The Hive

Chapter 2
Chapter 1

Benjamin Wilson woke to silence.

Not the cozy, peaceful kind of silence, but the sticky, dead kind—the kind that drowns people who've lived alone for too long. He lay on a sagging mattress in his cramped rental apartment, surrounded by the smell of dust, yesterday's coffee, and unfulfilled expectations. Dusty morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting bars across walls with peeling paint.

The sheet beneath him was damp with night sweat. Those dreams again—blurry, anxious, leaving behind only a bitter aftertaste and the feeling that he'd lost something he couldn't quite remember.

He turned his head toward the nightstand. His phone. Black screen. No notifications, no calls, no emails.

No job.

Today marked exactly three months since he'd been fired from his last position—an agency where he'd written slogans for cheese, tea, and later, antiperspirants for the "young, bold, and free." In recent months, his copy, as the managers put it, had "stopped breathing." The word "burnout" had sounded like a diagnosis. Like a verdict.

Maybe they're right, he thought, staring at the ceiling with its water stain shaped like a continent. Maybe I really have forgotten how to breathe.

He sat up in bed. Behind him—the crack of his spine, a reminder of age and poor posture. On the desk—a half-empty mug with coffee rings like the rings of an old tree, and a stack of printed job application responses. Above them—a peeling sticky note that read "pull yourself together." Written by hand, back when he still believed in change.

Pull yourself together.

"Yeah, right," he muttered, his voice hoarse, unfamiliar. When was the last time he'd spoken to anyone? Yesterday? The day before? The days blurred into one gray mass.

He put his feet on the cold floor. The linoleum was old, bubbling up in places. Like his life—bubbling up in places with unfulfilled ambitions.

He'd tried. Genuinely tried. Freelancing—but clients vanished after the first assignment. Enrolling in UX copywriting courses—but dropped out after the second class. He'd even started meditating—for exactly two days, until he realized that in the silence of his own consciousness, he felt even more terrified than in the silence of his apartment.

Everything came to nothing. Depression had become chronic, like a cold. Life had grown dull, like a hallway lamp that no one replaces because everyone's gotten used to the dimness.

In the kitchen, he flipped on the kettle. The click of the button sounded unexpectedly loud. At the very moment the heating element hissed to life, there was a knock at the door. Not the doorbell, not a loud, desperate pounding—more like a polite tap-tap, as if from another time. From a time when people still knocked with their knuckles, not their fists.

Benjamin froze. His heart beat faster for some reason.

Delivery? I didn't order anything.

But he knew—delivery people don't knock. They ring, shout into the intercom, kick the door. But they don't knock politely, almost timidly.

He approached the door, looked through the peephole. No one. The hallway was empty, only the flickering light—second from the left, as always.

He opened the door.

On the doormat lay an envelope. Paper, cream-colored, thick. In the corner was an imprint of a cartoon bee—not printed, but pressed into the paper. Like the wax seals on old letters.

No stamp, no return address.

Just a name, printed in what looked like typewriter font:

Benjamin Wilson. Personal invitation.

He picked up the envelope. The paper was warm, as if someone had just been holding it. It gave off a light aroma—not perfume, not chemicals. Something natural, almost alive.

Turning the envelope over in his hands, Benjamin thoughtfully closed the door and returned to the table. The kitchen table wobbled—a newspaper from a year ago, folded in quarters, was wedged under one leg. The tabletop bore mug rings, crumbs, a ketchup stain shaped like Italy.

He carefully opened the envelope with his fingernail. The aroma grew stronger—lavender, honey, something else.

Inside was a thick card on heavy paper:

BEEHAVEN RETREAT

Congratulations! You have been selected to participate in a program for restoring inner balance, based on principles of natural behavioral regulation, rest, and self-acceptance.

We offer you:

• Seclusion from urban bustle

• 
  

• Personalized recovery program

• 
  

• Complete care and support at every stage

• 
  

All this—in a cozy, protected, and safe environment. Where everyone can be themselves and exist in their natural role. Truly.

