"The soul has gone," Baba Songolik repeated patiently, unwinding her warm, colorful scarf. She sighed tiredly, kicked off her leather boots, and slipped her flat feet into felt slippers, shifting from foot to foot with relief. Clearly, standing on her heels all day had left her feet sore.

"I don't get it," Daniel shook his head stubbornly. "It's a strange expression. A person has one soul, and if it leaves, they die, right?"

"No," Songolik said, tapping the faucet as she washed her hands. "They live, but only half-alive. The body's there, eating, drinking, sleeping, but the soul... how do you say it?" She snapped her wet fingers, searching for the right word. "Function..." she looked at him for help.

"Functioning," Daniel finished automatically, starting to understand. "Depression?"

"No," Baba Songolik repeated, drying her hands and shrugging. "You Westerners don't get us Easterners. Depression is different; a person is sick, they suffer, but they still live. When the soul leaves, it's like they're asleep. Today, I was trying to bring the soul back - it was tough, I wasn't sure I could do it. It took all my strength, and I still have to tend the cows and cook dinner," she added with a knowing look, and Daniel grinned in understanding.

"I've cleaned the barn, fed and watered the cows, put the chickens in, and gave them millet. Dinner's already made."

"Wow! And the house didn't burn down!" Baba Songolik laughed, hurrying over to the stove where a pot and a pan sat under a felt cover. "Good job on the noodles. What's this?" She lifted the lid, poking at something that looked unappetizing - dark brown and dried out.

"Pasta sauce," Daniel muttered, blushing. "Well, almost sauce and almost pasta. I fried some minced meat with ketchup and garlic. It's not fancy, but it'll do."

"It must be delicious," Baba Songolik said, stretching the words with a hint of disbelief. "But I'm not hungry; they fed me well."

"I won't poison you, Granny, I promise!" Daniel said, feeling a bit offended, then corrected himself. "I mean, Baba Songolik. Sorry."

"It's alright, I like it better that way," she said, sitting down slowly. She fiddled with the ends of the scarf around her neck, chewing her lips thoughtfully. "Call me Grandma, Daniel. Why do we keep talking like strangers? We live together," she transitioned abruptly. "Your soul is gone too."

"Come on," Daniel said weakly, concerned for her. "I'm agnostic; I don't believe in souls. Maybe I was just born without one."

"Everyone's born whole, then they break into pieces," Baba Songolik said. "I'll perform the ritual on you, but only if you believe. Without faith, it won't work. Think about it, don't rush to refuse. A true agnostic, eh?" She smirked skeptically and stood up. "Well, it's late. Time for bed."

"It's only nine o'clock," Daniel protested at the change of topic. "I'll read in my room."

"You're up at six in the morning," Songolik retorted grumpily. "And you won't be reading; you'll be hiking up the hill to get a signal again. Who are you writing to?"

"Just acquaintances," Daniel mumbled evasively. "Well, if you're not hungry, I'll put everything away."

"I'll do it myself; my hands are still warm," Songolik said, moving the pot and pan to the windowsill to cool. She returned to the topic she wanted to discuss. "The soul flies away when someone is very frightened or encounters terrible things. It beats against the body, but can't get back - the path of spirits is closed. You need to help open it. But if a person doesn't want it themselves, nothing will work. Only with a child can you return the soul without their consent - they're young, not fully formed," she tapped her forehead, indicating where moles might be. "So, Daniel, you have to want it."

"And how can I want it if everything suits me?" Daniel shrugged.

"Don't lie to me," Baba Songolik said with a knowing look. "You want to break free, but you can't - you don't have the strength. You're frustrated, you're angry, banging your head against the wall, but it's not working."

"Alright," Daniel said thoughtfully, starting to piece together her meaning. It seemed more about mental disconnection and irritation. The idea of reintegrating sounded appealing - he definitely wanted that, so why not go through the ritual? It could be like a ceremonial initiation, even if it involved some hallucinogenic mushrooms to make the experience more vivid. Daniel chuckled at the thought. "What should I do?"

"Remember everyone you've loved and hated," Baba Songolik began seriously. "Those you're ready to let go and forgive - do so. The hardest part is forgiving yourself - not everyone can. And those you want to harm - hold onto that feeling, think about how to reach them."

"Does shamanism encourage vengeance?" Daniel asked, genuinely surprised.

"You're talking nonsense," she said irritably. "Why vengeance? If you crush evil, are you doing wrong? Tsk, evil. Forgiving all wrongs only makes the world worse. You should forgive yourself - that's what's important! But why forgive everyone else indiscriminately?"

Baba Songolik muttered softly as she cleaned the table and windowsills, stacked dried towels neatly, and stirred the embers in the stove so they'd burn out sooner. Her steady voice was undisturbed by her routine actions; if anything, they seemed to fuel her thoughts.

Daniel pondered what he had heard. Baba Songolik's views reminded him of Schopenhauer, who believed in not forgiving those who had wronged him. Daniel's smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression as he recalled long-buried memories. Somehow, this former rural biology teacher and practicing shaman had touched on deeper truths with simple words than two renowned psychologists had with their jargon.

The truth seemed to lie in the kindness emanating from Baba Songolik. Daniel hurried to the coat rack, grabbed his jacket, and put on his shoes.

"I forgot to water the cows," he said, rushing out the door that was swollen from moisture.