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Prologue
It all begins with dust. It rises in clouds from the excavator buckets, settles on the birch leaves in the nearby grove, crunches in the teeth of passersby, and settles like a thin shroud on the windowsills of houses in the Prigorodny settlement. Dust is the breath of construction. It is its beginning, its essence, and, as some say, its death.
And then comes the roar. The roar of engines, the clang of metal, the shrill cries of crane operators, and the steady pounding of jackhammers. This is the heartbeat of a gigantic organism slowly but surely emerging from the earth on the site of a former collective farm field.
Construction site. For some, it's a symbol of growth, new apartments, and the future. For others, it's the source of nightmares and a protracted siege. For those who work within its dusty embrace, Construction Site is a separate universe. With its own laws, its own heroes, its own tragedies, and its own unique, bitter poetry.

Part One: The Foundation
Chapter 1
Ilya Orlov stood at the edge of the excavation pit, his hands clasped behind his back. Behind him, like giant beetles, excavators stood frozen. Before him yawned a hole several times the height of a man—the future foundation of the Severnye Zori residential complex. His phone buzzed in the pocket of his work jacket. His wife. Again. He ignored the call.
Ilya is a foreman. Not exactly a great one, but he knows his stuff. At thirty-five, he could already feel the weight of every completed project on his back. This construction project was his chance. A chance to get ahead, finally buy a decent car, move his family out of their old Khrushchev-era apartment and into something decent. Maybe even into one of those "Zorya" buildings. He knew the price: missed deadlines, a nervous breakdown, a family that saw him less and less.
Vasily, the foreman of the concrete workers, a grey-haired man with a face weathered by every conceivable weather, approached him.
"The ground's dried out after the rain. We can start pouring. The guys are just a little crooked with the rebar, as usual. Will you pass this on to your guys?"
Ilya shook his head:
- I'll pass it on. Go ahead, Vasya. The sun isn't waiting.
Vasily shouted something to his guys, and the silence was broken by the rumbling sound of a concrete mixer. It had begun.

Chapter 2
Mark was a "penal worker." That's what they called migrant workers from Central Asia. He came from a mountain village where the air smelled of wormwood and snow from the peaks, but here he inhaled cement dust. He didn't like this construction site. Its chaos, its constant rush, its anonymity. But he loved his work. Laying bricks—for him, it was akin to art. The smooth, beautiful brickwork delighted his eyes. He dreamed of building a house in his homeland. For his family. For his aging parents. For himself.
He exchanged glances with his fellow countryman, Abdullo. He was younger, always smiling, and humming under his breath. They understood each other without words.

Chapter 3
Anna lived in Prigorodny. Her house stood right across from the construction site fence. Her window used to offer a view of a field, a forest, and a sunset. Now, she saw the concrete walls of a rapidly growing monster. The nightly rumble kept her little daughter awake. Dust seeped in even through the closed windows.
Stepping out onto the balcony one morning, she was horrified to see that the beloved old apple tree in the courtyard, under which she and her husband once sat on summer evenings, was completely gray, as if it had been sprinkled with ash. Something inside her broke. She created a residents' chat, "Fight the Construction." Five people attended the first meeting.

Part Two: Walls
Chapter 4
The construction site grew. Walls began to rise from the foundation pit. Ilya scurried between floors, yelling at the laborers, flattering his superiors, signing paperwork, and defusing minor conflicts. He began sleeping in a portable shed, telling his wife it was more comfortable. He was afraid that if he left, everything would collapse.
One day, he noticed Mark. He wasn't simply laying bricks. He moved his trowel with an almost monastic concentration, then stepped back and checked to see if the row was even. Ilya, without meaning to, froze, watching. There was a desperate beauty and dignity in this simple work.
“Well done,” Ilya muttered as he passed by.
Mark merely nodded, not looking up from his work. Praise from his superiors meant nothing to him. What mattered was the result.