Details and coordinates inside.

We await you.

Your journey begins here.

Benjamin reread it twice. Then again. The words were simple, but something about them caught his attention. "Natural role." What did that even mean?

He smirked, but the smile came out crooked.

"Great, now we've got paper spam too," he muttered, but his hands somehow wouldn't let go of the card. His fingers slid over the embossing, tracing the outline of the bee. "What's next? Letters from Hogwarts?"

But inside, deep inside, something stirred. Small, almost forgotten. Hope? No, too big a word. More like... curiosity.

When was the last time he'd felt anything besides apathy and irritation?

He pulled out a second paper from the envelope. Travel directions—handwritten, in beautiful script, as if written with a fountain pen. The ink was dark blue, with hints of purple in places. Coordinates. A station he'd never heard of. No phone numbers. Just a train and shuttle from the station.

And a signature:

"The bees await you in the hive."

And below in small letters, a footnote: "This invitation also serves as your ticket for the train and transfer to our center."

Benjamin shrugged. Inside, everything twisted with familiar skepticism.

"Another esoteric scam," he muttered, standing up. "Where are the pollen supplements? Sunrise meditations? Tree hugging?"

The kettle whistled—piercing, demanding. He turned it off but didn't pour the water. His appetite was gone.

He tossed the envelope into the basket next to the microwave—the same one where he put all the unnecessary things that for some inexplicable reason never got thrown away. Already lying there were:

• A flyer from the "School of Self-Development by Lama Armus Method"

• 
  

• A yoga coupon, expired two months ago

• 
  

• A brochure with a smiling lemur offering to "find your inner beast"

• 
  

• A psychologist's business card with a rainbow and unicorn

• 
  

He sometimes took flyers from street distributors out of politeness. And sometimes—just because he wanted someone, anyone, to acknowledge him. Even if it was a teenager in a banana costume by the metro. Even if it was a cult. Anyone who would see him as a person, not empty space.

He returned to the table, sat down, opened his laptop. The screen came to life reluctantly—old, like everything in his life. On the desktop—a folder called "Resume" with thirty-seven versions. "Resume_final." "Resume_final_really." "Resume_last_I_swear."

He opened the job site. Zero responses.

Checked his email. Spam. Spam. "Unfortunately, you didn't pass the selection." "We decided to choose another candidate." "Thank you for your interest in our company, but..."

Always that "but."

He no longer felt any emotion about the rejections. Before—yes. Before, each rejection was like a slap. Then—like a pinprick. Now—nothing. Just white noise. He scrolled down with his finger, as if scrolling through a social media feed. Only instead of other people's breakfasts—other people's refusals to see him as part of their world.

Sometimes he imagined writing back to them all: "Thanks for the rejection. I hope your coffee is always slightly under-sweetened." Or: "I wish you find the perfect candidate who lies on their resume better than me."

But he didn't write. What was the point?

By noon, he had already managed to: • Drink three cups of tea (one tea bag for all three) • Check email four more times • Look in the refrigerator six times (still the same half a loaf, mayonnaise, and something in a container covered with a new civilization) • Not answer a call from his mother (seventh this week) • And... receive a notification from the bank: "Your loan is now a week overdue, please pay immediately to avoid penalties and fees"

"Excellent," he said aloud. His voice in the empty apartment sounded foreign. "Financial stability achieved. Now I'm officially bankrupt not just morally."

He went outside. In a light jacket, despite the chill, and with an empty wallet. Just to walk. Sometimes a walk helped—gave the illusion of movement when life stood still.

But not today.

First, he was accosted by the neighbor from the first floor—the one who fed pigeons and complained about everything alive. Mrs. Petrovsky. Seventy years of pure concentrated bile.

"Mr. Wilson!" her voice was like an unoiled door hinge. "You left the hallway window open again! Everything's blowing around! My papers! My receipts! I told you that..."

He nodded politely, not listening. He'd learned to tune out—a useful survival skill. Nod, smile, leave. Don't engage in dialogue. Don't make excuses. Don't exist.

