When I was a child, I had a twin brother. We played the same games, we dressed in the same color, we talked at times at the same time. As I now remember my mom’s call for lunch: “Arkaša, Sasha, lunch!” – we ran to the kitchen.

Once, when we were five years old, the whole family came to my grandmother’s village. Me and Archas were released to play in the yard. We had a red ball with white strips. We threw them over until he hit the well. Arkacha ran after the ball and crashed.

I was frightened and cried out – everyone ran out and began to look into the well, but no one was found there: neither Arkashi nor the ball. I cried and cried, asking for someone to dive after my brother, suddenly he was there. I was asked who Archie was. Surprised, I answered that it was my brother. The parents who looked over took me home, saying that there was no Arkashi, that I thought it. I said they were lying and roaring.

After that, I lived without a brother, no funerals, and no talk about Arkash ever been conducted by anyone. A couple of years later, on the common holidays, the newly gathered relatives each time remembered the story of how I played the whole family of Arkashas, who fell into a well. But, hell, I remember my brother, and one summer, picking water from my grandmother’s well, I found in the raised cage an old ball with white strips.