Valentin carefully parked his car in the only available space near the children’s hospital. As luck would have it, the place was especially crowded today – cars filled every available parking spot. Every day, he came here almost like it was a job: taking care of some business, stopping by his favorite café for a cup of coffee, and rushing to see his daughter, to spend at least a little time with her. For several months now, the girl had been in the clinic.

What exactly was wrong with the child, the doctors couldn’t explain. Valentin had taken her to the best specialists, but they only repeated one thing: the brain is operating on its own, controlling everything else. This drove Valentin mad.

“You’re just hiding your helplessness behind all these complicated terms!” he snapped one day.

The doctors could only shrug, lowering their eyes.

“It’s the result of enormous stress. The brain creates barriers that we cannot control,” one of the doctors tried to explain.

“I don’t understand anything! My daughter is fading away in front of my eyes, and you’re telling me she can’t be cured?! I have money, I’m ready to give everything! For Michelle, I’d give my last penny!”

“Money can’t help here,” the doctor sighed softly.

“Then what will help?! Tell me! I’ll find it, I’ll buy it!”

“It’s impossible to buy… Honestly, I don’t even know how to explain it to you… Something special has to happen. Or, on the contrary, something must not happen, so the body… the brain… can reset itself.”

“What are you saying?! Maybe you’ll advise me to see a healer next?” Valentin exploded.

The elderly doctor looked at him carefully.

“You know, if you decide to, I won’t stop you. I’ll repeat: conventional methods are powerless here. We can only ensure peace, positive emotions… and support the body with medication. And I’ll say one more thing,” the doctor lowered his voice, “If I were you, I’d leave your daughter in the hospital. She’s been brought in by ambulance twice already. You see, when she falls into this state, there’s a risk we won’t make it in time before they bring her here. But under constant supervision, that won’t happen.”

Valentin clutched his head. He was terrified of losing his wife, feeling that it could happen at any moment, and couldn’t even imagine how he would survive her loss. Michelle adored her mother, and he… he worshiped both of them. Now, he had to forget his own grief and focus on saving his daughter, also Michelle.

Surprisingly, the girl calmly accepted that she would have to stay in the hospital for a long time. She stroked her father’s cheek and quietly said:

“Dad, don’t worry so much. I won’t cry, and you’ll be able to work in peace instead of staying with me all the time.”

Valentin didn’t know whether to be happy or to cry. His eight-year-old daughter was speaking as if she were an adult.

“Hold her! Man!” Suddenly, a shout rang out. Valentin jumped and looked toward the noise. A girl was running toward the hospital from the street, out of breath, and a panting security guard was chasing her. It looked like she had stolen something. As she ran past Valentin’s car, she glanced at him in terror.

“My God… they couldn’t even spare a bun for a child?” Valentin muttered as he got out of the car just as the guard caught up.

“Stop! What’s all the shouting about?”

“I’ll deal with you in a minute! Get out of the way!”

Only now did the guard notice Valentin and his car.

“I need to catch her! She stole!”

“What did she steal?” Valentin smirked.

“A bottle of water and a bun… And who knows what else she’s got in her pockets!”

Valentin pulled out a few bills.

“This amount should be enough to settle up and even reward the return of the stolen goods,” he muttered to himself, watching the guard walk away.

After that, Valentin headed toward the doctor’s office. Their conversations were usually formal, but today, the doctor kept him a little longer.

“Valentin Igorevich, there’s one thing… Today, Michelle asked if she could talk to other children in the ward.”

“And what does that mean?” Valentin asked cautiously as he sat down.

“To me, it’s a good sign. She’s starting to take an interest in what’s happening beyond her room. However, not all my colleagues agree with that view. Many think that after such a long period of isolation, immediately interacting with a large number of children might be too much for her psyche. I can’t refute that argument, though I don’t fully agree with it. You need to think about it, talk to Michelle, and make a decision – whether to allow it or not.”

“I see, you want to shift the responsibility onto me,” sighed Valentin.

The doctor took off his glasses, cleaned them, and sighed as well.

“Yes, you’re right. We really want your daughter to get better, but… we understand that if something happens, you’ll crush us. And there are more than fifteen children in the ward.”

Valentin stood up and started heading toward the door, but stopped in the doorway.

“Thank you for your honesty. Perhaps you’re right. I’ll talk to my daughter.”

It seemed to him that the doctor sighed with relief. Before entering the room, Valentin tried to stretch his lips into a smile. He couldn’t walk in with a grim face. But no matter how hard he tried, the smile was forced. Now he would see his little girl, who had hardly gotten out of bed lately and couldn’t eat – not because she didn’t want to, but because her body refused to accept food.

The door creaked softly, and Michelle turned her head. At first, she looked at him in fear, as though she didn’t recognize her father, then smiled.

“Hi, Dad!”

Was it just him, or had a light blush actually appeared on her cheeks?

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Suddenly, Valentin felt a strange sensation, as though his daughter wanted him to leave quickly. But that was impossible – she hadn’t seen anyone except the nurses and teachers assigned to the VIP ward. He sat down on a chair by her bed and started pulling out some treats.