"...and anyway, you look terrible! When did you last get a haircut? And that stubble! In my day, men..."

He left, leaving her talking to the air.

Then at the store, his card was declined. The small terminal screen displayed the verdict: "Insufficient funds." And the cashier—a girl about eighteen with pink hair and piercings—repeated loudly, as if to make sure the whole line heard:

"Insufficient funds. Want to try another one?"

He stood there, holding a loaf of bread and a carton of milk. Six dollars. He didn't have six dollars.

"Yes, I know," he said quietly, putting the items back. Behind him, someone sighed—irritated, tired. "Thank you, dear, you're wonderful. A true professional."

Sarcasm was his last defense. When nothing else was left.

And finally, when he returned home—someone was sleeping on the bench by the entrance. A homeless person, wrapped in an old coat. No, not a coat.

In his suit.

In his old jacket, which he'd donated to the "help for the homeless" center a month ago. Dark blue, with fine pinstripes. Bought with his first paycheck at the agency. A symbol of his career's beginning. Now—a symbol of its end.

It was strange. Seeing his jacket on someone else's body. As if someone had put on a piece of his life and thrown it right here, on the bench. As if his future had materialized and laid down for a nap by the entrance.

There it is, he thought. A visual aid. Benjamin Wilson, before and after. Or rather, after and even more after.

He went into the apartment and sat on the floor. Right in the hallway, his back against the door.

A pause.

Without thoughts. Without desires. Just emptiness. White noise inside and out.

He sat and watched dust motes in a beam of light from the kitchen. The dust particles floated, swirled, going nowhere. Like his life. Brownian motion without purpose or meaning.

Then, mechanically, he stood up. Went to the microwave. Retrieved that same yellow envelope. There was a stain on the envelope from something—ketchup? Sauce? It didn't matter.

He looked at the bee. It was smiling. Stupidly, cartoonishly, but... sincerely?

"Natural roles, you say..."

His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat, unfolded the travel directions. Train tomorrow. At 6:35 AM. Early. Too early for someone who hadn't gotten up before ten in months.

What am I actually losing? he thought. No job. No money. No friends. No prospects. Just this apartment with mold in the corner, debts, and a card with a negative balance.

Benjamin sighed. Long, slow, releasing air along with the last remnants of resistance.

"Alright, Hive. Let's see what kind of honey you've got."

He stood up, got out his old backpack—still from college days, worn, with a broken zipper on the side pocket. Started packing. Socks (three pairs, all with holes). Underwear (should wash them, but no time). Two t-shirts. Toothbrush (bristles already sticking out in different directions). A book—Vonnegut, "Slaughterhouse-Five," read and reread, but still comforting.

And—for some reason—a teddy bear.

The bear sat on the shelf between books. Brown, worn, with a torn-off button eye. A gift from Claire on their first anniversary. "So you can hug him when I'm not around," she'd said then, laughing.

She left after a year. The bear stayed.

"Seriously?" he asked himself. "A thirty-year-old man with a teddy bear? Maybe I should take a pacifier too?"

But his hands were already stuffing the bear into the backpack. Deep, under the clothes. So it wouldn't be visible. So he wouldn't be embarrassed.

Though embarrassed in front of whom? The bees?

The night before departure came, as always, suddenly. The sun set, leaving dirty-pink streaks in the sky, like a bruise.

He couldn't sleep for a long time—questions spinning in his head: "What am I doing? Where am I going? Why did I agree? What if it's a cult? What if it's a money scam? Though what money... What if it's all a prank?"

But there was no honest answer to any of them. Except one, simple and frightening: "What difference does it make?"

He just wanted to disappear for a while. Erase his shell, become empty. Maybe, if he was very lucky—become someone else. Anyone, just not Benjamin Wilson, a loser with debts and a dead career.

And so, when sleep finally caught him, it was... strange.

Benjamin stood in the middle of a field.

Golden, like wheat—but these weren't grain stalks, they were blades of grass like brush bristles. Soft, tickling his bare feet. When had he taken off his shoes?

