“Zinaida Nikitishna, there probably aren’t any mushrooms left!” Tanya exclaimed with annoyance, spreading her hands.

“If not, then not!” the mother-in-law persisted.

“But maybe there’s still something left? Get ready, we’ll be quick!” Zinaida Nikitishna, as always, wasn’t going to listen to any objections.

Tanya had just returned from the garden—her back hurt, her legs were shaky. And now she had to drag herself outside into the October cold… God, why all this?

Arguing with her mother-in-law would only make things worse for herself. It would start again: “What an ungrateful Tanya, another woman would have kicked her out long ago, but I put up with her…”
No, thank you—she didn’t want to hear that for the hundredth time.

Tanya had been living with this woman for three years. She had only lived with her husband for two, and he was a so-so spouse.

They met when Tanya didn’t know what to do with herself after leaving the orphanage. Then Andrey suggested, “Marry me, we’ll go to the village, I have a big house.”
And the house was really big. So big that cleaning took Tanya half a day. But it didn’t belong to him—it belonged to his mother, a woman who hated the whole world, especially Tanya.

Andrey hadn’t died or disappeared. He just left for some other woman at the edge of the world. And Tanya stayed here. Nobody understood why—formally she was his wife, but in reality, she was a free servant.

At first, she cried out of hurt. It was shameful—young, beautiful, and life had turned out badly. Then there was no time to cry: Zinaida Nikitishna overwhelmed her with work so that she had no time for anything else.

The old woman took things seriously: she bought two greenhouses, expanded the vegetable garden, got a cow and a couple of piglets. Why not take advantage if there was free labor?

Later Tanya found out that Zinaida was sending money to Andrey and his new girlfriend. That was really insulting—it turned out Tanya was working so they could live well there?

Neighbors felt sorry for Tanya: “Why do you put up with her?” Stepanovna was outraged. “Look at her now, playing farmer! Andrey didn’t lift a finger before, and now they’ve set up a farm!”

Tanya only smiled sadly. It was unbearably hard for her, but leaving meant being completely alone. Where could she go? Out on the street?

“What bums!” snorted Stepanovna. “Look at all you do! You’ll always have work. Here, you could die of boredom!”

In her mind, Tanya knew the neighbors were right. But how could she leave the old woman alone? They had lived under the same roof for so many years… So she just sighed.

Though, when she heard Zinaida wanted to expand the potato field, she thought: maybe it really was time to leave?

Tanya was the first to get ready and went outside, under the light, nasty autumn drizzle.

“Tanyush, hello! Where are you off to in this weather?” called Stepanovna.

“Zinaida Nikitishna’s sending me for mushrooms,” sighed Tanya.

The neighbor laughed, then stared in amazement: “Seriously? What mushrooms? Only toadstools grow now!”

Zinaida Nikitishna came down from the porch: “That’s none of your business what mushrooms! We’ll find some, you’re not the only one!”

Stepanovna spat: “Zin, you were born a fool—you’ll die one too! Always trying to act important, but everyone knows who you really are!”

She spat again and disappeared behind the fence.

Zinaida angrily snapped: “Well, what are you standing there for? Let’s go, it’ll get dark soon!”

Actually, she already regretted going out. But she didn’t have the strength to watch Tanya sitting idle. When Andrey brought her here, he said: “Mom, use her—she’s a free worker!”

At first Zinaida watched her closely, then understood—the girl was resilient. Andrey was preparing to leave, and she didn’t stop him. Let him see the world. Now she had a helper.

They reached the forest, and suddenly Nikitishna said: “Oh, I forgot! The dough is rising at home! I’ll run back; you go, say, toward the ‘enemy.’ Vaska brought a whole bag of honey mushrooms from there yesterday.”

Tanya was surprised: “I’ve never been there! The forest is unfamiliar, and it’s far.”

“Do you think mushrooms grow in the garden? No! Go where others find them—you’ll find some too! What’s the problem?”

And Zinaida turned and quickly walked toward the house.

Tanya took a step after her but realized—it’s better to be in the forest than at home. Gritting her teeth, she entered the gloomy clearing among the trees.

She reached the “enemy” almost at dusk. She wanted to turn back right away, but how to go home without mushrooms?

The honey mushrooms appeared right before her eyes. She began cutting them quickly, picking the firmest ones. Then she found another stump, another… She came to herself when the basket was full and it was almost dark around.

“Oh!” she gasped.

She looked around. She had no idea which side the ravine was from where she had come. Running one way—no. Back—also nothing. Everything looked familiar, as if she had walked there before.

Fear gripped her completely. Night, an unfamiliar forest… She couldn’t even move.

“Help!”

Tanya opened her eyes. It seemed she had dozed off sitting under a big oak on the wet grass.

“Help!”

No, it wasn’t her shouting. Someone nearby was asking for help. A child?

She moved toward the voice, pushing through branches. The basket was left behind. Nikitishna would definitely throw a tantrum over it…

The voice got closer.

“Hey! Where are you?”

“Are you Baba Yaga? Here to eat me?”

“No! I’m Tanya. I’m lost too.”

Finally, she saw a girl sitting on a tall stump.

“Wow, you climbed high!”

“There are those… frogs…” whispered the child.

She looked at Tanya hopefully: “Will you save me?”

“Of course! That’s why I came. But let’s wait till morning—it’s easy to stumble or fall into a hole at night.”

Tanya saw the girl had been crying. She needed to calm her.

“You’re not going to leave?”

“No. We’ll think of a comfortable way to settle.”

In the dark, Tanya gathered branches, making a sort of bed. The ground was damp, but there was no choice. She sat the girl on her lap, covered her with a sweater—the child soon stopped trembling.

“My name’s Masha…”

“Why did you come here, Mashenka? To eat porridge with bears and mess up their beds?”

Masha giggled: “No! I wanted to scare my dad… and got lost.”

“Why were you trying to scare him?”

“He didn’t let me go swimming in the river…”

“Swimming? But it’s autumn now, it’s cold!”

“I wouldn’t have swum… But why didn’t he let me?”

The girl spoke more slowly, her voice growing softer. Tanya smiled—the child was falling asleep. Just a little longer to hold on… Only five hours till dawn.

She herself apparently dozed off too—woke up from the light. Morning filtered through the trees, Masha was peacefully snoring on her lap, and the sun was already rising above the forest.

“Wake up, sleepyhead! We have to find your dad!”

Masha rubbed her eyes: “Why find him? He works here—he’s a gamekeeper.”

Tanya was taken aback. She had met the local gamekeeper several times and always blushed—the man was handsome, confident, and looked at her in a special way… But they never talked, and she didn’t even know his name. So he has a daughter… and probably a wife. How else?

“Alright, let’s go there!” Tanya pointed. “The sun rises in the east, so your village must be that way.”

Masha squinted cunningly: “How do you know which is my village?”

“The frogs told me!” Tanya laughed.

Masha burst out laughing: “Let’s go quickly! I’m hungry!”

Tanya sighed sadly. If only it were that simple… Maybe she chose the right direction, but who knew what lay ahead?

After about two hours, they heard dogs barking.

Masha, who was completely exhausted, perked up: “Laska! Joy!”

Two big dogs rushed out from the bushes. Tanya froze involuntarily, but the girl joyfully ran to them—hugging, kissing, and the dogs, almost as tall as her, squealed with happiness trying to lick their owner’s face.

“They’re ours! So Dad is nearby!”

A long whistle followed, and the dogs answered with barking. One stayed with the girls, and the other ran ahead as if to bring news.

After a minute, footsteps were heard, and a tall man came out of the forest. Seeing his daughter, he lifted her in his arms and spun her around: “Mashka! You scared me!”

“And I scared myself too! I won’t do that again! Tanya saved me!”

Tanya smiled weakly. She saved… though she herself was lost.

She sat down on a stump—sudden fatigue overwhelmed her. After all the troubles, the tension began to fade.

The gamekeeper handed her a flask: “Drink. Rest a little, then we’ll go.”

Tanya took a few sips of the cool berry drink and obediently stood up.

They walked for almost an hour. Yura carried Masha in his arms, the dogs went ahead, carefully pushing bushes aside.

When the village appeared, Tanya realized—it was not her home. She still had to go almost six kilometers. She quietly groaned.

Yuri seemed to understand immediately: “Rest a bit, eat something, and I’ll take you. I have a motorcycle.”

Tanya smiled. She didn’t know his name but didn’t dare to ask.

He, as if reading her thoughts, said: “I’m Yura. Masha already told me about you.”

The house stood on the edge of the village, almost right next to the forest. It was clear the owner lived alone—inside was clean, furniture comfortable, cozy.

“Make yourselves at home, I’ll feed you.”

Masha nodded: “I’ll eat everything!”

Yura laughed: “Everything? That’s three spoons and a piece of bread!”

Tanya ate hot borscht and felt a long-forgotten warmth spreading inside. She was cared for, offered bread, spoken to gently: “Take your time, eat.” No one shouted that work was waiting. She could just be…

But soon she would have to return home. To the house that had long become a cage.

Tanya fought sleep, but Yury noticed: “Just lie down, rest. Nothing bad will happen.”

Indeed, what could happen? Maybe the grass in the garden will grow?

Lying on the soft couch, Tanya suddenly realized—it was time to leave. As soon as she returned, she would pack and leave. Even if no one waited for her—she would find something to do.

She woke in the evening: “Oh! Why didn’t you wake me?”

Yura smiled: “Couldn’t. You were smiling in your sleep.”

“And Masha?”

“She’s sleeping like a log.”

Tanya sighed: “Now Zinaida will definitely kill me because of the basket…”

Yuri was surprised: “So she’ll kill you because you almost died?”

Tanya nodded confusedly, then suddenly began to speak—as she never could with anyone before. She told everything—about three years of life, working without rest, how she lost herself.

Yuri shook his head: “How can you value yourself so little?”

“I’ve already decided. I’ll come back, pack, and leave for the city.”

“And who’s waiting for you there?”

“No one. Nothing. I’ll figure it out somehow. Find a job.”

Yuri was silent, then quietly said: “Stay. You’ll always be welcome here. As a helper or a friend. And if you decide to leave—I’ll help with a job.”

Tanya looked at him and felt something inside begin to melt…

“Well, you’ve suffered enough! I’d put you in jail!” Zinaida Nikitishna didn’t even start a real scolding—too tired, going around the livestock.

“There’s no reason to put me in jail. But you left your relative alone in the forest!”

“What kind of relative are you to me! My foolish son would have returned long ago but doesn’t want to!”

“Shut up! Am I supposed to thank you for half my life?” Tanya suddenly shouted.

“What’s all this noise?!” Stepanovna intervened. “Oh, who came to us?”

It was Yura’s motorcycle. Tanya went out, said goodbye, and headed for the house.

Nikitishna was even confused: “Where have you been wandering, you wild one! And you call yourself a married wife! Where’s the basket?”

Tanya came out a couple of minutes later, finally ready: “Goodbye!”

“Where are you going?! Where?!”

“I won’t put up with your mockery anymore. For your kindness, you promise me mountains?”

Zinaida Nikitishna opened her mouth but couldn’t find what to say.