Chapter 5
Anna and her neighbors got a noise inspection. A commission came, measured some things, and drew up a report. The next night, the noise was quieter. Not much, but quieter. This small victory buoyed them. They filed a complaint about the dust. They received an official response saying they would water the area. They watered it once a week.
Anna met other residents: a pensioner, Valentina Ivanovna, who feared the vibrations would destroy her fragile home. She met a young ecologist, Sergei, who spoke about soil and groundwater pollution. They were united by a common misfortune. And a common anger.

Chapter 6
A film crew arrived at the construction site. The channel was filming a story about the pace of housing construction. They were filming smiling officials, modern robotic mixers, and, for added ambiance, the most distinguished workers. Mark and Abdullo were kept out of the shot – they were asked to "stand aside." Ilya gave the interview, trying to deliver smooth sentences about a bright future, but he stuttered and sweated under the spotlights.
That same evening, Abdullo fell from the scaffolding. He slipped on a wet board. He shouted something in his own language. And fell. The dull, monstrously vivid sound of his fall was forever etched in the memories of everyone who witnessed it.
Fuss, shouts, an ambulance. But it was too late.
Construction stopped for a day. Management arrived and held a safety meeting. Then everything resumed. Only the trailer where Mark and Abdullo lived became empty and quiet. Mark sat on his bunk and stared at the wall. He didn't cry. He simply stared. Ilya brought him money—a "risk bonus" and for the funeral. Mark took it silently.
Abdullah's death was a crack in the foundation of everything. Invisible, but deep.

Part Three: The Roof
Chapter 7
Winter had arrived. The frames of the houses were already under the roof. The construction had gone from gray to white, covered in frost and snow. Work became unbearably difficult. Frost gripped the concrete, metal burned hands, and the wind blew through the open floors.
Ilya was on edge. Deadlines were looming, money was running out, and the client was demanding the impossible. He lashed out at Vasily, the workers, and even smashed his own phone. At home, he was given an ultimatum: either return to normal life or face divorce.
After his friend's death, Mark became silent and withdrawn. He worked mechanically. The dream of home faded, obscured by the dust of someone else's death.
Anna and her activists lost a court case challenging the illegality of their construction. The judge upheld all the permits. They stood outside the courthouse in the wet snow, feeling defeated and abandoned.
It seemed like the construction project had broken everyone. Some physically, others mentally.

Chapter 8
The incident occurred on the ninth floor. Due to faulty materials and haste, the flooring in one of the entrances collapsed. Several people, including Vasily, were trapped under the rubble.
Real panic set in. Screams, dust, running. Ilya, forgetting everything, rushed to organize rescue efforts. He himself threw away concrete blocks until the medics started screaming. His hands were cut and bleeding.
Mark, hearing the noise, was one of the first to arrive. He saw Vasily's hand sticking out from under the slab. Without thinking, he crawled under the overhanging structure and began clearing the rubble alone, risking his life. Others joined him: Russians, Tajiks, Uzbeks. At that moment, there were no friends or foes. There were simply people trying to save other people.
Vasily and two other workers were rescued. Alive.

Epilogue
A year passed. The Severnye Zori residential complex was completed. People began moving into their new apartments. The courtyards still smelled of paint, not apple trees, but children were already running around on the fresh asphalt.
Ilya Orlov no longer worked as a foreman. He quit after the emergency. He now worked on private projects, building cottages. He didn't work much, spending more time with his family. He would occasionally drive up to Severnye Zori, look at the high-rises, and remember Abdullo, the collapse, and Mark's bloody hands.
Mark left for his homeland. He sent Ilya a letter. He enclosed a photograph: an unfinished red brick house stood against a backdrop of mountains. The brickwork was smooth and beautiful. He wrote: "Building a house. Thank you for everything."
Anna continued to live in Prigorodny. The noise was gone. The dust had settled. She looked at the lights in the windows across the street and thought that people now lived in those boxes. With their hopes, fears, and dreams. And it no longer mattered to her that she could no longer see the sunset. She had learned to appreciate the silence.
The construction was over. It left behind more than just new houses. It left behind scars, memories, bits of someone else's pain and courage, fused into the concrete and into the souls of those who created it and those who resisted it. It was a cruel but necessary act of birthing something new. A price someone always pays.