The air was thick, sweet. Each breath resonated in his chest with a sticky heaviness, as if he were breathing not air but syrup. The taste of honey on his tongue, though he'd eaten nothing.

On the horizon stood a house that looked like a hive. Not just looked like—it WAS a hive. Enormous, impossible. The honeycomb glowed through the walls with golden light. The walls breathed—slowly, rhythmically, like the chest of a sleeping giant.

From the house stretched a path of petals. White, pink, yellow. It called to him—not with a voice, but with a feeling. Like a magnet pulling iron. Like home pulling after a long journey.

He walked.

Barefoot.

With each step, something changed. At first imperceptibly—it just became easier to breathe. Then more obviously—his shoulders straightened, the pain in his back disappeared. Then he noticed his hands.

They were smaller. Smoother. Without the scar from the kitchen knife, without the birthmark on his wrist.

His clothes were changing too. First the belt disappeared—just melted away like smoke. Then the shirt transformed into a soft t-shirt with a print—something bright, cartoonish. On his feet—sneakers. Small ones, with Velcro instead of laces.

He tried to speak, to shout "what the hell!" but all that came out was incomprehensible babbling. High, thin. Childish.

His tongue wouldn't obey. Words turned to mush before he could pronounce them.

Panic washed over him, but immediately receded. Because a woman in yellow emerged from the house.

Tall. Graceful. But her face was blurred, as if seen through beeswax. As if through tears. Only her smile was clear—maternal, all-forgiving.

She stretched out her arms to him and said, slowly, as one speaks to small children:

"There you are, my little bee."

"I..." he tried to answer, but all that came out was: "I-I-I..."

Words wouldn't form anymore. Only sounds.

"I'm an adult!" he wanted to shout, but it came out something like: "I gwown-up!"

She was already beside him. Stroking his head. Her hand was warm, smelled of honey and milk.

"Shh... Don't be afraid. Here you can rest. Here—you don't need to be big anymore. Don't need to pretend to be strong."

The world around began to dissolve in amber radiance. He felt himself losing weight. As if someone was removing invisible armor from him, layer by layer. Years. Disappointments. Failures. Everything crumbled away like old paint.

It was getting easier.

Simpler.

Quieter.

He wanted to resist, but his body no longer obeyed. His legs gave way. The woman caught him—easily, as if he weighed nothing. Pressed him to herself.

"Hush, hush, little one. Everything's alright. You're home."

And strangely—he believed her.

He woke up.

It was 5:17 AM.

He sat on the bed, heart pounding. A sweat stain on the sheet. Or... no, just sweat. Just sweat.

The taste of honey in his mouth. Though from where?

Benjamin got up, went to the sink, splashed cold water on his face. The water was rusty, with a metallic taste. Real. Genuine.

In the mirror—his face. Stubble. Bags under his eyes. Crow's feet at the corners. Everything in place. Adult, tired, real.

He snorted:

"Little one, huh... What a dream... Maybe it's a sign I should stop with the late-night snacks of expired cheese."

But his hands were shaking. And the ghost of sweetness still lingered in his mouth.

He glanced at the backpack. Inside, under the clothes, the bear. He knew for certain—didn't see it, but knew—that the bear was watching him from there with its single button eye.

Benjamin yawned, rubbed his face. The stubble prickled. Real, adult stubble.

"Let's go, buddy. They're supposed to feed us at the Hive. Maybe I'll finally eat properly. Because moldy cheese is a delicacy, sure, but only when the mold doesn't grow right in the refrigerator."

Just over an hour until the train. Time to start... what? A new life? An escape from the old one?

Or just another mistake in the long chain of mistakes called "Benjamin Wilson's life"?

He didn't know.

But the alternative was worse—staying here, in this apartment, with these walls that closed in tighter every day.

The morning was gray. The sky—like dirty cotton, ready to spill rain at any moment. Benjamin closed the door behind him, checked his pocket—the invitation was there.