And Stepanovna, satisfied, added: “Serves you right, star!”

That evening Yura told Tanya that after Masha was born, his wife was treated for a long time and died two years later. Since then, he moved with his daughter to this wilderness to start over.

They agreed Tanya would start work in a week. She was to rest that week—that was Yura’s order.

And six months later, they held a noisy village wedding. And they lived happily ever after—like in a fairy tale.

The phone ringing in the apartment caught Elliott Row by the stove. An omelet was frying in the pan, filling the kitchen with the aroma of garlic and melted butter. He wiped his hands on a towel and cast an irritated glance at the screen — the number was unknown.

“Hello?” he answered shortly, continuing to watch the dish.

“Mr. Row, this is your family’s notary. You need to come to me tomorrow morning. There is an inheritance matter. You need to sign some documents.”

Elliott hesitated. His parents were alive and well, so from whom could he have inherited anything? He didn’t even ask questions — just silently nodded as if the caller could see him, and hung up.

The next morning was cloudy and foggy. As Elliott drove through the city, his mild confusion gradually turned into annoyance. The notary was already waiting for him at the office entrance.

“Come in, Elliott. I understand this all sounds strange. But if it were something ordinary, I wouldn’t disturb you on a day off.”

The office was empty. Usually, there was a busy bustle here, but now only the echo of footsteps on the wooden floor disturbed the silence. Elliott sat down on a chair opposite the desk, folding his arms.

“This concerns your uncle — Walter Jonas.”

“I don’t have an uncle named Walter,” Elliott immediately objected.

“Nevertheless, he bequeathed you all his property.” The notary carefully placed an old key, a yellowed map, and a sheet of paper with an address in front of him. “A mansion on the water. It now belongs to you.”

“Excuse me… Are you serious?”

“The house is located in the middle of Lake Konamah, in central Connecticut.”

Elliott took the key. It was heavy, covered with a faded pattern. He had never heard of the man or the place. Yet something inside him clicked — that moment when curiosity overcomes common sense.

An hour later, his backpack held a couple of T-shirts, a bottle of water, and some food. According to the GPS, the lake was only forty minutes from his home. This only increased his interest: how could he not know such a place was so close?

When the road ended, a lake spread out before him — gloomy, still, like a mirror. In its middle stood a house — huge, dark, as if it had grown straight from the water.

Old men with coffee mugs sat on the terrace of a café by the water. Elliott approached them.

“Excuse me,” he began, “this house on the lake… do you know who used to live there?”

One of the men slowly set down his cup.

“We don’t talk about that place. We don’t go there. It was supposed to disappear many years ago.”

“But someone lived there, right?”

“We’ve never seen anyone on the shore. Never. Only at night we hear the rustle of boats. Someone restocks supplies, but we don’t know who. And we don’t want to know.”

At the pier, he noticed a faded sign: “June’s Boats.” Inside, a woman with a tired face met him.

“I need a boat to that house in the middle of the lake,” Elliott said, handing over the key. “I inherited it.”

“No one goes there,” she answered coldly. “The place scares many people. Me too.”

But Elliott didn’t back down. His words grew more insistent until she finally agreed.

“All right. I’ll take you. But I won’t wait. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The house towered over the water like a forgotten fortress. The wooden pier creaked beneath his feet. June carefully tied the boat to the dock.

“We’ve arrived,” she muttered.

Elliott stepped onto the shaky platform and wanted to thank her, but the boat was already pulling away.

“Good luck! I hope you’ll be here waiting for me tomorrow,” she shouted and disappeared into the fog.

Now he was alone.

His hand reached for the lock. The key turned easily. There was a dull click, and the door slowly creaked open.

Inside it smelled of dust, yet surprisingly fresh. Large windows, thick curtains, and many portraits. One caught his attention especially — a man by the lake with the very house towering behind him. The caption read: “Walter Jonas, 1964.”

In the library, the walls were lined with books marked with notes in the margins. In the corner study stood a telescope and neat stacks of notebooks — observation and weather records, the latest dated last month.

“What was he looking for?” Elliott whispered.

In the bedroom — dozens of stopped clocks. On the dresser — a locket. Inside — a photo of a baby with the inscription: “Row.”

“Was he watching me? My family?..”

On the mirror hung a note: “Time reveals what seemed long forgotten.”

In the attic lay boxes with newspaper clippings. One was circled in red: “Boy from Middletown disappeared. Found a few days later unharmed.” The year — 1997. Elliott paled. That was him.

In the dining room, one chair was pushed back. On it lay his school photo.

“This is no longer just strange…” he muttered, feeling noise and confusion in his head.

His stomach twisted with anxiety. He quickly ate some canned food found in an old buffet and silently went up to one of the guest rooms. The sheets were clean as if waiting for someone long ago. Outside the window, the lake caught the pale moonlight, and the house seemed alive — it breathed with the water’s surface.

But sleep did not come. Too many questions. Who was Walter Jonas? Why had no one heard of him? Why had his parents never mentioned any brother? And why this mysterious obsession with himself?

When Elliott finally fell into a restless sleep, true darkness had already settled in the house — the kind where the creak of floorboards sounds like footsteps, and a shadow on the wall feels like a living being.

A sharp metallic clang cut through the silence. He sat up sharply in bed. A second sound — as if a massive door downstairs had swung open. Elliott grabbed his phone — no signal. Only his own tense eyes reflected on the screen.

He took a flashlight and stepped into the corridor.

Shadows grew thicker, almost tangible. Every step echoed with a dull fear inside. In the library, books shifted slightly as if just touched. The door to the study remained open. Cold air drew from behind a tapestry on the wall, which Elliott hadn’t noticed before.

He pulled back the fabric — behind it was a heavy iron door.

“Not this,” he whispered, but his fingers instinctively touched the cold handle.

The door gave way with effort. Behind it began a spiral staircase leading down beneath the house, under the water. With each step, the air grew damper, thicker, filled with the smell of salt, metal, and something ancient, as if entering history.

Below stretched a long corridor filled with cabinets and drawers. Labels read: “Genealogy,” “Correspondence,” “Expeditions.”

One drawer was marked: “Row.”

Elliott pulled it out with a trembling hand. Inside lay letters. All addressed to his father.

“I tried. Why do you remain silent? This is important for him. For Elliott…”

“So he didn’t disappear. He wrote. He wanted to know me,” Elliott whispered.

At the end of the corridor was another massive door labeled: “Authorized personnel only. Jonas Archive.” It had no handle — only a palm scanner. A note stuck beside it: “For Elliott Row. Only for him.”

He placed his palm.

Click. The room gently lit up. A projector came to life, and on the wall appeared the silhouette of a man.

Gray hair, tired eyes. He looked straight at Elliott.

“Hello, Elliott. If you see this, it means I am no longer here.”

The man introduced himself: Walter Jonas.

“I… am your real father. You shouldn’t have found out this way, but I’m afraid your mother and I made many mistakes. We were scientists obsessed with survival, climate, protecting humanity. She died giving birth. And I… I was afraid. Afraid of what I might become. So I gave you to my brother. He gave you a family. But I never stopped watching you. From here. From the house on the lake. From afar.”

Elliott sank onto a bench, feeling numb.

“It was you… all this time…”

The voice in the recording trembled:

“I was afraid to break you, but you became a strong, kind person — better than I could have imagined. Now this house belongs to you, as part of your journey, as a chance. Forgive me: for silence, for cowardice, for being near but never truly present.”

The image went dark.

Elliott didn’t know how long he sat in the dark. Then he slowly got up, as if in a dream, and returned upstairs. By dawn, June was already waiting for him at the dock. Seeing him, she frowned:

“Are you okay?”

“Now I am,” he answered quietly. “I just had to understand.”

He went home to talk with his parents. They listened silently, not interrupting. Then they hugged him.

“Forgive us,” whispered his mother. “We thought it would be better this way.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

That night Elliott lay in his bed. The ceiling remained the same. But everything around now seemed different.

A few weeks later, he returned to the lake again. Not to live there, but to restore it. A Center for Climate and History Studies opened in the house. Children ran through the halls, neighbors came with smiles. The house was no longer a refuge of secrets and ghosts. It had become a place of life once more.

Alla Sergeyevna slowly came to herself, feeling the heavy weight of fatigue settling on her shoulders. Her head was pounding, her eyelids felt like lead. She heard the children closing the door—carefully, trying not to make noise. It was strange because usually they came and went loudly, as if deliberately emphasizing their presence. But today everything was different.

Gathering her strength, she propped herself up on her elbows, leaning against the headboard, and looked out the window. Through the dusty glass, she caught sight of Pyotr and Marina quickly walking toward the forest. Their silhouettes flickered between the trees until they disappeared behind the dense wall of greenery. Alla Sergeyevna tried to call out:
«Marinochka! Petya! Wait!»

But her voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. The children did not turn back. One more moment—and they were out of sight. The woman closed her eyes but opened them again after a second. Tears streamed down her cheeks like little mountain streams. They ran over the deep wrinkles that time had etched on her face.

“How did it come to this? How could I have let things get so far?” she thought, feeling a hollow emptiness inside, cold and bottomless like a well.

Her son had always been a difficult child. Whether it was his nature or fate playing a cruel joke—no one knew. He had always been “drifting,” as Alla Sergeyevna herself said, from one city to another, from one job to another. Sometimes it seemed he had found himself, then suddenly everything collapsed. And then, when he was already past forty, he returned home—with his young wife named Marina.

He didn’t come empty-handed, but neither was he wealthy. Only with hope, which soon began to slip away like sand through fingers. Alla Sergeyevna welcomed them warmly. Well, she thought, let it be so—the family nearby, a grandson will be born, and then a new life will begin.

Vanya, her beloved grandson, had lived with her since birth. She loved him with all her heart, rejoiced in every step he took, every victory. She had a big house, savings—everything people have after many years of work. Once, still during her husband’s lifetime, they built this house together, saving on everything, setting aside every ruble.

But one day Pyotr found out how much money was in his mother’s bank accounts. His face changed then. It became harsh, almost unrecognizable.

“Mother, you’re so rich and say nothing?” he asked with a strange tone—half surprised, half reproachful.

“Rich?” Alla Sergeyevna smiled bitterly. “This isn’t wealth. Just a little to help the grandson, maybe to buy an apartment…”

“No way! Let him earn it himself!” her son sharply interrupted. “You have a son, you know! Why does everything go only to Vanya?”

He stomped angrily, turned away, but then, calming down a bit, spoke again:

“Mother, here’s a tempting deal. You need to invest a little, but the profit will be huge!”

Alla Sergeyevna shook her head. She knew that look—hope mixed with greed was awakening in his eyes.

“You invested before. And what came of it? No money, no profit. But decide for yourself.”

Petya rubbed his hands, pleased as if he’d already gotten consent: “Mother, I knew you wouldn’t leave me in trouble! Just five hundred thousand are needed.”

“Just?” she repeated sarcastically. “And when did you manage to earn that money?”

Then Pyotr flushed like a tomato. In the year and a half since their return, neither he nor his wife had found steady work. They looked for easy ways, dreamed of wealth, but did nothing to achieve it.