“I stopped by the store… Look at these beautiful apples!”

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Dad,” Michelle replied quietly.

Valentin froze, his hand hovering over the small table. There were plates – dinner had just been brought in. But what surprised him wasn’t that, but this: the plates were completely empty.

“Michelle, what’s going on here?”

The girl sighed and said something to the side:

“Come out, don’t be afraid. I have a kind dad.”

And then Valentin saw a girl emerge from behind the curtain – the same one who had run past his car. She looked at him fearfully, and Michelle spoke up:

“Daddy, please don’t make her leave! I’m begging you! I’ll even share my apple with Katya. Where will she go? She has no one, and it’s cold and dark outside, and she was hungry and scared…”

Valentin stared at his daughter, confused. She was sitting in bed, biting her lip, and her cheeks were betraying her with a flush. He turned to the girl, who seemed to be a year or two older than Michelle.

“Are you Katya?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

“My name is Valentin Igorevich, I’m Michelle’s father.”

Katya nodded again, then hesitantly asked:

“Are you really Michelle? What a beautiful name!”

Michelle smiled faintly.

“No, I’m Masha. But my mom called me Michelle, and I always answered…”

“Oh, right… Mom’s not here anymore,” Katya sighed. “I don’t have a mom either, but that was so long ago I don’t even remember her.”

Valentin silently watched as the girls found common ground. Katya carefully settled on the edge of the bed, pulling back the sheet to avoid dirtying the bed with her worn-out clothes. “She really looks the part,” Valentin thought, cutting an apple into slices. He handed a piece to Michelle and Katya. The girls took them, continuing to whisper. Valentin couldn’t help but smile.

“I see you two have a lot to talk about.”

His daughter looked at him pleadingly.

“Dad, please let Katya stay! She can sleep on the couch over there. And we’ll talk a little more.”

Valentin thought for a moment. The girl seemed harmless, but you never knew what might happen.

“Listen, Katya, in the closet there are some of Michelle’s clothes. Take what you need and hurry up to the shower! And make sure you come out as a human. I’ll tell the doctor that Michelle’s sister is here and will stay the night. But you’d better watch out for me!”

Michelle clapped her hands happily.

“Thank you, daddy!”

Katya quickly darted to the closet, opened it carefully, and gasped in surprise. She chose some light pants and a T-shirt. “I’ll be quick!” she called out and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

When the door closed behind Katya, Valentin turned to his daughter.

“So, how are you, little one?”

“Dad, today was so boring! I even wanted to cry. I asked if I could join the other kids, but the doctor said I needed your permission. Then I crawled through the window to Katya… can you imagine? The window was so high!”

“Yeah… Are you sure you want her to stay?”

“Of course! When you leave, ask them to bring us some sweet hot tea.”

Valentin’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He just nodded. He had to work hard to arrange a place for Katya to stay. He even paid for the VIP ward. The doctor shook his head.

“I don’t know… It’s up to you, of course, but just keep in mind…”

“I’ve heard you. I’ll come in the morning for breakfast. Michelle asked for hot sweet tea… two cups. Who should I ask?”

The doctor looked at him in surprise.

“Two? For the girl and for yourself?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll arrange it… You know, better safe than sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

“I won’t say anything for now. Let’s see how tomorrow goes. Then we’ll talk.”

Valentin felt that something had changed with Michelle today. But whether it was good or bad, he couldn’t tell. That night, he slept uneasily, waking up several times. Eventually, he called the on-duty doctor, Mikhail Petrovich.

“Sorry for calling so late.”

“No problem. Honestly, I was expecting your call sooner. Everything’s fine. They were chatting until midnight, until Alla chased them off. Now they’re sleeping. Michelle’s blood pressure is normal, no fluctuations. She drank her tea herself.”

“Thank you, Mikhail Petrovich,” Valentin sighed with relief and immediately fell into a troubled sleep.

The hospital had that characteristic smell: milk porridge and something indefinably childlike. Valentin carefully made his way between the little patients who were darting down the hallway. Surprisingly, those on crutches moved as fast as those with only a bandage on their head.

Finally, he reached Michelle’s ward and sighed with relief. Just as he was about to open the door, it suddenly swung open. Standing in the doorway was Alla, the nurse who had been taking care of Michelle. This kind-hearted young woman always inspired trust. She looked at Valentin, quickly wiped away a tear, and quietly said:

“You’re not just a father… You’re the best father. No one would guess that this is exactly what she was missing.”

With those words, Alla left, and Valentin, stunned, watched her go. “I’ll figure it out now,” he thought, and froze in the doorway. The girls hadn’t noticed him. How could they, when all their attention was focused on the TV screen, where a cartoon mouse was tormenting a cat?

They were sitting on the bed, with their legs curled up, each holding a plate of porridge. Laughing as they devoured it, porridge sometimes spilled out of the plates. Michelle’s clothes were clearly too small for Katya – he’d have to figure something out.