He went down the stairs, trying not to make noise. The hallway smelled of cats and something boiled—Mrs. Petrovsky was making her signature fish soup again, from which the whole building couldn't breathe for three days afterward. Soup at 6 AM... what could be better.

Stopping at the exit, he swore:

"Damn OCD."

He ran back up the stairs—the steps creaked like old bones. Pulled on the closed door handle—locked. Rummaged in the backpack—the invitation was there, between socks and underwear. The bear was there too, looking reproachful.

"What?" he grumbled. "I always check everything. It's normal."

He went down again. Outside it was colder than it had seemed from the window. Benjamin shivered, zipped up his jacket. There was a stain on the collar from coffee. Or sauce. He couldn't remember anymore.

The taxi was late. He was already dialing the number, ready to yell, when an old Toyota pulled up to the curb. Peeling paint, bumper held on by faith and duct tape.

The driver—an elderly man with the eyes of someone who'd seen everything and was surprised by nothing—didn't say a word, just nodded toward the back seat.

Benjamin got in, set the backpack beside him. The seat upholstery was torn, foam sticking out. It smelled of "Vanilla" air freshener and old cigarettes.

"Where to?" the driver finally asked. His voice was like sandpaper.

"Central station. Train at six thirty-five."

"We'll make it," he nodded and sharply turned the wheel.

The city outside the window was empty. Rare passersby—joggers with earbuds, street sweepers with brooms, a drunk hugging a lamppost. An ordinary morning in a dying city.

The road was empty. Billboards flashed by: credit at 0% (fine print—first month only), protein bars (become your best self), tickets to life (whatever that meant). Everything—as if for others, not for him. For those who had a future.

"Going on vacation?" the driver unexpectedly asked. In the rearview mirror, his eyes reflected—tired, but curious.

"Something like that," Benjamin shrugged. "Detox. Rural."

The word "detox" sounded false. As if he were trying on someone else's life.

"Uh-huh. The kind where Wi-Fi's not allowed, but you can run through the forest?"

"Sounds about right."

The driver grunted—either approvingly or sympathetically.

"My son went to a place like that. Came back—good as new. True, he started drinking again after a month, but that's another story."

Encouraging, thought Benjamin, but said nothing.

The station was empty. Early trains—the domain of losers and romantics. He bought coffee from a vending machine—the hot brown liquid burned his tongue and left an aftertaste of disappointment.

He looked at the board. Green letters formed words, words formed directions. People were going somewhere. They had goals, plans, round-trip tickets.

Train #304—departure 06:35. Platform 9.

He sat on a bench. The metal was cold through his jeans. Around him—random passengers: a woman with a checkered bag (cheap China masquerading as Louis Vuitton), a teenager with a guitar (three chords and a dream of stardom), a man in a suit nervously checking his phone (late for an important meeting or running from an unimportant life?).

And him—with a teddy bear in his backpack and an invitation to a hive.

If someone wrote a book about this, he thought, no one would believe it. Too absurd. Too... pathetic.

Overhead, music began to play. That kind, station music. Always slightly off-key, as if playing not for people but for the system. To create an illusion of comfort where there was none and could never be.

"What am I doing?"

He pulled out the card with the bee. Read it again. The letters were clear, as if engraved. The paper rustled pleasantly—expensive, real. Not like the printouts of his resume on the cheapest paper from the office supermarket.

"The bees await you in the hive."

He felt something stir inside—either anxiety or anticipation. Everything mixed together. He hadn't been waiting for anything in a long time. And suddenly—he was waiting. And they—were waiting for him.

Even if they were bees. Even if they were cartoonish.

The boarding announcement came. A woman's voice, mechanical, indifferent: "Train number three-zero-four, heading to..." He didn't finish listening. What difference did it make where it was heading? The main thing was where he was leaving from.

He stood up, grabbed his backpack. It seemed lighter than it was. Or maybe he himself had become lighter—without a job, without money, without obligations. Without anything.

He walked to the platform. The train stood there, long, silver. Old, but well-maintained. Almost from another time—when trains were trains, not high-speed tin cans.