“I thought you’d give it…”

“And how did such an idea come to you? I earned that money through my labor, didn’t get it for nothing. To anyone, even to my son, I won’t give it easily.”

“But I am your son!”

“Exactly why I want you to learn to value money. You know, even if Vanya asked, I would think twice. Because he has a mind, a desire to work, and a striving for something more than just a handout.”

These words hurt Pyotr deeply. He said many hurtful things to his mother, but the conversation was interrupted by a sudden quarrel that Ivan, returning from school, overheard by chance. Without extra words, he pushed his father out of the room, gave grandmother some valerian, and gently said:
“Don’t cry, Ba. I have six months of study left, then practice. And after practice, you and I—we can go anywhere in the world!”

Alla Sergeyevna smiled, stroking her grandson’s hair, though she understood she no longer had the strength for such journeys. But Vanya didn’t give up, always found words to support her.

Then Ivan left for another city. He called often, told of his successes, that soon he could take her with him. But Alla Sergeyevna just waved it off, thinking she no longer cared where to go.

And now—bound hands, cold floor, darkness, and betrayal. How could it have come to this? After all, this was her son, her own flesh and blood! Because of money?

Alla Sergeyevna decided—she would no longer fight. She would simply wait until it was over. No one knew how much time passed—an hour or a day. She lost track of time. Her head was pounding, thoughts confused. And suddenly she heard voices. Were they back? To finish her off for good?

She reached for the window, trying to see who it was. And saw a girl. She was walking through the forest, talking to her little dog.

“I won’t come back anymore! Better to live in the forest with wolves than with him!”

The girl sobbed, and Alla Sergeyevna, gathering her last strength, whispered:
“Daughter! Daughter, help!”

Her voice was barely audible, but the dog heard it. It began barking and ran toward the hut. The girl followed, frightened.

She was here for the first time but felt confident. Somewhere not far from here, she had spent her childhood. Her mother had recently remarried, and the new husband was the cause of all her troubles. After another conflict when her mother accused her of the worst things, the girl ran away. Left for good.

Seeing Alla Sergeyevna, she immediately ran up to her and untied the ropes. The woman’s hands were blue with pain.

“How do you feel?” Alenka asked, rubbing the elderly hands.

“Thank you… A sip of water…”

The girl brought water from the spring, and that water tasted like the best in Alla Sergeyevna’s life. She told her story, and Alenka sighed after listening:

“It can’t be worse than mine. Although my mother is my own, she believes a stranger’s husband and not me.”

“What shall we do? We need to get to people,” Alla Sergeyevna said.

“Why? You’ll wait until they torment you to death? I have no future either.”

They lived in the hut for a week. At night it was scary and cold, so they decided—it was time to leave. Alenka suggested going to her grandmother’s old house, several kilometers away.

“Will we make it? Won’t we get lost?” Alla Sergeyevna worried.

“We’re strong! What do we have to fear?”

But by noon it became clear—they had lost their way. They returned for the second time to the same tree. Alenka cried:

“I haven’t been here for a long time. Everything is overgrown, I don’t know where to go.”

“Oh, girl…” Alla Sergeyevna sighed. “Well, I don’t care anymore. But you need to live on.”

The nights were especially scary. Toshka barked incessantly. They slept in turns, tired and broken. In the morning they headed north, using moss on trees as a guide.

“Why is this forest so endless?” Alla Sergeyevna exclaimed.

“We keep going deeper,” Alenka replied. “I don’t know what to do.”

They slept a little. And when Alla Sergeyevna woke up, she realized—Alenka was sick. Fever, chills. Almost no water left. Toshka caught a mouse and ate it, but that was no solution for people.

Alla Sergeyevna found a puddle, made a compress, but her strength was leaving her. She cried—from despair, because a young girl with her whole life ahead was nearby, and she might die in this forest.

Toshka barked loudly. Alla Sergeyevna thought it was wolves. But suddenly a voice rang out:

“Grandma! Grandma!”

It was Vanya. Alla Sergeyevna couldn’t believe her ears.

“Vanyusha? Is that you? Am I dreaming?”

Her grandson hugged her tightly:

“Don’t cry, Grandma. Everything is good now.”

They left the forest. Alenka was helped, Alla Sergeyevna was given tea. Vanya carefully took care of them. Alenka was carried on a stretcher, Toshka sat in her arms and fell asleep.

“Grandson, how did you find me?” Alla Sergeyevna asked.

“Long story. Dad and mom left far away. If you don’t want to, you won’t see them again. I let them go. I couldn’t bring myself to send both behind bars.”

“That’s right, grandson. No need to take sin on your soul.”

When they returned home, Vanya continued to care for them. One day he said:

“Ba, Alenka often asks about Toshka. I decided to take him with me. He doesn’t know the city.”

Alla Sergeyevna smiled:

“We’ll live some more. And maybe even take care of great-grandchildren.”

Margo was staring intently at the door. The day had come when she could settle scores with her husband.

Her eyes gleamed with a malevolent fire. How long she had waited for this day… A whole 2 years.

Finally, she heard the sound of the door opening, and her heart nearly leaped out of her chest.

On the bed lay her belongings, piled up, next to which was a bag where she was supposed to pack everything.

A woman in uniform entered the room.

«Time to leave, Margosha!» Margo got up, quickly packed her things, and then hurriedly left her cell.

«What, can’t wait to meet with your lover?» sneered the guard, who followed her.

Margo said nothing. She walked with her head held high. She no longer cared what was said behind her back. She had endured enough trials, but now she was ready to settle scores with her abusers.

She looked forward, but events from three years ago flashed before her eyes.

Margo and Grisha were successful businessmen. When they got married, things immediately started looking up.

Success not only turned their heads but also brought discord into their family life. Margo knew all about her husband’s affairs, but for the sake of a successful business, she endured everything.

It hurt, but she still remembered her husband as he was when they first met. Back then, they were simple people, in love with each other. But over the years, that love had faded, giving way to habit.

Margo trusted her husband. She signed all the documents he presented her without looking. It turned out that this played against her. Her successful and happy life disappeared in one day.

That day, she was accused of major fraud and hiding money. And she ended up in jail. Her own husband framed her, presenting forged documents.

The trial was brief. Her husband testified against her. She was not provided with a good lawyer. She couldn’t find one herself. Most likely, her husband had bribed someone because the court quickly dismissed the case, pinning all the blame on her.

She was sentenced to 5 years. In prison, over two years, she remade herself. Now she was no longer the frightened girl who couldn’t stand up for herself. She had now cultivated a strength within herself.

For her good behavior, she was released early, and now she craved revenge.

And Grisha was the main character she had to show her new «self» to. Margo thought about all this while her belongings were handed to her.

«Good luck, beauty!» the guard slapped her on the shoulder. When Margo was outside the prison gates, she couldn’t take a single step. Fear seized her again. For two whole years, she had nurtured a plan for revenge, and now she was afraid she might not be able to carry out what she so desired. She stood there for about five minutes, then saw a familiar figure approaching her.

Her body immediately relaxed. Thank God, he was here. She ran to meet him. He quickened his pace too. A few moments later, they met, and the man embraced her.

«Margo, I can’t believe this moment has come.»

Margo buried her face in his neck, nervously laughing. But he had been waiting for this moment no less than she had. It was Artem, her husband’s friend.

Right after she was put in jail, he began visiting her. He believed in her innocence and knew that Grisha was not as innocent as he seemed. Here, Artem’s long-standing affection for Margo played a significant role. However, he never spoke of his feelings, only confessing to Margo a year after his visits.

By then, Margo felt more than just gratitude towards Artem. They fell in love, her in jail, him in freedom. Now nothing could stop these lovers.

«I was afraid you wouldn’t come for me,» the woman whispered.

The man squeezed her tighter in his arms. «How could I leave you? I will never let you go again.»

Margo inhaled his scent and sighed contentedly. When she was in jail, she started to find out interesting things with Artem’s help.

Artem was a close friend of Grisha’s, and he knew some details of his schemes. Artem told her that all this was orchestrated by Grisha because of his mistress, who wanted to take part of the business that belonged to Margo.

With her help, her husband thought through and executed his dirty deeds. When Margo learned about this, she promised him revenge. And Artem helped her in this.

He often visited Margo and Grisha’s house. Her husband suspected nothing of any relationship between the two. He did not keep track of Margo’s condition in jail, so he didn’t know about Artem’s visits.

After the trial, he divorced Margo, and now he didn’t care about her fate.

«Let’s get out of here. I want to take a shower after these walls. I feel like I reek of this rotten prison smell.»

Margo wrinkled her nose. Artem laughed:

«What are you talking about? You smell better than any woman in the world.»

He kissed her on the forehead and loosened his arms, releasing her from his embrace.

Margo laughed, relishing the sound of her own laughter in the open air. Now fate was in her hands. She could laugh whenever she wanted. Not fearing the angry yells of the mean guard.

They took each other’s hands and walked to the car parked nearby. Margo dreamed of a hot shower and a cup of coffee. After a while, she already sat in a chair at Artem’s house.

Her hair was damp. She wrapped herself in a terry robe, holding a mug of coffee in her hands. She savored the first sip, then blissfully closed her eyes. When the coffee was drunk, she resolutely placed the cup on the coffee table and said:

«Now I want you to show me those documents. I need to make sure everything went as we dreamed.» Margo impatiently clenched her fists.

Artem looked at her intently. This woman had driven him crazy for a long time. He had kept his feelings inside for years. His sister worked at Margo and Grisha’s company, so he not only often visited their home but also stopped by at work.

He told everyone he wanted to see his sister. In reality, he needed Margo. He adored watching her in a business suit with documents in her hands.

She caused a tremor in him that no other woman could cause in his entire life. And now Margo was sitting in his chair, wearing his robe. Wasn’t this true happiness?

He took out several documents from a small safe in the closet, carefully brought them to Margo, and handed them to her. Margo took them with a smile. She knew this was the end for Grisha.

It felt so good to hold his fate in her hands. She smiled at Artem again:

«Tell me in more detail how it all happened. I couldn’t ask you about the details in prison. Please, tell me.»

She took his hand and pulled him to the floor beside her. Artem smiled and began to tell:

«My little sister couldn’t refuse me. She also believed that you had nothing to do with it.

So I promised her that we would not leave her when everything happened. She is our accomplice, and we will take care of her.

I gave her these documents, which she had to slip in for a signature. At that moment, when I was in Grisha’s office, he was telling me about another mistress.

His mood was splendid. At that moment, the sister walked in. She slipped him a stack of papers, which he was supposed to sign.

He felt relaxed after you went to jail, and he no longer followed the company’s affairs as closely.

That’s when he signed all these documents without even reading them.»

Margo blissfully closed her eyes. Yes, now he would pay for all his schemes. He would fully pay for what he did to her life. She would make sure it hurt him.

She opened her eyes and looked at Artem. Fate had sent her this man. She had known him for years but never suspected his feelings. Love for Grisha had blinded her. Then the pain after his betrayal. Only after she was put in jail could she remove the blindfold from her eyes. And then she saw something in Artem’s eyes that made her feel an incredible tremor.

