Лампочка перевод на английский

Prologue
In a web of wires, in the hum of a transformer booth that smelled of ozone and dust, a Light Bulb was born. Not the kind that screws into a chandelier and illuminates the world, but the kind that senses it. Its glass chest was full of inert gas, the tungsten thread of its soul was thin and elastic, and its threaded base was a connection to a vast, unknown world. Its world was small and simple: darkness and light. Darkness was loneliness. Light was life.
It was installed in the entrance of an old house on the outskirts of the city. The house was breathing drafts, sighing with its doors, and creaking with its steps. The light bulb saw everything. It remembered the faces of the residents by their shadows. Here is a quick and sharp shadow - an old woman from the third floor, always in a hurry. Here is a heavy, dragging shadow - the drunkard Uncle Kolya from the fifth. And here are two small, jumping shadows - twin brothers from apartment No. 14.
They turned her off during the day and lit her up at night. She was a sentry, a soldier of light in the realm of the entrance's twilight. And she thought. Her thoughts were like flickering: short, bright flashes of awareness, interspersed with the darkness of ignorance.
She thought about what it meant to "burn." It was like love. Like giving. She gave herself completely, and it made her glass body warm. She waited for the night to feel that trembling current of life, that purpose, again.
But one day everything changed.

Part One: Shimmer
The shadow appeared not at night, but during the day, when the Light Bulb was sleeping. It was not like the others. Deeper, richer, quieter. It slid along the wall and froze, as if studying it. The Light Bulb felt a strange vibration through her sleep, as if someone had touched her thought.
In the evening, when the current ran through her veins and she lit up the stairwell, the shadow returned. It belonged to a new tenant, a man in a black coat who rented an apartment at the very top, under the very roof. His name was Lev Matveyevich. He was a watchmaker.
Lev Matveyevich was as quiet as his shadow. He brought with him the smell of old wood, metal and loneliness. Every evening, as he passed by, he raised his eyes to the Bulb. Not to the light it gave, but to it itself. To the frosted glass, to the dark dot inside the bulb.
And one day he stopped. His finger, accustomed to fragile mechanisms, lightly clicked on its glass side.
"Hold on, friend," he whispered hoarsely. "There's going to be thunderstorms soon, the wiring here is old."
The bulb trembled in surprise. No one had ever spoken to it. Its light flared brighter for a moment. The watchmaker smiled as if he had understood something, and slowly walked upstairs.
From that day on, a new life began for Lampochka. She waited for his steps. She recognized them among dozens of others - a measured, clear rhythm, like the ticking of a good watch. She began to notice things she had not seen before: how a cobweb in the corner swayed from a draft, how a fly crawled along the wall, casting a tiny shadow, how spots of dampness appeared on the ceiling, like continents of an unknown world.
She began to dream. Her dreams were flashes of light: to fly outside, to look at the moon, to touch a real star, which, as she had heard from children, was also “burning.” She wanted to know what was there, beyond her entrance.
One night there was a thunderstorm. Lightning struck nearby, and the voltage in the line jumped. The light bulb flickered as if in a fever. She was afraid. She felt how its filament was heating up red hot, almost white, threatening to burn out. Flashes of lightning illuminated the entrance hall for a moment brighter than her own light, and for the first time she really saw it - the shabby walls, the broken tiles on the floor, the rusty mailboxes. This was not her cozy world, but an old and tired place.
At the very peak of the storm, Lev Matveevich appeared on the stairs. He was not afraid of the thunder. He approached Lampochka, watching her painful dance.
“I see, I see,” he muttered. “Poor soul. It’s trying to get out.”
He reached for the switch and turned it off. Darkness swallowed everything. The bulb, stunned, felt something unprecedented. The darkness was not loneliness. It was silence. Peace. And in that silence, she heard something new - not a sound, but a feeling. She felt the pulse of the house. A dull, rhythmic knock somewhere in the walls. And something else. Faint, distant, but just as clear a light. Not electric. Different. Warm. It came from above, from the watchmaker's apartment.