Inside—soft seats, green curtains, carpeted floors. It smelled of old wood and machine oil. Cozy. Real.

A steward in uniform—a young guy with a perfect smile—checked the ticket. Or rather, the invitation. Didn't even raise an eyebrow.

"Welcome. Car three, window seat. Have a pleasant journey, Mr. Wilson."

"Thank you," said Benjamin, surprised by the politeness.

When was the last time someone had called him "mister"?

He walked into the car. Found himself alone in a compartment. A whole compartment to himself—unheard-of luxury.

He sat. Settled in. Put the backpack beside him. The teddy bear peeked out—his head sticking out between the zipper. Unperturbed. The single button eye looked with a mute question.

"You're quite the clinger," Benjamin grumbled, but didn't hide him back. Even adjusted him to be more comfortable.

The train started moving softly, almost silently. Like in old movies—smoothly, with dignity.

Outside the window, the city gave way to suburbs. Gray boxes yielded to private homes. Then—fields. Space expanded, breathed. With each kilometer, the persistent noise disappeared—cars, people, life.

He looked out the window and thought: What if I'm going nowhere? What if there's nothing there—no hive, no center, no bees? Just an empty field and a sign "Welcome to your new life. Build it yourself"?

But even that thought didn't frighten him. An empty field was better than a dirty apartment with debts.

The train gained speed. The wheels beat out a rhythm. Lulling, monotonous. Like a lullaby for adults who'd forgotten how to sleep peacefully.

He took out the bear, sat him nearby. He sat, leaning against the window, his single eye watching the passing landscape.

"Well, buddy? Going to a new life? Or just another dead end?"

The bear was silent. Professionally. Over the years, he'd learned to keep secrets—both Claire's and his own.

Maybe it's for the best, thought Benjamin. A silent companion is better than a talkative one. Especially when you don't know what to say even to yourself.

Trees flashed by outside the window. Pines, spruces, birches. Real forest, not the city's sickly plantings. The air beyond the glass seemed cleaner, even through the sealed window.

He leaned back in his seat. For the first time in a long while, he felt at least distant, but still, peace.

The train carried him away from everything he knew. And perhaps, toward something worth knowing.

Or losing completely.

Time would tell.

For now—just the clatter of wheels, the flashing of trees, and the bear keeping his silence by the window.

At some point, a girl passed by his compartment—about twenty, with short red hair and a worn notebook in her hands. She glanced inside, and their eyes met. A second. Two. She smiled—not the polite smile of a stranger, but somehow understanding, as if she recognized something familiar in him. She had green headphones around her neck and a t-shirt that read: "This too shall nap."

Benjamin wanted to say something—hello, or ask where she was going, or just smile back. But the moment passed. She moved on down the aisle, leaving behind a light scent of mint and of that time when you could just get on a train and go wherever your eyes led you, without thinking about bills and debts.

He watched her through the compartment glass. She sat down a few rows away, pulled an apple from her backpack, bit into it with a crunch. An ordinary action, but somehow mesmerizing in its simplicity.

When did I last eat an apple? he thought. A real one, not from a pre-cut package at the supermarket?

The train rushed on. The landscape outside the window changed—fields gave way to groves, groves to hills. The sun rose higher, dispersing the morning grayness. The world became colorful, three-dimensional, real.

He took out his phone. Battery almost dead—forgot to charge it. Though what difference did it make? Who would call? His mother, to ask once again when he'd find a proper job? Collectors, to remind him about the debt?

The screen showed "No service." He put the phone away. Let it die in silence.

The conductor passed through the car, offering tea. Benjamin took a glass in a metal holder—the metal was hot, burning his fingers through the thin napkin. The tea turned out to be strong, with real flavor—not the bagged dust he drank at home.

"Going far?" asked the conductor, an elderly man with kind eyes.

"To Beehaven station," answered Benjamin.

The conductor frowned, as if trying to remember.