He had helped her so much. He betrayed a friend for a loved one, who hadn’t even promised him anything. She leaned towards Artem and hugged his neck, then whispered softly:

«I love you and want to be with you. When I finish everything, will you marry an ex-convict? I have no right to ask you this, but I need to know. I want to find out right now.»

Artem cupped her face in his hands.

«I will never leave you. I’ve dreamed of this for years. And you’re asking me? But if you want to hear a proposal from me, here it is. Will you marry me?»

Margo laughed:

«Yes, yes, yes.»

They merged in kisses, and then what they both had been waiting for so long happened.

The next day, Margo approached the tall building where the main office of the company was located.

She was wearing high heels. She felt confident, holding a folder with copies of the documents in her hands. She was ready for the meeting with her ex-husband.

When she entered the office, dead silence reigned. No one stopped her when she opened the door to Grisha’s office. She confidently entered and closed the door behind her.

Grisha was sitting at the desk, talking to someone on the phone:

«Yes, of course, I’ll pick you up in the evening, baby, you can tell me everything, I’ll call you when…»

Grisha fell silent mid-sentence when he saw Margo in the middle of the office. He turned pale, then silently hung up the phone. His face was a mix of fear and wild anger:

«What are you doing here and why were you let in here without permission?»

Margo smiled, then approached the desk. She sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and placed the folder with the documents on her lap.

«Probably because I’m also the owner here. Or maybe because everyone knows that you are the main fraudster here, not me.»

Grisha clenched his fists, his anger growing by the second:

«You know what, I don’t care what others think, especially you. You’re no longer my wife, and you’re nobody here.

I don’t want you here. Since you’re out of jail, kindly go your way. And don’t cross my path again, or I’ll lock you up again.»

Margo sweetly smiled, but her eyes were icy.

«You’re foolishly throwing me out. I have a surprise for you that won’t please you at all. Well, that’s fine. I’m ready to endure your rage because it will be justified.

You locked me away while enjoying all your women. And now it’s my turn. Now you’ll taste what you made me endure.»

Margo slowly opened the folder with the documents, pulled out a few papers, and placed them on the table in front of Grisha:

«Please review these documents. I warn you, you can destroy them, these are copies.

The originals are with my lawyer, who will represent my interests in court. Whatever you do now, it will all turn against you in the future. So I’m telling you right away, touch me with a finger, and you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars.»

Grisha frowned and took the documents in his hands. After examining them, he raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

«Is this some kind of joke?» Grisha stared at his ex-wife.

Margo leaned closer to the table and whispered:

«You taught me two years ago that there’s no room for jokes in this life. I’m a good student, right?» Several months later, Margo married Artem. Now she was the rightful owner of her company. She also took back her mansion from her ex-husband. And his expensive car passed to her.

Grisha was left with nothing. He disappeared from her life as if he had never existed. The court proved by all documents that he voluntarily wrote off all property and the company in favor of Margo.

This time, Margo won the victory and celebrated it already with her new husband, who helped her find herself again.

Tatiana woke up early in the morning, as always. This habit had formed in her over the years, gradually, as if engraved on the skin of time. Her husband — Vladimir — was a man of strict rules and firm life principles. He didn’t like being late, couldn’t stand disorder, and always got up at the crack of dawn — exactly at six o’clock, when everything around was still plunged in darkness and the city was just beginning to wake up. And Tatiana, without thinking, rose with him. She knew that if she left him alone, he would make himself something simple, maybe even forget to put sugar in his tea. So she got ready, sleepy but diligent, to set the table, slice the bread, boil the water, and heat up the leftover soup from yesterday. Then she helped him dress, checked if he took his keys, wallet, and phone. Simple, almost ritualistic actions that made up her daily care.

But now everything had changed. Now, with her husband lying in the hospital for the third month, these morning alarms had become meaningless. She woke up in the dimness of the room, feeling a void forming inside — without purpose, without movement, without the beloved voice that usually filled the home with warmth and comfort.

It all started suddenly. One evening, while they were sitting at home as usual, watching some movie on TV, Vladimir suddenly frowned and said:

— Tanya… my head hurts strangely…

Those words, spoken with a dull anxiety, were the last she heard from him consciously. The next thing Tatiana remembered was how he suddenly slid off the sofa, hit his shoulder on the edge of the coffee table, and then froze as if time had stopped.

The ambulance arrived quickly, but for Tatiana that hour stretched into an eternity. Intensive care, white walls, cold light, endless waiting by the door where doctors tried to bring her beloved back to life. Then long days in the hospital corridors where the smell of antiseptic mixed with the heavy air of anxiety. The doctors spoke cautiously, choosing their words carefully to avoid giving false hope.

— The condition is severe. The prognosis is still unclear.

And now three months had passed, and Vladimir still hadn’t come to. But Tatiana didn’t give up. Every day she came to his ward, sat beside him, and talked. Talked about everything — what was happening in the city, what news was in the papers, who was blooming in the park, what the sky looked like today. Sometimes she read aloud to him, sometimes she told him how she spent her day, how much she missed him. The doctors assured her that even in a coma, a person can hear and feel. So she continued, because she couldn’t allow herself to stop.

One Thursday, when the sun barely pierced through the clouds outside, Vladimir’s sister-in-law Lyudmila — his own sister — unexpectedly showed up with her husband Andrey. They had never been particularly close; their relationship was more formal than warm. Lyudmila lived in a neighboring city, came rarely, and always with a purpose. Sometimes she borrowed money from her brother, sometimes she asked for help finding a job for her son or a good deal. But now their visit seemed suspicious to Tatiana.

— Tanya, how are you? How’s Volodya? — said Lyudmila, hugging her sister-in-law, though there was not a drop of sincerity in that embrace.

— No change, — Tatiana replied briefly, tensing inside.

— Oh, it must be so hard for you… And no children, no support… — sighed the sister-in-law with fake sympathy.

Indeed, she and Vladimir had no children. It was one of those painful topics they tried not to discuss. They had tried for many years, went through numerous examinations, consultations, procedures. In the end, they accepted it. Not because they stopped wanting a child, but because they realized they could be happy together. Their family was everything to each other.

But now those words sounded completely different. Like a hint at her loneliness, her vulnerability, that she was alone against the whole world.

— Listen, Tanya, — Lyudmila suddenly began, settling at the table, — have you thought about the apartment?

— About the apartment?

— Well… Volodya is in a coma. And what if… God forbid… you understand the apartment is legally half mine? As inheritance from our parents.

Tatiana was shaken by those words. A chill ran down her spine, as if someone had turned off the heat in the room.

— Lyudmila, my husband is alive. What inheritance are you talking about?

— I’m not talking about that… I’m just thinking maybe we should arrange some papers? Just in case? You never know…

Andrey, who had been silent until then, cleared his throat and carefully took out a folder from his bag. Inside lay a power of attorney to manage Vladimir’s property. Tatiana’s hands trembled as she took the document.

— Are you serious? — she could only manage to say.

— Tanya, don’t think badly of us! — Lyudmila hurried to explain. — We want to help! Volodya is my brother, I worry about him as much as you do!

— Then why haven’t you come to the hospital even once in three months?

Lyudmila faltered, her face slightly paled.

— It’s far to travel… work… and the doctors say it’s better to limit visitors…

— What doctors say that? I’m there every day!

— Well… anyway… Tanya, sign the papers. We need to sell some of Volodya’s things. So there’s money for treatment.

— What things?

— Well… the car, for example. It just sits unused. And money is needed for medicine…

Tatiana slowly sank onto the sofa. Her head was buzzing, thoughts flying, crashing into chaos.

— Lyudmila, have you lost your mind? My husband is in a coma, and you’re already dividing property?

— We’re not dividing! We’re helping! — the sister-in-law protested. — You can’t handle it! Look how thin and pale you’ve become! We’ll take all the hassle on ourselves!

Andrey remained silent, but Tatiana noticed how his gaze slid around the room, lingering on expensive electronics, antique furniture, paintings on the walls. That assessing, almost predatory look left no doubt — they hadn’t come to help.

— Get out of my house, — she said quietly, standing up.

— What? — Lyudmila didn’t understand.

— I said — get out! And don’t come with such proposals anymore!

— Tanya, what are you doing? We’re family! — the sister-in-law tried to stop her.

— What family? Where were you when my husband was in intensive care? Where were you when I stayed awake nights, praying for him to survive? And now you come to divide what belongs to a living person!

Tatiana decisively headed to the door and flung it open.

— Leave. Right now.

Lyudmila and Andrey exchanged looks. Then the sister-in-law arrogantly lifted her chin, as if trying to keep the last shreds of pride.

— Fine. You’ll regret it. You won’t manage without our help.

They left, loudly slamming the door. Tatiana was left alone. She slowly sank to the floor in the hallway and cried. Tears ran down her cheeks for a long time — from helplessness, from pain, from loneliness, from betrayal by those she considered family.

A week later, her mother-in-law Anna Petrovna called.

— Tanya, how are you? Lyudochka told me you had a quarrel…

— Anna Petrovna, your daughter came to divide the property of a living man.

— Oh, no… She’s just worried about her brother! She only wanted to help…

— Helping is coming to the hospital, holding his hand, bringing something tasty. Not demanding power of attorney to sell the car.

The mother-in-law was silent.

— Tanya, maybe she’s right? Volodya is… not doing well… Maybe you should think about practical things?

— Anna Petrovna, what are you talking about?

— I’m not talking about that… I’m just thinking — what if Volodya doesn’t get better? It will be hard for you alone… And Lyudochka will help arrange everything…

— Anna Petrovna, I believe my husband will recover. And I’ll believe it to the end. If you and your daughter have already buried him in your minds — that’s your business. But don’t drag me into it.

— Tanya, come on… We’re family…

— Family is when you support each other in hard times. Not when you come with lawyer papers.

She hung up and went to the hospital.

Vladimir lay motionless, machines beeped rhythmically, counting his heartbeat. Tatiana took his hand in hers.

— Volodya, your sister wants to sell our car. She says you need medicine. And her mother supports her. They think you won’t recover…

And then — a barely noticeable movement. His fingers slightly clenched. Tatiana jumped up, eyes wide open, heart pounding.

— Volodya! Can you hear me?

Again — a squeeze. Weak, but real.

— Doctor! Doctor! — she shouted, running into the corridor.

The doctor came, checked his reactions, examined the patient carefully.

— Good sign, — he said. — Consciousness is gradually returning. Keep talking to him.

Tatiana returned to her husband, holding back tears of joy.

— Volodya, can you hear me? I come to you every day. Tell you the news, read the papers… And your relatives decided you’re already a dead man…

Her husband squeezed her hand again. Awareness appeared in his eyes. The light she had waited for so long.

— Volodya! — Tatiana leaned toward him. — You’re coming back! I’ve been waiting for this moment!

The next day Vladimir could already move his lips, trying to speak. His speech was slurred, but the doctors were hopeful — recovery was going well.

Tatiana called her mother-in-law to share the good news.

— Anna Petrovna, Volodya is coming around! The doctors say the prognosis is good!

— Oh, that’s wonderful! — the mother-in-law rejoiced. — Lyudochka will be glad! She was so worried!

— She was worried about how to divide the property, — Tatiana couldn’t help but say.

