CHAPTER 2

INT. SHIP CABIN – DAWN

The gentle sway of the ship was almost imperceptible, a rhythmic motion that—far from bothersome—felt strangely hypnotic. And yet, it was enough to shake Caliop from her slumber.

A warm, damp breath on her face. Then, a rough tongue.

CALIÓP (groaning, turning her head slightly):
Ugh…

Dagmar insisted, tail wagging with excitement.

Caliop slowly opened her eyes, disoriented. The soft morning light filtered through a porthole, catching specks of dust suspended in the air. A low ceiling, weathered wood, the scent of salt and moisture. This was definitely not her bed.

CALIÓP (murmuring, groggy):
Where... are we...?
She placed a hand to her forehead.

From a shadowed corner of the cabin, Max—the vagabond—answered in his usual coarse, calm tone, without even lifting his head.
—Siberia. That’s our heading.

Caliop let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh and collapsed back onto the mattress, too tired to care. The whole thing felt ridiculous.
—Of course it is… why wouldn’t it be? —she murmured, pulling a threadbare blanket over her shoulders.

The cabin was narrow, its wooden walls groaning in rhythm with the waves. Scattered across the table were old maps, half-empty bottles, and worn travel gear. In the corner, two heavy backpacks sat slumped against the wall, marked by the weight of too many roads.

The air was thick with salt and damp, carrying the faint scent of worn leather from Max’s pack.

Still half-asleep, Caliop rubbed her eyes and slowly pushed herself upright. She walked over to the porthole and wiped the foggy glass with her palm. The ocean stretched endlessly before her, catching the pale shimmer of dawn.

Far on the horizon, the silhouette of a massive ship loomed—too big, too dark.

Something about that image sent a chill down her spine.
—But where are we… really? —she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Max rose with slow, heavy movements, unhurried, and stepped beside her. His gaze locked onto the silhouette of the distant ship, as if he could see beyond the surface of the sea.
—We’re heading to the taiga of eastern Siberia —he said calmly.

The wind pressed against the window, rattling the glass with a deep, low murmur. As if even the breeze knew they were crossing some invisible threshold.
One they were never meant to cross.

The ship swayed gently, its frame creaking with each wave, the sound of water striking the hull keeping a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

Caliop remained curled up on the bed, perfectly still, as if not moving might somehow freeze time —and keep reality from reaching her beyond those thin wooden walls.
Dagmar, Max’s dog, slept peacefully at her feet, his breathing in sync with the rocking of the boat.

The cabin carried a thick scent of salt and damp wood. In the corner, two bulky backpacks—coated in dust and marked by the scars of long travel—rested on the floor like silent witnesses to countless journeys. On the table, a sort of organized chaos: crumpled maps, scattered letters, and worn-out tools, as if the space wasn’t a home, but merely a temporary stop along the way.

Max was crouched in a corner, leaning over a small portable stove. The smell of fresh coffee began to fill the room, briefly pushing away the heavy air of uncertainty. Steam rose slowly as the kettle let out its familiar whistle, breaking the silence. Max poured the dark liquid into two metal cups, the morning light catching the surface of the rising steam.

Calmly, he walked over to the bed, holding out one of the cups to Caliop.
Max (soft but steady voice): —Here. You’re going to need it.

From beneath the blanket, Caliop reached out and took the cup without lifting her gaze—like accepting it made her an accomplice to whatever reality awaited them. She held the metal between her hands, letting the warmth seep into her skin before finally bringing it to her lips. Then, slowly, she sat up, her face caught between disbelief and resignation.

As she took small sips, Max moved to the cabin’s wardrobe and pulled out a thick coat, mountain gear, and winter boots, placing them carefully on a chair. The rugged fabric and reinforced stitching stood in stark contrast to his long, weathered trench coat, still draped over his shoulders like a second skin—like a remnant of who he used to be.
There was no beggar here now—only a man who knew exactly what he had to do.

He took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze momentarily lost in the rising steam. A couple of drops slid down his beard, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand without a second thought. Then, with effortless motion, he lifted one of the heavy backpacks and slung it over his shoulder.

