Простыня перевод рассказа на английский

Part One: Thread
Leo was growing up. The sheet lay on the shelf, letting the sounds and smells of the world pass through its fibers: the click of the heels of the saleswomen, conversations about the war that had just ended, dust and the sweet smell of tangerines from the New Year's market.
They met when he was eighteen. He was renting his first room and had come into the store to buy something "the most necessary and the cheapest." His fingers, long and uncertain, ran over the rough canvas, the chintz, the satin. And they stopped on her. On the unbleached, slightly rough, smelling fresh and clean. He bought her.
The first night on the new sheets was unsettling. Leo tossed and turned, and the fabric wrinkled beneath him, forming folds-gorges. He had strange dreams: that he was floating above a white, soft landscape, and the wind, walking across its fields, whispered something in a forgotten language.

Part Two: Fabric
Five years passed. Leo met Eliza. She was like mother-of-pearl: fragile, with a shimmering, dim light inside. The first time she stayed overnight, he laid out his sheet. She lay down and froze.
“How strange…” she whispered.
- Harsh? - Leo was alarmed. - I'm used to it, sorry.
- No. She's... alive. She's glad to see me.
Eliza fell asleep instantly, like a child. Leo watched the moonlight fall on the fabric, outlining the contour of her shoulder, the curve of her hip. The sheet hugged her, took the shape of her body, as if it had always known her.
From that day on, their life together began on this patch of land measuring one and a half by two meters. Here they loved, quarreled, made peace. The sheet absorbed everything: raindrops from his hair after a night run, her tears from a melodrama she watched, salty drops of sweat after a passionate reconciliation.
One winter evening, Eliza, lying down with a book, ran her finger over a barely noticeable worn area next to her.
"Look," she said. "This is your mark. You always sleep like this, slightly to one side. This is your imprint."
"And this is yours," Leo pointed at another scuff. "You always tuck the edge under yourself."
They laughed as they looked at the map of their life together revealed on the white fabric: the darkened stain from spilled coffee, the odd mark from her hand cream, his hastily mended cigarette hole.
The sheet was no longer just fabric. It became their territory, their fortress, their chronicle.

Part Three: Scuffs
The years passed. The sheet became worn. The paint on the tag faded, the fabric thinned to transparency in some places, became soft, like the skin of an old friend. It was sewn, darned, bleached in the sun several times.
Leo and Eliza had children. The sheet remembered the heat of their foreheads when they were sick, when they climbed into their parents' bed. It remembered family pillow fights and fortresses built from blankets.
One day, while changing the bed, Eliza unfolded the sheet and gasped.
- Leo, come here.
He came over. She was holding the sheet up to the light from the window. And through the thinning fabric, a strange, barely visible pattern was showing. It wasn’t flowers or the geometry of a factory print. It was a map. The patterns formed hills and valleys that corresponded exactly to their bodies. There were “paths” — traces of constant movement, “lakes” — stains left by various events, and even denser, “wooded” areas — patches.
They stood and silently looked at the map of their love, their life, manifested on a simple piece of cotton.
“Let’s finally throw out this rag,” Leo said jokingly, but his voice trembled.
“No way,” Eliza said. “This is our Bible. Our history. We are here.”

Part Four: Gray Hair
Leo did not become a quiet winter morning. He simply did not wake up. Eliza, gray and very small without him, was left alone in their large bed. The sheet was now too big for her alone, too full of memories.
She continued to sleep on it. It was her country now, her map of loneliness. She recognized by touch his "continent", still pressed into the fabric. Sometimes she thought she felt his warmth.
One night she had a dream. She was walking across a vast white field that was both soft and firm. Under her feet she recognized the familiar scuffs and patches. In the distance she saw him. Leo was young, as she had met him. He was lying on their sheets, on their territory, smiling at her.
"Come to me," he said. "There's so much room here."
Eliza woke up. Morning flooded the room with light. She reached over to his side of the bed, stroked the cool, thin fabric.
That evening she took out her scissors and with great trepidation, with infinite tenderness, she cut the sheet in half. She carefully folded one half and put it in her dresser - the one that was his. The one that held his uniform.
She made the other half, hers. It was the perfect size. And at night, falling asleep, she buried her face in the fabric and smelled not the powder, but a subtle, long-ingrained scent - a mixture of his skin, her perfume, sun, summer rain and time. The smell of their lives.
She fell asleep. And the simple cotton sheet, old, almost rotted, covered her, as it always did. She was a witness. She was a guardian. She was love itself, embodied in threads. And there was nothing magical about it. It was simpler and more majestic. It was true.