— Tanya, come on… She wanted to help with a pure heart…

— Anna Petrovna, helping means coming to the hospital, holding his hand, bringing something tasty. Not demanding to sign papers to sell someone else’s property.

A few days later Lyudmila and Andrey came again. This time with flowers and apologies.

— Tanya, we’re so glad Volodya is getting better! — chirped the sister-in-law. — We were wrong back then… We were just so worried!

— Come in, — Tatiana said dryly.

— We want to apologize, — Lyudmila continued. — We understand it was wrong to come with those papers…

— Wrong timing? — Tatiana repeated. — Lyudmila, your husband was in a coma, and you came to divide the inheritance of a living person. That’s not “wrong timing.” That’s mean.

Andrey blushed.

— We really wanted to help… The lawyer said it was better to do it in advance…

— Which lawyer? The one who hasn’t even seen the patient? The one who, according to you, is ready to declare him incompetent?

Lyudmila shifted in her seat.

— Tanya, we didn’t know Volodya would recover…

— Didn’t know? Or didn’t want to know? In three months, you never visited, then showed up with signed papers.

— We’ll do better! — promised the sister-in-law. — We’ll visit and help!

— No need, — Tatiana said firmly. — The spouses will manage on their own.

A month later Vladimir was discharged from the hospital. His speech was still a little impaired, his left hand moved weakly, but doctors promised full recovery with regular therapy.

At home, the husband learned about the relatives’ visits.

— They… what… wanted? — he spoke with difficulty.

— To sell our car. Said you need money for medicine.

Vladimir frowned.

— Ly… daughter… always… was like that. Greedy.

— They thought you wouldn’t recover.

— And you… did you believe it?

Tatiana took his healthy hand in hers.

— I knew you would come back. My husband couldn’t leave me.

Vladimir smiled.

— My… wife… the best…

That evening, Lyudmila called.

— Volodya! How are you, brother? We’re so glad you’re getting better!

— Lyudochka, — the husband said slowly, — thanks for… caring. But my wife and I… will manage ourselves.

— What about the car? Maybe we should still sell it? The money is needed for rehabilitation…

— Lyudochka, we’re not selling the car. And nothing else. Tanya and I… have everything we need.

— Volodya, we only wanted to help…

— Help? — the husband looked at his wife. — Tanya told me… about your… papers. Three months in the hospital… you never… visited. Then came… with a lawyer.

Lyudmila fell silent.

— Volodya, we just…

— Lyudochka, I understand everything. Thanks… for showing… your true face. Now my wife and I know… who to count on.

He hung up.

— You did the right thing, — Tatiana said.

— My wife… is smart. She immediately saw… what they were like.

Since then, the relatives never called again. Lyudmila and Andrey realized their plan failed and lost interest in “helping.”

Vladimir gradually recovered. After six months, he could speak almost normally, and his hand worked better. The doctors were pleased with the progress.

— You know, Tanya, — one evening he said, — illness is bad. But sometimes it helps you understand who really matters.

— You mean the relatives?

— And them too. But most importantly — I realized what kind of wife I have. She came to me every day for three months. Talked, read. The doctors said — it was you who saved me.

Tatiana snuggled close to her husband.

— Spouses should be together in sorrow and joy. That’s what they promised at the registry office.

— They promised. And you kept the promise.

— My husband kept his too. He came back to me.

They sat hugging, watching TV. Outside the window it was raining, but inside the house was warm and cozy.

And in the neighboring city, Lyudmila and Andrey still couldn’t understand how their plan had failed. They had counted so much on the apartment and the car…

But sometimes justice triumphs. And true love defeats greed.

The wedding had been perfect—almost too perfect.

Under the golden hues of a summer sunset, Anna and Thomas exchanged vows in the sprawling garden of the Blackridge Estate, a historic mansion nestled deep in the countryside. It was a place known for its beauty, its age… and whispers of things better left undisturbed. But those rumors were brushed off as folklore—irrelevant, harmless chatter for a night filled with laughter, champagne, and dancing.

The couple, both in their late twenties, had met during a university archaeology trip in Europe and bonded over their love of ancient history and adventure. Their relationship had bloomed quickly, like ivy up an old wall, winding fast and deeply into each other’s lives. When Thomas proposed at the top of a cliff in Greece, Anna had said yes before he could even finish the question.

Everyone believed they were meant to be.

As the final toast was given and the cake sliced, the newlyweds disappeared upstairs to their bridal suite—an opulent room with a carved four-poster bed, antique mirrors, and a balcony that overlooked the shadowed gardens. Guests lingered below, still laughing and dancing, when suddenly—a sound pierced the night.

A scream. High-pitched, raw, and unfiltered.

The music halted. Glasses clinked as people froze. For a moment, no one knew if it was real.

Then came another—louder. Desperate. Not the kind of sound one expected from a wedding night.

A group of guests—family, friends, and two of the groomsmen—bolted up the stairs. The door to the suite was locked. Behind it, muffled shouting could be heard, followed by a crash, a dull thud, and then… sobbing.

“Anna? Thomas?” someone called.

No reply.

The best man, Peter, rammed his shoulder into the door once, then twice, until it burst open.

What they found inside silenced them all.

Anna stood near the corner of the room, barefoot, her wedding dress torn at the sleeve, her face pale as snow. Her eyes were wide, glassy, as if seeing something no one else could. She was shaking—violently. Her hands were smeared with something dark, and her sobs were loud, incoherent.

“Where is Thomas?” Peter asked.

Anna pointed a trembling finger.

Behind the bedpost, sprawled on the floor, lay Thomas.

Unmoving.

His eyes stared up at the ceiling. Blood pooled beneath his head. A jagged piece of an ornate mirror lay beside him, crimson-stained. A trail of shattered glass stretched from the wall to where he had fallen.

But there was something else. Something that made everyone stop breathing.

On the mirror’s surface—on the side still attached to the wall—letters were scrawled in what appeared to be blood:

“IT SAW US.”

A silence fell over the room so thick it smothered the air. No one moved. Anna collapsed to her knees, still whispering something unintelligible.

The paramedics arrived ten minutes later. The police arrived soon after. Thomas was pronounced dead at the scene. Blunt force trauma to the head, likely from falling against the mirror—but why he had fallen remained a mystery.

Anna, inconsolable and visibly traumatized, was taken away for evaluation. She kept repeating the same words over and over:

“It was in the mirror… it came through the glass…”

The Investigation Begins

Detective Eleanor Sloane had seen her share of strange cases, but this one unsettled her immediately.

The forensic team found no signs of forced entry. No prints besides Anna’s and Thomas’s. The mirror itself, according to early estimates, had been crafted in the 1800s. It had been hanging in that same room for generations.

The message written on it could have only been made by someone in the room that night.

Or something.

“Superstition,” Sloane muttered, scanning the scene. “Someone wanted to make this look like more than it is.”

But as she looked closer at the blood-streaked mirror, she noticed something odd: her reflection didn’t move in perfect sync with her real-time gestures. There was a slight lag. So subtle it could’ve been imagination—but for a seasoned detective like Sloane, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

She ordered the mirror removed and sent to forensic labs in the city.

The mansion’s owners, the Blackridge family, insisted nothing like this had ever happened before. But the housekeeper, an older woman named Martha, quietly pulled Sloane aside.

“You should talk to the gardener,” she said. “He’s been here longer than anyone. There are things he’s heard. Things he’s seen.”

When Sloane found the gardener, a grizzled man in his sixties named Harold Finn, he wasn’t surprised to be asked about the mirror.

“That thing?” he grunted, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. “Should’ve been taken down years ago. Everyone knew it was cursed.”

“Cursed?” Sloane echoed.

Harold nodded. “They say the mirror was brought back from Egypt in 1867 by one of the Blackridge ancestors. A collector of oddities. Legend is, the mirror came from a tomb that was never supposed to be opened. People who stared into it too long would start seeing things—shadows behind their own reflections, faces that didn’t belong to them.”

“And did anyone die?”

Harold took a long drag before answering. “Three deaths. All unexplained. Two suicides. One… just like the boy upstairs. Blood. Glass. Eyes wide open.”

Anna remained in a psychiatric facility for observation. She refused to talk to detectives. Except one night, when a nurse heard her whisper something in her sleep.

“It came through the glass. It said it wanted Thomas. Because he saw it. I told him not to look. I told him to stop. But he laughed…”

“It doesn’t like to be seen.”

Two weeks had passed since the wedding tragedy, and the media had dubbed it “The Mirror Murder.” Speculation spread like wildfire—some believed it was a psychotic breakdown, others thought it was a planned murder gone wrong. But a small corner of the internet, particularly among paranormal enthusiasts, whispered about something more sinister: mirror entities, shadow beings that dwell beyond reflective surfaces, waiting for a gaze long enough to pull them through.

Detective Eleanor Sloane wasn’t a believer in the supernatural, but the facts didn’t line up. Anna was still under psychiatric evaluation, and lab results had just come back.

And they were bizarre.

There was no record of the specific alloy used in the mirror’s backing—no matching samples in forensic databases. The blood on the mirror belonged to Thomas. But underneath that layer, they found traces of a different substance. Old blood. Human. Dated using advanced testing methods—estimated to be over 100 years old.

Sloane visited Anna again.

This time, Anna looked clearer. She had stopped crying. Her eyes were tired, but focused.

“I’ll talk,” she said. “But not if there’s a mirror in the room.”

The detective obliged, even making the staff cover the reflective glass on the window.

Anna spoke slowly.

“I don’t know exactly what it is. But it lives inside the mirror. Not just one—it’s like a place. A realm. We saw it during the wedding night. I told Thomas not to look in the mirror—it gave me a strange feeling the moment we entered the room. Cold, like someone breathing on my neck.”

“But Thomas… he liked that kind of stuff. Called it ‘romantic folklore.’ He stood in front of the mirror, joking about Bloody Mary, and said: ‘I wonder what kind of ghost lives in this one.’ Then…”

She paused, her voice trembling.

“His reflection didn’t smile back.”

Sloane leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“He was smiling, laughing even. But in the mirror, his face was still. Blank. Then it turned. The reflection—his reflection—turned its head and looked right at me. But Thomas hadn’t moved.”

Anna began to cry again, quietly this time.

“Then the reflection opened its mouth. And it screamed. That was the first scream people heard. But it wasn’t from us.”

An Entity Unleashed

Back at the Blackridge Estate, the room had been sealed off for investigation, but locals were growing nervous. One of the maids claimed to hear voices through the door late at night. Another saw flickers of movement in the covered mirrors around the estate.

Then, the body of Peter—the best man—was found in his apartment, mirror shattered around him, his face twisted in horror. No signs of forced entry. Just a broken mirror… and a familiar message scrawled across the largest shard:

“YOU SAW IT TOO.”

That was the turning point.

The estate owners demanded the mirror be destroyed, but forensic authorities refused—calling it “evidence in an open investigation.”

Detective Sloane, against department orders, took it upon herself to return to the suite one last time.

She entered alone.

The room was still. The air thick and cold. The mirror had been removed from the wall and placed against the far side, covered in a black cloth. But even beneath the fabric, Sloane could feel it… calling to her.

She uncovered it.