"Beehaven? That's... ah yes, small station. Rarely anyone gets off there. Beautiful places, they say. Quiet."

"I hope so."

"Going to rest?"

"Something like that."

The conductor nodded and moved on. An ordinary conversation about nothing, but somehow it left a warm feeling. When was the last time someone had been interested in where he was going? Not out of idle curiosity, but just humanly?

Benjamin sipped the tea in small gulps, warming his hands on the glass. Outside the window, kilometers of other people's lives rushed by—villages, fields, solitary houses. In each house—its own story, its own joys and sorrows. And he—just a passenger, flashing in their windows for a second.

Then he dozed off. The sleep was light, superficial—the kind where you're not really sleeping but not awake either. A half-dream where reality mixes with fragments of dreams.

He's walking through a field. But it's not that field from the night dream—it's an ordinary field, with ordinary grass. The sun warms his back. In his hand—a suitcase. No, not a suitcase—a hive. Small, toy-like, but something buzzes inside.

"Careful," someone says nearby. He turns—no one. Just the bear walking behind, waddling from paw to paw.

"You can walk?" asks Benjamin.

"I can do lots of things," the bear answers in Claire's voice. "You just never asked."

The hive in his hand becomes heavier. The buzzing louder. The lid opens slightly, and out crawls one bee. Large, cartoonish, with human eyes.

"Hello," says the bee. "We've been waiting for you."

"Who's we?"

"All of us. All who are tired."

He woke to an announcement. A woman's voice, soft, almost lulling: "Next stop—Beehaven Station. Please don't forget your belongings."

His heart skipped. He looked out the window—the forest had grown thicker, the trees taller. Sunlight broke through the canopy in separate rays, creating a play of light and shadow. Fairy-tale-like. Unreal.

The train began to slow. Benjamin grabbed his backpack, glanced inside briefly—the invitation was there. Stuffed the bear back in, zipped it up.

"Well, buddy, we've arrived," he muttered. "Let's see what kind of hive awaits us."

The station appeared on the right. Small, wooden, as if from another era. Short platform, sagging canopy. A single lamp burned despite the daylight. And not a soul.

The train stopped with a quiet sigh of pneumatics. The doors opened.

Benjamin stepped out. The air hit his face—clean, cool, smelling of pine and something else. Moss? Mushrooms? Mystery?

He looked around—no one else was getting off. The girl with red hair stayed on the train, didn't even look in his direction. As if he'd become invisible the moment he stepped onto the platform.

The doors closed. The train started moving—slowly, reluctantly, as if doubting whether to leave him here alone.

And there he stood. Alone. At an abandoned station in the middle of the forest. With a backpack containing a teddy bear and three pairs of holey socks.

Great start to a new life, he thought. Now the main thing is not to panic. And find that damn shuttle.

He looked around more carefully. At the edge of the platform, almost invisible in the shadow of the trees, stood a bus. Old-fashioned, cream-colored, with rounded shapes—like from fifties movies. On the side—an emblem: a bee with spread wings and the inscription: "Beehaven Retreat Shuttle Service."

His heart beat calmer. So, not a prank. So, the place existed.

He approached the bus. Behind the wheel sat a woman—about forty, in a simple uniform similar to a school bus driver's. Chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, face calm, but eyes attentive. She watched him through the windshield, as if evaluating.

The door opened with a quiet hiss.

"Mr. Wilson?" she asked. Voice low, soothing.

"Yes, that's me."

"Welcome. I'll take you to the Hive. Please, have a seat."

He climbed into the bus. Inside it was clean, cozy. Seats upholstered in soft fabric, windows hung with light curtains. It smelled of lavender and honey—the same scent that had been in the envelope.

"Am I alone?" he asked, settling in.

"Today—yes. But at the Hive, you won't be lonely, I promise."

Strange phrasing. He wanted to ask what she meant, but the bus was already moving.

The road led through the forest. The asphalt was old, cracked in places, but smooth. Trees closed over the road, creating a green tunnel. Light penetrated in separate spots, dancing on the windshield.

