In a quiet corner of the countryside stands a broad, stern-looking building that once moved to the rhythm of Soviet life. This was where young people were shaped into the workers of the future: early mornings, cold classrooms, rows of wooden desks, and faded posters showing how an ideal farmer was supposed to think and work. In the workshops, metal hammers rang out and engines were maintained with strict discipline.

When the old system collapsed, the hallways grew silent. The red slogans peeled from the walls, the machines rusted in place, and the classrooms filled with stillness instead of instruction. It was as if the building’s purpose evaporated overnight.

Now it remains as a forgotten relic concrete walls, flaking paint, and an atmosphere still heavy with the last breath of the Soviet era. A place where time hasn’t stopped, but seems reluctant to move forward.