And there she was—her own reflection, slightly delayed again. She tested it: raised her hand, then wiggled her fingers. The reflection followed, but a beat too late.

Then… it smiled.

But Sloane hadn’t.

Her heart seized. She stepped back. The reflection didn’t.

Instead, it walked forward, toward the glass. Closer. Closer.

Then something hit the glass from the inside—hard enough to make a sound.

Sloane screamed and threw the cloth back over the mirror, stumbling from the room. She locked the door and didn’t look back.

A Final Confrontation

Anna was discharged under tight monitoring, allowed to return home to her parents. But three days later, she disappeared from her room during the night.

The only clue was a note written in shaky handwriting:

“I hear it again. I have to finish this. I’m going back.”

Sloane, against all reason and her captain’s direct orders, rushed back to the estate. She knew where Anna would be.

The bridal suite.

She arrived just as lightning split the sky. Rain hammered down. She ran through the front doors and up the staircase, where a dim light glowed beneath the suite door.

It was unlocked.

Inside, Anna stood in front of the mirror—now re-hung.

She was speaking to it.

“It wants to go back,” she said, not turning around. “But it needs one more soul to replace the one it lost.”

Sloane stepped forward cautiously. “Anna, step away. We can destroy it.”

“No,” Anna said. “You don’t understand. It’s a prison. Someone opened it decades ago, and the thing that came through… it feeds on those who stare into it too long. But it can be sent back—with an offering.”

The reflection twisted again. It was no longer Anna—it was a stretched, dark-eyed thing that grinned too wide, teeth like broken glass. It pressed a hand against the inside of the mirror.

The surface rippled.

Anna turned and looked at Sloane, eyes full of strange peace.

“I have to go with it. I let it out… I brought Thomas here.”

Before Sloane could stop her, Anna stepped forward—and into the mirror. The surface swallowed her like water. The entity inside reached out one last time, brushing the glass with black fingers… and then—

Silence.

The mirror cracked.

Just once. A thin, spiderweb fracture running down the center.

Sloane approached. Her reflection stared back.

This time, in perfect sync.

The mirror was placed in a deep government vault, sealed away with no access allowed. The Blackridge Estate was closed indefinitely.

Thomas, Peter, and Anna were listed among “unexplained” deaths. Publicly, the case was ruled a tragic psychological breakdown. Privately, Sloane knew the truth.

She kept every mirror in her home covered from then on.

Because sometimes, when the lights are low… she swears she hears a whisper from the dark:

“You saw me too.”

A draft cut straight through as Irina walked through the empty waiting hall of a provincial train station. She wrapped her four-year-old daughter more tightly in a scarf. Katya, pressed against her mother, curled up on the hard bench, her breath settling in the cold air as tiny clouds of vapor. Outside the dusty windows, a snowstorm raged, pelting the glass with icy hail. Everything beyond the gloomy hall seemed foreign, hostile, and mercilessly cold.

In an old backpack—their only possession—lay the last loaf of bread and a few crumpled bills. There was enough money for one ticket to the nearest station, but where to go? Nobody was waiting for them anywhere. Irina broke off the largest piece for her daughter and left herself only a dry crust. She had no appetite; a bitterness of despair filled her mouth. Just a few days ago, at least they had a roof over their heads—shaky, but still. And now—only this icy bench and the wind’s howl outside the window.

Irina absentmindedly stared at the dirty glass when a swirl of snowflakes and the dim light of the street lamps suddenly took on familiar shapes. A woman passed by the window—thin, gray-haired, bent against the wind’s force. It was Margarita Andreyevna… her former mother-in-law. “It’s just my imagination,” Irina whispered, closing her eyes. “Hunger and exhaustion. A hallucination.”

But it couldn’t be a trick of the mind. Denis, her ex-husband, had long ago sent the woman who raised him to a nursing home. He was always quick to get rid of those who were weak. After the divorce, all relatives turned away from Irina as if she were leprous. Only Margarita Andreyevna continued to help: sometimes bringing milk, sometimes warm clothes for Katya, or simply hugging and saying kind words. Her involvement was a thin thread that kept Irina connected to humanity.

Now the image of this woman appeared like a vision, a ghost from a lost past. Memory revived the scene of the last humiliation: Irina, exhausted, kneeling and scrubbing the floor in a wealthy woman’s apartment. Larisa—cold, assured in her superiority—inspected the work with disdain:

“Dirty. Are you blind? I won’t pay for this.”

“Please… I have a child,” Irina pleaded, losing her last strength.

“Everyone has problems,” the woman cut her off. “Igor! See her out.”

Her son came out from another room—tall, stooped, with an empty look. Without a word, he took Irina’s hand and nearly pushed her out the door. “Pathetic weakling,” flashed through her mind. “Sitting on mommy’s neck and can’t even say ‘no.’”

The door slammed. She was left in the dark stairwell, empty-handed and with an icy emptiness inside.

Turning to neighbors for help, Irina faced indifference. Some looked away; others advised her to return to her ex-husband. But the thought of Denis terrified her—his drunken tantrums, threats, wild glare… No, asking him for help was like throwing herself into the arms of a predator.

Behind her back, people were already gossiping: “Give the girl to an orphanage. At least they’ll feed and clothe her. Maybe she’ll be better off there…”

Those words hit harder than any slap. Better off without a mother? Irina lifted the sleeping Katya, threw the backpack over her shoulder, and stepped into the icy night. The station was their only refuge.

Sitting on the cold bench, holding her daughter, Irina wondered why such a huge country had no shelters for mothers with children left homeless. Why were people like Larisa—who had everything—so cruel to those who had nothing? Isn’t motherhood, this hard and selfless work, worth something?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the duty policeman—a tired, gray-eyed man named Semyon:

“What are you sitting here for? You can’t spend the night here.”

“Nowhere to go,” Irina answered quietly. “The child will freeze.”

The man was silent for a moment, sighed, and left. About ten minutes later, he returned, handing her a bag. Inside were warm potato pies and a bottle of kefir. While Irina gratefully accepted the food, he quietly slipped a crumpled bill into her pocket.

She pretended not to notice. She broke a pie—giving most of it to the now-awake Katya. “Sometimes the warmest words and help come not from relatives, but from strangers,” Irina thought, watching the policeman walk away. He stepped aside but didn’t leave completely—guarding them with his presence from intrusive passersby. This unassuming man had become their invisible guardian angel on that long, icy night.

Early in the morning, as the station began to wake, someone gently shook Irina’s shoulder. She opened her eyes—standing before her was the woman she had yesterday dismissed as a hallucination.

“Irochka? Katyusha? How did you end up here?” Margarita Andreyevna’s voice mixed surprise and pain.

They hugged. Irina, who had held her pain and tears inside for many days, couldn’t hold back—bitter tears streamed down her face. Between sobs, they began to share their stories. It turned out Denis had indeed sent Margarita Andreyevna to the nursing home, declaring her incompetent to seize the apartment. Only thanks to an old friend, Valentina Semenovna, was she able to leave. Now they were heading to her—to another city where they wanted to start anew.

“How did you get involved with that man, Irochka?” Margarita Andreyevna whispered, gently stroking her hair.

Irina thought back: the orphanage, loneliness, fear of each new day. Denis seemed like support, salvation, a chance to find a family. She longed for love, warmth, care… When Katya was born, she was sure it was true happiness. How wrong she was…

Their reflection was interrupted by an energetic woman of about sixty, with a bright scarf on her head and lively eyes. She approached with a kind smile.

“Well, Margo, found your own? I told you—the heart doesn’t lie!”

It was Valentina Semenovna. She warmly greeted Irina and Katya as if she had known them for a long time.

“Get ready, girls. You’ll come with us. There’s enough room for everyone. And your problems—well, those are my problems now. I have connections, you know, so good even a minister wouldn’t be ashamed to call!” She winked. “By the way, Semyon was on duty here today just for you. He’s my nephew, and he wouldn’t let anyone harm you.”

Semyon, the policeman who had helped them the night before, smiled shyly and carefully took their backpack. The train moved, carrying them away from cold, fear, and hopelessness. Ahead was the unknown—but for the first time, it didn’t frighten them—it gave hope.

Valentina Semenovna’s apartment was spacious and cozy. She welcomed them like family. The energy of this woman was striking—she made a plan of action in just one day. The next morning, a legal machine started working, helping Irina gather documents for a support program for orphanage graduates and placed her on the waiting list for social housing.

Several months later, news came about Denis. After Margarita Andreyevna regained her rights, he lost control completely. He drank more than before, and one day his body was found on the street—either from beatings or cold. Irina learned this with cold indifference. That person had long ceased to exist for her.

Valentina helped Margarita Andreyevna sue for her rightful share of the property, and then the women honestly divided everything, some of it signed over to the granddaughter—Katya.

Gradually life settled into a routine. Margarita and Irina became a real family. They ran the household together, cared for the child, supported each other. Shared pain and joy bound them closer than blood ties.

Semyon began visiting often. He brought toys for Katya, played with her, and looked at Irina with warmth he no longer hid. Valentina, watching them, teased:

“Well, well, Irisha, fate has sent you a helper—a golden person. Don’t let him go!”

Irina blushed but felt something bright and new awakening in her heart, torn by troubles.

A little more than a year passed. A year that turned their lives around. Irina got a small but cozy apartment. Margarita Andreyevna sold her share and bought a place nearby to always be close. Katya started at a new kindergarten and quickly made friends.

One of the first autumn evenings, Semyon proposed to Irina. The wedding was modest—only the closest friends and family. But on that day, it seemed the whole world was warmed by light and love. Margarita Andreyevna and Valentina Semenovna, hiding tears, watched the newlyweds with motherly pride. And the happiest at the celebration was Katya—twirling in a white dress, telling everyone, “I have the best dad in the world now!”

One evening, Irina overheard her daughter telling a friend: “When I grow up, I’ll be a lawyer. Like Aunt Valya. I’ll help those in trouble.”

Margarita Andreyevna and Valentina Semenovna were already making plans—discussing how to best set up the nursery in Irina’s apartment. They were sure a new baby would soon appear in the big, loving family.

One evening, over a cup of tea, when Katya was already asleep, they all gathered in the kitchen. Irina, looking at her rescuers, said:

“I realized one thing. True kindness makes no noise and asks for no thanks. It just comes at the moment when it seems nothing can help anymore.”

They sat in silence, each thinking their own thoughts. About how strangely and wonderfully human destinies intertwine, how from pain, fear, and despair is born something new, so precious and fragile—happiness.

Timur was known in the city as a wealthy man with quirks — someone who always sought to be the center of attention. His antics were talked about, his money admired, but did anyone truly love him? Hardly.

One day at a noisy party, under the influence of alcohol and excitement, he made a foolish bet:

“I bet I’ll marry the fullest girl in town — and I won’t even bat an eye!”

The words were spoken. And, to everyone’s surprise, a week later Timur proposed to Leyla — a modest, kind-hearted, and cheerful girl who seemed completely out of place in his high-society world. She was surprised, of course, but agreed. Not for money, not for fame — simply because she believed in her happiness.

Timur’s friends just laughed, thinking it was another joke by a rich eccentric. But the wedding took place. A luxurious dress, expensive jewelry, the sound of fountains outside the window — everything was organized at the highest level.