Part Two: Heat
Lev Matveyevich ceased to be just a shadow. He became a guide to a new world. He brought her a chair, carefully wiped her flask with a soft cloth, brushing off the dust of centuries.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now I can see your soul.”
He started talking to her. At first, just passing by: "Good evening, friend." Then, stopping for a minute, he told her about his day: "I spent the whole day collecting the clock, it's capricious, it just wouldn't go straight. And how are you?"
The bulb could not answer. But it answered with light. When he spoke, it burned steadily and calmly. When he shared something sad, its light dimmed a little. When he joked, it seemed to laugh, trembling and sending cheerful reflections across the walls.
One day he brought it to his workshop. He carefully unscrewed it from its socket, wrapped it in a soft cloth and carried it upstairs. For the Light Bulb, it was a journey to the edge of the universe.
His world was filled with ticking. Hundreds of voices, from the low bass of a grandfather clock to the cheerful chirping of small alarm clocks, sang in chorus to Time. The air was thick with the smells of oil, varnish, and dust. And on the table, under a green glass lampshade, another lamp burned. Small, with a lampshade, with a soft, almost living light. It did not shout about its existence, but glowed quietly, like a torch in a dark hut.
"This is Lilith," the watchmaker introduced her. "I've had her for a long time. Not electric, kerosene. She has a different soul."
The bulb looked at this warm, flickering flame and felt a strange envy. That light was independent. It breathed, lived its own life, obeying only kerosene and air. It was free.
Lev Matveyevich cleaned its contacts, tightened something in the socket and screwed it back into place, into the entrance.
"Hang in there, friend," he said as he parted. "Everything will change soon."
And it changed. A notice came to the house: major repairs were coming. Everything in the entrance hall was to be replaced: wires, plaster, doors and... light fixtures. The good old sockets for screw lamps were being replaced with modern ones, for pin lamps. Her world, her home, her reason for existence were about to be destroyed.
The Light Bulb's panic was like a short circuit. She blinked wildly, out of place. She saw workers carrying old furniture out of apartments, tearing off wallpaper. Her days were numbered.
She tried to warn the watchmaker. When he passed, she flickered so desperately that it looked like a distress signal. Lev Matveyevich stopped and looked at her for a long time. His face became serious.
“I understand,” he nodded. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Part Three: Light
The day came when workers with ladders and toolboxes came to change the wiring in the entryway. The light bulb burned for the last time. It looked at its executioner, a man with a screwdriver, who was approaching it.
But then Lev Matveevich appeared.
"Remove it carefully, please," he said in the firm voice of a watchmaker. "This lamp is of historical value."
The workers chuckled, but the old man with such confident eyes inspired respect. They carefully unscrewed it and handed it to him.
"Throw it away, grandpa," one of them said. "There are energy-saving ones now, LED ones. Economical."
“Everything has its own economy,” Lev Matveyevich snapped and carried the Light Bulb away.
He didn't take her to his workshop. He walked through the city, carrying her wrapped in that same soft fabric. The bulb, stunned, felt the vibrations of the vast world through the fabric: the roar of cars, the voices of people, the wind rustling the leaves of real trees. She felt the warmth of the sun on her glass. It was amazing.
They stopped at an old building with columns - the local history museum. Lev Matveyevich handed the Light Bulb to an elderly woman in glasses, the custodian of the collections.
— As agreed, Anna Petrovna. Incandescent lamp manufactured by the Svetoch plant, circa 1960s. Worked in the same building for almost sixty years. Witness of the era.
Anna Petrovna carefully took her and carried her into a semi-dark room dedicated to the life of the 20th century. There was a reconstruction of a room from that time: a carpet on the wall, a sideboard with crystal, a radiogram, and a typewriter on the table. And on the table, next to it, stood a lamp with a green lampshade. The same as Lilith at the watchmaker's.
Anna Petrovna carefully screwed the light bulb into the socket of the table lamp and clicked the switch.
And the Light Bulb lit up.
But it wasn't the bright, merciless light that hurt the eyes in the entryway. It was a warm, soft, cozy light, filtered by the green glass of the lampshade. It fell on the wood of the table, on the paper, on the hands of the mannequin that represented the writer. It didn't create lighting, but an atmosphere. It wasn't a function, but a soul.
The light bulb looked around. It was quiet here. People came here and spoke in whispers, looking at things with gratitude and curiosity. There was no rush here. Here they valued the old, giving it a new life.
It did not burn constantly. It was lit for several hours a day. And this burning became a holiday. A mystery. It illuminated not the steps that people run down, not the mailboxes, but history. It saw not shadows, but faces - thoughtful, smiling, nostalgic.
One quiet evening, she felt a familiar shadow. Lev Matveyevich entered the hall. He approached the table, looked at her and smiled.
"You see," he said quietly. "Now you're not just shining. You're illuminating the Past. You're helping to remember. That's more important than lighting the entrance."
The light bulb understood. Its filament, its soul, was not simply heated by the current. It burned to give not just light, but meaning — sense, warmth, memory. It found its true home. Not a socket in the wall, but a place in history and in the heart of someone who saw in it not just an object, but a soul.
She burned evenly and calmly, illuminating the page of an old book on the table, and her light was like a wise, kind smile. Her journey from the entrance to eternity was over. She had found her light.