without sentiment. For children, he worked especially fast.
"I don’t like fussing over trifles," he would say.
He also played violin in a local wedding band led by Shakess, alongside Rothschild, a miserable flute player who turned every tune into something mournful. Yakov grew to despise him for no clear reason, and they fought often.
"If I hadn’t respected your playing, I’d have thrown you out the window," Rothschild once said.
Yakov stopped getting invited often.
He lived counting "losses". Lost workdays, missed funerals, unrealized profit. Even people dying at the wrong time felt like financial failure.
Then Martha fell ill.
"I’m dying," she said quietly.
Yakov took her to the doctor.
"Cold compress. Powders. Next," the doctor said.
"Doctor, she needs cupping!" Yakov insisted.
"No time. Take her home."
Back in their hut, Yakov measured her for a coffin.
"For Martha Ivanov, 2 rubles 40 kopeks," he wrote.
That night she whispered, “Do you remember the river… the willow tree… our child?”
"You’re dreaming," he said.
She died by morning.
The funeral cost almost nothing. Yakov considered it a success.
"That’s a fine job," he said at the grave.
But walking home, something cracked. For the first time, he understood what his life had been: nothing but loss, and cruelty he never noticed.
Later, he insulted Rothschild in the street.
"Get out of here, you pest."
Rothschild ran off crying.
Yakov ended up by the river, under an old willow. The world felt unfamiliar. Too alive, too wasted. He saw everything he had missed: time, work, beauty, life itself.
"Everything was a loss," he thought.
"Everything!"
He went home and played his violin through the night, as if mourning himself.
Soon, he fell ill.
"Bandages. Powders," said the doctor again.
Yakov knew it wouldn’t help.
At home, he held his violin.
Even this, he thought, will be lost.
Rothschild came one last time with a message about a wedding.
"I can’t go," Yakov said.
"I’m dying."
He played softly, broken, sorrowful notes filling the room. Rothschild listened, then began to cry.
Before the end, Yakov whispered: "Give my fiddle to Rothschild."
And in that small, forgotten town, even his music stayed behind, turning sorrow into something everyone would remember, and nobody could explain.
In another life, he might have been a respected tradesman with a proper house. Here, he was just "Yakov," nicknamed Bronze, living in a cramped hut with his wife Martha, his tools, his coffins, and his violin all in one room.
He made coffins efficiently, without sentiment. For children, he worked especially fast.
"I don’t like fussing over trifles," he would say.
He also played violin in a local wedding band led by Shakess, alongside Rothschild, a miserable flute player who turned every tune into something mournful. Yakov grew to despise him for no clear reason, and they fought often.
"If I hadn’t respected your playing, I’d have thrown you out the window," Rothschild once said.
Yakov stopped getting invited often.
He lived counting "losses". Lost workdays, missed funerals, unrealized profit. Even people dying at the wrong time felt like financial failure.
Then Martha fell ill.
"I’m dying," she said quietly.
Yakov took her to the doctor.
"Cold compress. Powders. Next," the doctor said.
"Doctor, she needs cupping!" Yakov insisted.
"No time. Take her home."
Back in their hut, Yakov measured her for a coffin.
"For Martha Ivanov, 2 rubles 40 kopeks," he wrote.
That night she whispered, “Do you remember the river… the willow tree… our child?”
"You’re dreaming," he said.
She died by morning.
The funeral cost almost nothing. Yakov considered it a success.
"That’s a fine job," he said at the grave.
But walking home, something cracked. For the first time, he understood what his life had been: nothing but loss, and cruelty he never noticed.
Later, he insulted Rothschild in the street.
"Get out of here, you pest."
Rothschild ran off crying.
Yakov ended up by the river, under an old willow. The world felt unfamiliar. Too alive, too wasted. He saw everything he had missed: time, work, beauty, life itself.
"Everything was a loss," he thought.
"Everything!"
He went home and played his violin through the night, as if mourning himself.
Soon, he fell ill.
"Bandages. Powders," said the doctor again.
Yakov knew it wouldn’t help.
At home, he held his violin.
Even this, he thought, will be lost.
Rothschild came one last time with a message about a wedding.
"I can’t go," Yakov said.
"I’m dying."
He played softly, broken, sorrowful notes filling the room. Rothschild listened, then began to cry.
Before the end, Yakov whispered: "Give my fiddle to Rothschild."
And in that small, forgotten town, even his music stayed behind, turning sorrow into something everyone would remember, and nobody could explain.