And then, at the height of the celebration, when guests were waiting for the traditional young couple’s dance, Leyla stepped onto the stage and said:

“I have a gift for my husband too… a little surprise.”

She dropped her cloak, revealing a light stage costume, and began to dance. Everyone froze. Some couldn’t believe their eyes — this full-figured, quiet girl moved so gracefully that the air in the hall seemed to stop. It wasn’t just a dance — it was a story, energy, passion. And she told it without words.

The guests gave a standing ovation. Timur sat, stunned with amazement. For the first time, he saw Leyla not as a “fat girl,” not as the object of a bet — he saw a woman. Strong, charismatic, gifted. And in that moment, something inside him changed.

From that day on, he no longer thought about the bet. He began to see Leyla not just as a lucky bride, but as the true find of his life.

After the wedding, Timur changed. Not immediately, not abruptly, but noticeably. He stopped seeking attention from others and began to value the attention of one woman. At first, he tried to keep his distance, habitually hiding behind a mask of cold success. But Leyla did not demand love. She didn’t pressure him, didn’t get upset, didn’t ask too many questions. She simply was there — with a cup of hot tea, homemade pie, with a warmth money can’t buy.

One evening, Timur came home shattered — his business partner had betrayed him, the loss was huge. He expected reproaches, pity, judgment. But Leyla just handed him tea and quietly said:

“Money comes and goes. The main thing is that you’re home.”

He was silent. Looking at her. Then suddenly embraced her — tightly, long, truly for the first time.

Months passed. Timur stopped chasing the social life, stopped spending money on show-offs. He spent more time at home, consulted Leyla, trusted her. And strangely, her simple, sometimes naive words often helped him make the right decisions.

One day he invited her to dinner at their favorite restaurant. Accompanied by soft music, he got down on one knee, took out a small box and said:

“Leyla… I married you because of a silly bet. But today I’m asking you to marry me… for love. Truly.”

She smiled through tears and whispered:

“I have always been yours. Only now — with love.”

Since then, their life became like a fairy tale — not because they became richer or more famous, but because they grew closer. Every morning began with a kiss, every evening with a conversation over tea filled with the aroma of baked goods and comfort. They became a family. A real one.

Leyla suggested opening a dance studio — for those who feel outside the accepted standards of beauty. For those who want to be themselves and love their bodies.

“For people like me,” she said. “Women who want to be confident, beautiful, and free.”

At first Timur doubted, but decided to believe — in her, her idea, in both of them. He invested funds, she put in her whole soul. Three months later, the studio opened. The first clients were wary women, but soon the enrollment grew every day. People in town began to say:

“Now that’s Timur’s wife! Not just a beauty, but a true leader.”

But there were also envious ones. One of his former friends started spreading rumors:

“You married her because of a bet! Are you serious now?”

Timur calmly replied:

“Yes. Because of a bet. And thanks to it, I found a real woman. And you still judge by appearances.”

A year later Leyla received a grant to develop a body-positivity program and held the city’s first dance festival. Timur sat in the front row, proudly holding a camera, shining with happiness.

Two months passed before Leyla handed Timur a test with two lines.

“Looks like there will be three of us now…”

He silently hugged her, unable to hold back tears.

“I won the bet… but the real prize is you. And now our baby.”

Pregnancy changed Leyla. Not only outwardly but inside — she became more thoughtful, more attentive to herself and life. Timur surrounded her with care: he took her to ultrasounds, read books about pregnancy and children, spent hours online choosing the best stroller and baby clothes. He feared one thing — to fail them. To make a mistake. To lose.

But in the seventh month, something no one expected happened. During a night walk around the house, Leyla was suddenly gripped by sharp pain. She turned pale, grabbed her belly, and within minutes the ambulance was rushing to the hospital.

The doctors spoke quietly but firmly:

“There is a threat of premature labor. Emergency measures are needed. Possibly a cesarean section.”

Timur didn’t leave the door of the ward. He didn’t recognize himself: this confident, self-assured rich man sat on the hospital floor like a lost soul, whispering prayers he had never known before.

“Just let them live… Take everything else, just let them survive.”

Two days later the doctors decided — surgery. Timur stood behind the glass, clenching his fists. And then came the first cry — weak but alive.

“A girl,” said the doctor. “1.9 kilograms. Small but strong. Like her mother.”

He couldn’t understand whether to laugh or cry. Then he saw Leyla — pale, exhausted, but with that same radiant smile.

“We have a daughter, Timur. Are you ready?”

He sat down beside her, touched her face and whispered:

“I wasn’t ready to be a husband. Wasn’t ready to be a father. But you taught me how to love. Now I’m ready for anything — for you both.”

Several weeks passed. The baby gained weight, growing stronger every day. Timur held her in his arms and thought:

“How strangely it all began… Just a silly bet. And it became the meaning of my whole life.”

One day he took his phone and wrote in that very chat where it all began:

“Guys. I lost. Because I fell in love. Because I became a human. Thank you — without that bet, I would never have found my true happiness.”

Fifteen years passed.

Again, that same hall, decorated with flowers and lights. Today is graduation day. On stage — their daughter, Ayla. Proud, confident, beautiful in a sparkling champagne-colored dress. She held the microphone and said to the audience:

“This song is dedicated to two people who showed me how to love myself as I am. Mom and Dad. You chose each other even when everything started unexpectedly. Your love was born from nothing… and became the greatest example for me.”

Music played. Ayla sang — with soul, with strength. And in the front row sat Timur and Leyla, holding hands.

Timur has gone gray, but his eyes remained as warm as that night in the hospital. He left the business circles long ago, stopped chasing fame and money. He devoted all his time to family and Leyla’s studio, turning it into a large network of dance schools across the country.

Leyla became a symbol of strength and confidence for hundreds of women. She not only taught but held masterclasses, wrote a book, organized charity projects.

When the guests left, they went out to the veranda — where they once took wedding photos.

“You didn’t believe it could work back then,” said Timur.

“I didn’t believe a guy who made a bet could love so deeply,” Leyla smiled.

He took her hand.

“I didn’t know I could love. Until you taught me. Until you showed me what true strength and beauty are.”

They stood, embracing, and suddenly a familiar tune came from the hall — the very song that started it all. Ayla must have remembered the story on purpose.

To the music, they slowly began to dance.

Not as a rich groom and an ordinary bride.
Not as participants of a silly bet.
But as two people who found each other.
And created a family.

As if for the first time.
As if forever.

Grigory nervously paced around his spacious room, furnished with tasteless, aggressive luxury — the kind he adored and his wife Marina despised. But now the interior was deeply indifferent to him. A scheme kept spinning in his mind — a perfect plan, as he thought, capable of making him the sole and complete owner of everything that belonged to Marina. However, a recent frustrating, almost unbelievable mistake had been discovered in this plan.

He hadn’t married her out of love. That feeling was foreign to him. He was driven by cold, calculating goals — power and money. For him, Marina was a gold mine: a successful, smart woman, but too trusting. She saw Grigory as a reliable support, a protector after difficult years of loneliness when she raised her daughter alone. But he saw her as an object that needed to be controlled.

The only obstacle from the very beginning was Liza — her daughter. A girl with a penetrating gaze, too serious for her age. She seemed to see through the facade of politeness and feigned care, sensing the emptiness inside Grigory. Her silent distrust irritated him more than any open accusations.

His thoughts returned again to the accident. He still tasted the metallic flavor of triumph in his mouth when he received the call that Marina’s car had gone off the road. The brakes — a banal, precise malfunction, arranged for a good reward. Everything was supposed to be quick and clean. But Liza… The damned girl suddenly refused to go with her mother, citing exams. She stayed home. Alive. Well. And most likely, she suspected everything.

What infuriated Grigory even more was that Marina’s business kept running despite her coma. The firm functioned like clockwork thanks to her loyal deputy and other employees who clearly disliked him. He was already imagining walking into Marina’s office, sitting in her chair, and with one stroke of a pen sending all those loyal people packing.

The phone rang. He picked up, already knowing who was calling.

“Well?” he snapped into the receiver.

On the other end came hesitant excuses. His people had failed the task again.

“She’s nowhere to be found, Grigory Igorevich. Neither at stations nor airports. The card hasn’t been used; the phone is off.”

Grigory squeezed the receiver until his knuckles whitened. Fury boiled inside him — at the incompetent mercenaries, the stubborn girl, and his own helplessness. He was so close, yet this small snag could ruin everything. She needed to be found. Urgently. And made so she would never be able to say anything again.

Liza sat on the old, rattling suburban bus, pressing her forehead against the cold window glass. She had been traveling for hours, changing routes like a hare dodging hunting dogs. Every sharp sound made her flinch. The tears shed at night had long dried up. Only fear for her mother and icy determination remained. She had to do this. For her mother’s sake.

A week ago, even before the accident, a strange and important conversation had taken place between her and her mother — unexpectedly started by Marina herself. Over evening tea, she set down her cup and looked at her daughter for a long time with some sadness.

“You know, Liza, I wasn’t always so composed and strong,” she quietly said. “Once, I was just a girl in love.”

She told her about Pavel — Liza’s father. About how deeply they loved each other, about walks until dawn, about fiery arguments and youthful pride that wouldn’t allow forgiveness of mistakes. About how they were separated by the intrigue of her best friend, who was in love with Pavel. Marina believed her eyes without hearing any explanations. And he, no less proud, simply left.

When the conversation was ending, her mother handed her a folded sheet of paper.

“Here’s his address. I recently found out where he lives. A village, far from here. Take it. It might come in handy.”

At that time, Liza hadn’t given much weight to the words. “What could happen?” she thought. But now, recalling Grigory’s triumphant smirk after hearing the news of the accident, she understood everything. This was the “case.” And now this scrap with the address had become her last hope. The only chance to save her mother from the man she had let into their lives.

The journey had exhausted Liza to the limit. The village greeted her with silence, the smell of damp foliage, and crooked fences. Twilight floated silently through the streets; somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Liza stood in the middle of this lost corner, feeling lonely and lost. Fatigue pressed on her legs; her stomach twisted from hunger, but she did not allow herself to give up. She had to cope.

Looking around, she noticed an old man in a worn ushanka hat carefully drawing water at a well. He seemed kind and safe. Gathering her last strength, Liza approached him.

“Hello, excuse me, please…” her voice trembled betrayingly, and she straightened with effort. “Could you tell me how to find Pavel Savelyev?”

The old man slowly set down the bucket, straightened with a groan, and carefully looked her over from head to toe.

“Savelyev? Pavel?” The man scratched the stubble on his chin. “No, daughter, we don’t have anyone by that name. We do have Savelyevs here, of course, but they’re usually called Ivan or Stepan. But Pavel, I don’t recall.”

Liza’s heart froze. A sharp coldness pulled at her chest; a lump of despair stuck in her throat. Could she be wrong? Had she come to the wrong place? Maybe her mother had mixed up the address? What now?

“But… he must be here,” she forced out, feeling tears begin to fill her eyes. “Pavel Andreyevich Savelyev.”

Suddenly the old man slapped his forehead so that his hat slid sideways.

