The Hive

Chapter 1
Prologue

Lucas sat on the windowsill, swinging one leg that sported a dinosaur sock. His other foot was bare. The boy lazily chewed on a carrot stick, squinting against the morning sun, keeping watch like a sentry in a tower, peering down the path into the distance. The walkway, paved with yellow hexagonal tiles resembling honeycomb, stretched through the garden all the way to the gate. The air hung thick with the scent of blooming lavender and something else—something sweet and viscous, like invisible honey diffused through the atmosphere.

"Oh, look at that, a new little bee emerging from its cocoon," he drawled with a snort. The carrot crunched between his teeth. "Walking like the path's a minefield instead of a sidewalk."

Below, slowly approaching the entrance, walked a man in his thirties with a backpack. He was clearly nervous. Shoulders hunched, steps uneven. He'd stop, look at the house as if reconsidering, then continue forward. The backpack bounced on his back with each step—too light, as if nearly empty.

Lucas tilted his head to one side, his expression becoming unnaturally mature.

"I give him three days. Then the first wet diaper and 'welcome to the hive,'" he sighed theatrically. His voice wavered slightly, fingers gripping the carrot stick a bit harder than necessary.

"Lucas," came a calm but weary voice from the neighboring room, "stop teasing. It's time to prepare for the welcome."

The boy jerked as if caught doing something shameful. The adult expression instantly vanished from his face, replaced by childish resentment.

"Oh, of course, Aunt Sara. The grand ceremony. We'll put on clean socks, say 'hello' in unison, pretend this whole thing isn't like a club for burned-out managers anonymous."

At that moment, the man below looked up at the boy, and their eyes met.

"Lucas," the woman repeated more sternly. "Don't make me say it twice."

He slid off the windowsill with the grace of a circus poodle, casually got to his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. His uniform shirt with the bee logo stretched across his shoulders.

"Fine, fine, I'm going... Just don't forget to tell Mo—" he caught himself, swallowing the second half of the word, "—that I behaved almost decently."

Sara appeared in the doorway—a woman in her forties with a soft face and ash-colored hair gathered in a neat bun. She wore a simple light blue blouse and dark skirt. She smelled of lavender soap and something medicinal—soothing, soporific.

"Your mother is busy in the honey room," she said calmly, as if paying no attention to the boy's defiant remarks. "And you know that perfectly well."

Lucas froze for a moment, like a child caught misbehaving. But something sharp, almost cruel, flashed in his eyes again.

"Yes, Aunt Sara. Sorry."

He lowered his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. Under his nails were traces of dirt—from the morning's work in the garden. Ordinary dirt, it seemed, but somehow this detail was unsettling.

At that moment, a door opened at the far end of the corridor. All sounds in the house seemed to quiet. Even the sunlight appeared to grow softer, thicker—like honey dripping down glass.

Down the corridor walked a woman in a long dress the color of the midday sun. Eleanor Hart moved with that particular grace that makes time slow down. Her face was calm, almost serene, her eyes holding the wisdom that comes from understanding human nature in all its complexity. The air around her seemed to vibrate, like air above hot asphalt on a scorching day.

She didn't say a word. She simply looked at Lucas.

The transformation was instantaneous and eerie. The boy immediately straightened like a string, but seemed to shrink. His shoulders dropped, chin pressed to his chest. The defiant smile vanished. His eyes lowered. He took a step aside, small fingers beginning to fidget with the edge of his shirt. Even his breathing changed—shorter, higher.

"Good morning, Miss Hart," he said quietly. His voice had become thinner, younger. The words were pronounced slightly less clearly, as if his tongue had suddenly become unruly. "I... I was just about to go to the welcome."

"I'm sure you were," Eleanor replied. Her voice was soft but viscous and enveloping. It held something maternal yet frightening—like the voice of a mother who loves too much. "Lucas, dear, do you remember what we discussed about meeting new guests?"

"Yes, ma'am. Be polite. Help. Don't frighten."

He spoke while looking at his bare toes, trying to hide his gaze as securely as possible. The one dinosaur sock seemed absurd, childish. But the bare foot looked even more vulnerable.

"And?"

"And... show a good example," the boy added barely audibly.

"Good boy," Eleanor extended her hand and lightly touched his cheek.

A barely perceptible shiver ran across the boy's skin at the touch. Lucas closed his eyes, and for a moment his face contorted—not from pain, but from something more complex. As if two beings were fighting inside him: one craved this caress, the other recoiled from it in horror.

"Now go. You have work to do."

Lucas nodded and headed quickly toward the exit. But his gait was strange—neither childish nor adult, but something in between, unsteady. At the threshold, he turned—not to the women, but to the window, where below the man with the backpack was already approaching the porch.

"Welcome, little bee," he whispered. His voice held bitter irony. "I wonder if you still remember how to fly? I've... forgotten."

With these words, he disappeared into the depths of the house. When the boy's footsteps faded, Sara approached Eleanor. The woman's movements betrayed professional concern.

"He's becoming more... restless," she said carefully, choosing her words. "There was another incident yesterday. During the night."

"That's natural. Three years is a long time. Even the sweetest honey can become cloying."

"Do you think he...?"

"I think," Miss Hart turned to the window, watching the approaching guest, "that each bee chooses for itself whether to stay in the hive or seek new flowers. But for now... for now he's our little helper. And he performs his role excellently."

She paused, studying the man below. He had stopped before the door, clearly gathering his courage.

"Although, perhaps..."

Sara nodded, though doubt flickered in her eyes.

"And the new guest?"

"Oh, Benny..." Eleanor smiled, and in that smile was something both maternal and predatory. Like a mother spider preparing to wrap her offspring in a protective cocoon. "He's exactly what we need. Tired. Lost. Ready to give anything for a drop of peace."

"Like all of them."

"Like all of us, dear Sara. Like all of us once were."

Below came the sound of the doorbell. The man had reached the entrance. The sound was melodic, almost hypnotic—like the humming of a hundred bees arranged into a melody.

"Well then," Eleanor moved away from the window, and the train of her dress rustled across the floor like wings. "Time to welcome our new little bee. Make sure Lucas behaves... appropriately."

"Of course, Miss Hart."

"And Sara? Prepare the blue room. With a view of the garden. Mr. Wilson will enjoy watching the flowers. Put something... soft there. I sense he's one of those who needs comfort."

"Understood. A teddy bear?"

"Oh no," Eleanor shook her head. "He's brought his own. Those who bring their childhood with them are always the most... receptive."

The women parted ways, leaving the corridor empty. Only the sunbeams streaming through the window curtains continued to play on the yellow wallpaper, creating an illusion of movement—as if viscous nectar was slowly dripping down the walls. A light aroma lingered in the air—sweet, intoxicating, promising oblivion.

And below, Benjamin Wilson stood before the massive door, unaware that his arrival had been noticed, evaluated, and already decided. In his jacket pocket lay the invitation with the bee, and in his backpack—an old teddy bear, the last witness to times when everything was simpler.

Nothing in the Hive happened by chance. Every bee found its place. Every flower—its time to bloom.

And every child—their age.