"Is it far?" he asked, to break the silence.

"About thirty minutes. The Hive is located in a secluded spot. It's important for the recovery process."

"Process?"

She looked at him in the rearview mirror. Brown eyes, understanding.

"Everyone comes to the Hive for their own reasons. Some seek rest. Some—healing. Some—a new beginning. Everyone's process is different."

"And you? Have you worked here long?"

She was silent, maneuvering through a particularly sharp turn.

"I found a home here. After... after I lost my previous one."

He didn't ask any more questions. There was that note of finality in her voice that didn't suggest continuation of the conversation.

They rode in silence. Outside the window flashed trees, sometimes—clearings with views of distant hills. Beautiful. Peaceful. As if the world beyond this forest had ceased to exist.

Benjamin felt the tension beginning to release. His shoulders relaxed. His breathing became deeper. Maybe it was the air. Maybe—the silence. Or maybe the fact that for the first time in a long while, he was going somewhere where they were waiting for him. Even if they were strangers. Even if by a strange invitation.

The bus slowed. Ahead appeared gates—not massive and frightening, but simple, wooden, entwined with ivy. There was no sign on them, only a pattern of hexagons, like honeycomb.

The driver got out, approached a panel by the gates. Placed her palm—not a card, not a key, but her palm. There was a soft sound, like contented buzzing, and the gates opened.

Biometrics? thought Benjamin.

Beyond the gates began a path paved with the same hexagonal tiles—yellow, like honey, like honeycomb. On both sides—a garden. Not formal, not trimmed, but alive, wild. Flowers grew where they wanted, intertwined, created incredible compositions.

And bees. Many bees. They flew from flower to flower, buzzed, gathered nectar. But not aggressively, not threateningly. Calmly. Like at home.

"Don't be afraid of them," said the driver, noticing his gaze. "Our bees don't sting. They're... special."

"Trained?"

She smiled.

"You could say that. Miss Hart has a special connection with them. They say she understands their language."

"Miss Hart?"

"The founder of the Hive. You'll definitely meet her. But not right away. She prefers to... observe first."

Again that strange phrasing. Observe. Like test subjects?

The driver turned off the engine, turned to him.

"We've arrived. Walk straight along the path, don't turn anywhere. You'll reach the main entrance—they'll meet you there."

Benjamin took his backpack, glanced inside again—the invitation was still there, warm, as if alive. Got out.

The bus turned around and left, leaving him alone. Again.

But now it wasn't scary. The air here was different—thick, sweet, enveloping. Like honey. Like a promise.

He walked along the path. The tiles under his feet were warm, though the sun barely penetrated through the canopy. Step. Another. Third.

With each step, something changed. Not outside—inside. As if invisible hands were removing from him layer by layer the fatigue, disappointment, pain. Not completely—but enough to make breathing easier.

The garden parted, and he saw the house.

No, not a house—a building. Strange, unusual. Honey-colored walls, roof like honeycomb. Windows of different sizes, arranged without apparent logic, but creating a sense of harmony. As if the house had grown, not been built. As if it were alive.

By the entrance grew sunflowers—enormous, taller than a person. They turned toward him, as if in greeting. An absurd thought, but here, in this place, it didn't seem absurd. Benjamin walked slowly, now stopping, now walking a bit faster. On the second floor in a window, he noticed a boy who was watching him intently, but as soon as their eyes met, the boy turned away and immediately disappeared into the depths of the house.

Benjamin stopped before the door. Massive, wooden, with carved patterns. In the center—a bell shaped like a bee.

He raised his hand. Froze.

Last chance to turn around. Leave. Return to his gray life, debts, emptiness.

Or...

He remembered the dream. The woman in yellow. The promise of peace.

Remembered the empty apartment. The rejections. The homeless man in his jacket.

The choice was obvious.

He knocked. Three times. Decisively.

The sound spread through the garden, amplified many times by the echo. As if the house sighed. As if it woke up.

Footsteps were heard behind the door. Light, almost weightless.

The click of a lock.