“Oh, my head! Andreyevich! You should’ve said so right away! Of course, we know him! He’s our doctor, a real treasure trove of knowledge and golden hands. He treats the whole district.”

Relief washed over Liza like a wave. Her legs nearly gave way. She barely held on, clutching the edge of the well.

“A doctor?” she repeated, still not believing.

“Indeed! See that stone building around the corner? That’s our clinic. He’s probably there now. Just walk straight down the path — you won’t get lost.”

Thanking the old man hurriedly but sincerely, Liza ran in the indicated direction. She no longer felt fatigue or hunger. Only a burning urgency to speed up time — every minute could be crucial.

She saw him at the entrance of a one-story hospital building. He was talking to a woman, and Liza stopped a little away to catch her breath and just watch. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a short haircut already touched with gray. There was something calm and reliable about him. He was nothing like the photo in her mother’s album, but Liza immediately knew: this was him. Her father. No doubt.

She stepped forward decisively and interrupted their conversation. The woman gave Liza a surprised look and left. Pavel turned to the girl, confusion flashing in his gray eyes — the same as hers.

“How can I help you?”

Liza took a deep breath, pushing aside her anxiety and rehearsed words.

“My name is Liza. I am your daughter. And my mother needs help. Marina. Her life is in danger, and I have nowhere else to turn.”

Pavel froze. His face became a mask of amazement, disbelief, and some painful confusion. He examined the girl’s features — the familiar eye shape, lip form, even the expression. A flash of the past, a reflection of the woman he once loved to the point of pain. The longer he looked, the clearer it became: it was true.

The shock passed. In its place came the doctor — a man capable of making decisions in critical situations. He took Liza by the elbow; his touch was confident and soothing.

“All right,” he said firmly, heading toward his office. “Tell me everything in order.”

Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers from the village, Grigory sat in the office of a city clinic doctor. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and watched the doctor with a smug smile.

“Let’s skip the formalities,” he said, placing a thick envelope on the table. “Marina is already unresponsive. Brain dead, reflexes alive. We both know it. Why drag out the farce? It’ll be a relief for both of us.”

The doctor, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, flinched. He glanced from the envelope to the window, where distant city lights twinkled in the dark.

“I can’t… It goes against all my principles…”

“You can’t eat principles,” Grigory smirked. “And this is enough not only to feed the family but also to buy a house by the sea. One move. Equipment failure. Everyone will confirm it. Think about it.”

The doctor hesitated. His eyes flicked over the stack of money. Grigory saw the internal struggle within the man and was confident of victory. He stood up.

“I’m waiting for your call,” he said and left, already anticipating freedom and wealth.

But around three in the morning, a phone call woke him. Lazily stretching, he picked up the receiver, smiling into the dark. Now he would hear the long-awaited news.

“Yes, I’m listening,” he drawled sleepily.

But instead of condolences, there was a frightened, almost hysterical scream:

“Grigory Igorevich! She’s gone! She disappeared!”

“What?!” he sharply sat up in bed. “How did she disappear?!”

“Just vanished! The bed’s empty! We searched everywhere!”

Half an hour later, he was at the hospital, where chaos reigned. Police, worried doctors, disorder. Cameras were turned off “for maintenance.” The only witness — a guard reeking of alcohol — muttered incoherently about a man in a black jeep who gave him mead. After which the guard “dozed off a bit.”

Grigory listened, and with every word, the ground slipped from under him. He had been played for a fool. He lost.

Marina slowly awoke from the deep, viscous darkness. The first to come was memory — a flash of light, a blow, pain, and Grigory’s face, distorted not by grief but by triumph. Betrayal. She realized everything at the last moment before consciousness left her. Now fear gripped her again — cold and burning. She tried to move, but her body wouldn’t obey. Only a hoarse whisper escaped her lips:

“Liza…”

“Shh, shh. She’s safe.”

A familiar, calm male voice pierced through the veil of fear. Marina struggled to open her eyes. At first, the world was blurry, then the outlines became clearer. Pavel stood before her. Older, with gray hair, but the same — with kind and attentive eyes. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It seemed like a dream or hallucination.

“Pavel?” she whispered.

He smiled, and familiar wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.

“I’m here. You’re safe. We saved you. You’re in the village of Saloniki, in my hospital.”

His voice was like a warm blanket on an icy wind. Marina understood nothing but felt the main thing — she was out of danger. She looked at him one last time, and her eyes closed on their own. She fell asleep again, this time with a slight, barely noticeable smile on her lips. Because if Pavel was near — everything would be fine.

Grigory decided that Marina’s disappearance was even for the better. Now there was no need to wait and make plans — he could immediately start the procedure to declare her missing. And that was almost a direct path to inheritance. To celebrate the imminent wealth, he threw a loud party at home: music thundered throughout the house, champagne flowed like a river.

But in the middle of the celebration, the door flew open, and people in uniform appeared on the threshold.

“Grigory Igorevich? You are under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder.”

The music abruptly stopped. All eyes turned to the host. And then, from behind the police, Liza appeared. She stood with arms crossed, cold contempt in her eyes, looking at the one she no longer feared.

As the handcuffs clicked on his wrists, Grigory muttered through clenched teeth as he passed by:

“You’re celebrating for nothing, brat. Your mother won’t last long anyway. Hope she dies somewhere in a ditch.”

Liza did not flinch. Calmly meeting his gaze, she smiled slightly and quietly replied:

“You won’t wait. Mom is alive, healthy… And soon getting married again. To my father.”

Six months later. A sunny day in the village wrapped everything in warm light. Marina, fully recovered, sat on Pavel’s veranda and argued with him — lightly, almost playfully. Happiness sparkled in her eyes; her face bloomed with health.

“Pasha, I can’t stay here forever. I have business, friends in the city…”

“And I can’t just leave my patients,” Pavel stubbornly shook his head. “Besides, the air here is different.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Liza, who came out on the veranda with a tray holding a steaming kettle and cups.

“You two really are like children,” she shook her head, looking at them with a kind reproach.

Pavel and Marina exchanged looks and laughed simultaneously. Both understood that Liza was right — they behaved like schoolchildren. But it was wonderful.

“All right,” said Pavel, hugging Marina by the shoulders. “Let’s agree: a week in the city, a week here.”

“Agreed,” she smiled and kissed him.

Liza watched her parents, feeling warmth spread inside her. Everything had fallen into place. She had a family again — real, loving, and whole. The very one she once didn’t even dare to dream of.

Several weeks of agonizing waiting passed. Boris Petrovich lay in the intensive care unit—his life hanging by a thin thread, like a bird hesitant to leap from a branch into the abyss. The doctors were doing everything possible, but the man’s body, worn out by severe bilateral pneumonia, was exhausted to the limit. Mechanical ventilation supported his breathing because his own organs could no longer handle the task. Every day in that ward was like a battle—a battle for life, where the victor could be time… or death.

Svetlana Arkadyevna, his wife, came every day. She spent hours at her husband’s bedside, stroking his hand, whispering words of love he no longer heard, telling him about how their grandson had learned to recite poetry, how the roses bloomed in the garden. Sometimes she simply remained silent, watching the flickering monitor and listening to the steady signals of the ventilator. During this time, her face had grown gaunt, her gaze vacant, and her voice quieter, as if fear had drained the life out of her.

But fear is not the only thing that lives within a person. Fear can accompany fatigue, anger, disappointment… and even a strange, almost unbearable thought of freedom. A thought the woman never allowed herself to voice aloud. But deep inside her soul, that thought existed. Because being near a dying person is also a slow death, especially when you understand: there is no chance, only hope sustained by machines.

That evening, the hospital corridors were unusually quiet. It was as if the building itself had frozen, waiting for something important. At the nurses’ station was Liliya Sergeyevna—a seasoned nurse who had worked in intensive care for many years. Over time, she had seen everything: tears of joy and screams of despair, promises made on the edge of consciousness, and farewells no one wanted to accept. She knew many patients by name, and some by their life stories. She had often seen Svetlana Arkadyevna, and over time between them arose something that could not be called friendship but was close to trust—even if silent.

Late at night, when almost no visitors remained in the hospital, Svetlana, overcoming an inner tremor, approached Liliya. Her voice trembled like a candle flame in a draft:

— I can’t do this anymore… He’s suffering. I’m suffering. Let it all end…

The nurse looked at the woman for a long time without a word. Emotions flickered in her eyes—compassion, fear, contemplation—that could not be put into words. Then she lowered her gaze, as if weighing in her mind something more than just a moral choice: duty versus humanity, professionalism versus pain.

Sometimes fate offers turns you cannot ignore. Especially when the request comes with an envelope, neatly wrapped and tightly filled. With a trembling hand, Svetlana slipped it into the pocket of Liliya Sergeyevna’s robe. Neither of them said a word. Only something shared flashed in their eyes—despair, acceptance, and perhaps hope that this step would be the last for all of them.

A few minutes later, Liliya entered the room. The door closed behind her with a muffled click. Silence reigned inside, broken only by the steady hum of the machines. The air felt thick, heavy, as if filled not only with electronics but unspoken thoughts. The nurse checked the door was locked, then approached the ventilator. Her fingers touched the control panel—she knew perfectly well how to turn off the device to stop everything without noise or attention.

Her hand hovered over the button. One second. Two. Three. The fluorescent light seemed cold, almost cruel. At that moment, the door slammed open.

On the threshold stood Antonina Pavlovna—the cleaner who had worked in the hospital for over twenty years. She always preferred night shifts—then she could work calmly, without extra eyes and chatter. The woman was known for her talkativeness and good-natured character, but now her gaze was sharp, alert. She noticed the tension in the nurse’s posture, the anxiety on Svetlana Arkadyevna’s face, and though she understood nothing specific, she immediately felt—something was wrong here.

— Working with the vest again, Liliya Sergeyevna? — she said with usual irony, but suspicion slipped clearly into her tone.

The nurse flinched. Straightened sharply, hiding her hands behind her back. Svetlana glanced at the cleaner, trying to think of an explanation that wouldn’t raise questions. But Antonina didn’t hurry away. She started washing the floor right by the door, seemingly deliberately staying nearby, watching every movement.

The atmosphere in the room became almost unbearable. It felt as if the air was electrified, filled with invisible waves of fear and tension. Liliya dared not proceed—not with a witness who could tell everything. She stepped away from the machine, taking several deep breaths as if trying to regain control.

Minutes dragged endlessly. Only the splashing of water from the bucket and the squeak of the mop broke the silence. Svetlana stood by the window, pretending nothing affected her. Liliya kept looking at the ventilator’s monitor, where Boris Petrovich’s heart still flickered. She thought how easy it would be to end this torment. And at the same time—how now she could never do it.

When Antonina Pavlovna finished cleaning, she cast a final, intense glance at the women, said nothing, and left the room, leaving behind a shiny floor and a strange, oppressive silence.

Liliya remained alone with the patient. His breathing was still artificial but still breathing. She looked at him, at his exhausted face, and for the first time in a long while felt relief. Because at that moment she understood: sometimes it takes just one accidental person with a simple mop to stop the hand ready to cross the line. To save not only someone’s life but one’s own conscience.

That’s what happened this time too.