His eyes returned to Caliop, still clutching her cup as if the warmth was the only thing tethering her to the present.

Max (voice steady, without pushing): —When you’re ready, get changed. There’s clothing in the pack, and some food in the cabinet.
Then bring your bag.
Dagmar will know where to find me.

With that, Max walked to the door, opened it calmly, and closed it behind him, leaving behind a heavy, absolute silence.

Caliop remained still for a few moments, staring at the closed door as if she could somehow make sense of everything by just looking at it. Then her eyes shifted to Dagmar, who watched her with that unshakable calm, head slightly tilted—as if he truly understood the weight of the moment.

Caliop (softly, with a faint, ironic smile): —I don’t know how you put up with him.

Dagmar gave a slow wag of his tail, as if answering with a truth she wasn’t ready to grasp, then laid his head back down on the bed.

Caliop let out a slow breath, her gaze settling on the backpack resting on the chair—the weight of the change that was coming. Finally, her eyes drifted toward the porthole, where the sea stretched out endlessly, reflecting the cold truth of the inevitable.

It was time to move.

Wide shot.
The large ship rests at the dock, its steel hull still gleaming under the morning sun, surrounded by sailors who move with the ease of those who’ve made the sea their home. A narrow gangway connects the vessel to the pier, creaking and worn from constant use. In the distance, life pulses through the fishing port: nets spread out, boats moored, and people rushing between markets and warehouses.

Close-up.
Max walks with steady steps, his dark figure cutting through the light, the wind tugging gently at his long coat. The ship rocks beneath his feet, but he moves without hesitation, as if his balance were absolute.

Behind him, Caliop follows, gripping both railings of the gangway with tense hands. Her steps are careful, almost unsure—every movement heavy with disbelief and confusion. She scans the port, trying to understand how she ended up here, in a reality so far from what she once knew.
Everything feels like a blurred dream—a hazy memory of the night before, in some bar, drinking and laughing sarcastically at the absurdity of talking about trolls and unknown destinies.

Dagmar, the dog, is the last to cross. He walks slowly, pausing to sniff every corner, as if the port were an open book filled with stories waiting to be discovered. His white fur glistens under the sun, and suddenly, he bounds playfully in a burst of joy, celebrating the return to solid ground—only to stop just as abruptly, alert and watchful.

Max continues without looking back, heading toward the fishing village. It’s a modest settlement, with weathered wooden houses and smoking chimneys that fill the air with the scent of salt and fish. A place shaped by hard work, but also by forgotten tales hidden within aging walls.

Driven by frustration and the need for answers, Caliop pulls hard on Max’s backpack, forcing him to stop in his tracks.

Caliop (exasperated):
—Do you realize I don’t even remember how I got on that ship?

Max stopped and, without fully turning around, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye with an unsettling calm.

Max (low, steady tone):
—Let me remind you… you got on the ship on your own two feet.
When you’re drunk, you become a bit more… adventurous.
And when you passed out, Dagmar took care of you—practically dragged you to the shore.
Let’s just say… he’s not your average dog.

Caliop couldn’t help a dry, ironic chuckle, shaking her head as if nothing could surprise her anymore.

Caliop (with a crooked smile):
—At this point, nothing shocks me.
(Looking at Dagmar, who watches her intently, as if he truly understood her tone)
—I was starting to like you!
(She growls playfully at him.)

Dagmar lowers his ears but doesn’t move, quietly waiting for her next move. His gaze seems to say he understands far more than she could ever guess.

Watching them, Max lets out a long, patient sigh—like an adult dealing with two mischievous kids.

Max (firm, but not unkind):
—Come on. We’ve still got a long way to go.
I need to see a friend here.
And don’t forget your pack.
Dagmar will find me if you fall behind.

Max continued walking without waiting for a reply.
Dagmar hesitated for a moment, glancing back at her—then chose to follow Max.

Caliop watched them go, then let out a deep sigh.

Caliop (muttering as she adjusts her backpack):
—Always in a hurry, huh?
What the hell is going on here?

With a resigned step, she hurried after them, knowing that—whether she liked it or not—her life had taken an inexplicable turn into the unknown.