Valentin carefully watched his daughter. She scooped a spoonful of porridge, put it in her mouth – and nothing happened! Michelle calmly swallowed and went on laughing at the cartoon.

Katya noticed him first. She quietly nudged her friend with her elbow and nodded toward her father. Michelle turned around. Valentin couldn’t hold back a surprised sigh. Just yesterday, her gaze had been empty, as if she didn’t want to see or hear anything around her. But today, sitting before him was a lively, happy little girl… though completely worn out.

“Daddy!” Michelle exclaimed joyfully.

He silently walked over to the bed and hugged her tightly, then hugged Katya. Yes, now he was ready to do anything for this strange girl. But then Katya suddenly sniffled. Valentin became worried.

“Sorry, did I hurt you? Did I hug you too tightly?”

Katya shook her head, and Michelle firmly grabbed her hand and looked at her father sternly.

“Dad, don’t hurt her again!” she declared.

Valentin quickly nodded. Katya wiped her tears and quietly said:

“I’m not upset because of that… It’s just that no one has hugged me like that in a long time.”

A week later, Valentin took his daughter home. All this time, Katya had been by her side. Michelle had noticeably recovered, running down the hall with the other kids and chatting cheerfully. While the doctors, stunned by the “phenomenal” recovery of the girl, were doing a full check-up on her, Valentin focused on Katya.

Katya’s mother had disappeared when she was barely two years old. No one knew where she had gone, but everyone was sure she was no longer alive. She had lived anything but an innocent life. After her disappearance, Katya had stayed with her grandmother, but she passed away six months ago. The girl was sent to an orphanage, where she had a conflict with one of the nannies. The woman had raised a hand against the child, and Katya ran away. That was the sad story of her life.

When Valentin arrived to take Michelle, Katya had already packed her modest belongings. She stood up, hugged her friend tightly, then hesitantly glanced at Valentin.

“Thank you… I’ll go now…”

“And where are you going?” he asked.

Their eyes met.

“Probably to the orphanage. It’s cold outside now.”

Valentin thoughtfully replied:

“Does that mean I set up a room next to Michelle for nothing? You… don’t want to become her sister?” he asked gently.

Michelle was the first to squeal with joy and throw herself into her father’s arms. Katya followed, sobbing, and hugged him as well. When they left the hospital, all the nurses who had gathered to see them off were crying. But Valentin only saw Alla and her kind, understanding gaze.

And six months later, he couldn’t imagine his life without Katya. Just like the adopted sisters – Michelle and Katya – couldn’t imagine life without each other.

It started with a scream I thought was from fear—but when I ran out to the garden, my son was crouched in the dirt, grinning like he’d just discovered treasure.

“Mom! Look what I found!” he whispered like it was a secret meant only for us.

Curled under one of the tomato plants was this chubby black-and-white rabbit. No collar, no cage nearby, just sitting there like it had been waiting for someone to notice it. I figured it was someone’s escaped pet, but before I could say a word, my son gently scooped it up like he’d been preparing for this moment his whole life.

We put up flyers, posted online. Nothing. No one claimed it. A week passed, then another. By then, the bunny had a name—“Moo”—because of his cow-like spots. And Moo had a new best friend, who would not leave his side.

I mean literally.

They’d nap together on the couch, Moo tucked under his arm. He’d read books out loud to it in a whispery voice that made me pause outside his room just to listen.

When we finally got around to taking Moo to the vet for a check-up, the doctor confirmed what I’d suspected: Moo wasn’t just some lost bunny; he had been living in the wild for a while, and he wasn’t a typical pet rabbit. He had a bit of a wild side still in him, though he seemed to trust my son implicitly. Moo’s presence was like a balm to my son, who’d been going through a tough time since the divorce. It was like Moo had arrived just when he needed a friend the most.

But as much as I adored seeing my son so happy, a small part of me couldn’t ignore the nagging worry in the back of my mind. Moo was a wild rabbit, not meant for a domestic life, and I knew that deep down, he needed freedom. I could see the conflict in Moo’s eyes too—the times he would dart to the edges of the garden, almost like he was remembering his old life and wondering if he could return. But Moo never strayed too far. It was like he felt some unspoken bond with my son, too strong to break.

Then one day, it happened.

I was in the kitchen, prepping dinner when I noticed Moo hopping around the yard, not doing his usual rounds near my son’s room. My heart sank a little as I realized he was alone, and I rushed outside to see what was going on.

I found my son standing by the back gate, holding a torn piece of paper in his hands. He looked pale, his face ashen, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. I knelt down beside him.

“Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?” I asked softly.

“Mom,” he said, his voice cracking. “Moo… Moo’s been here before, hasn’t he?”

I glanced at Moo, now nibbling on some fresh clover, his fur slightly matted. The rabbit didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. But my son, with his sharp instincts, had noticed something I hadn’t.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He used to live here. With… with someone else.” My son’s words were quiet, and they hit me harder than any scream or shock could.

“What do you mean, with someone else?” I asked, confused. I had never seen Moo with anyone else before.

“Before he came here, he was… with a man. I don’t know why, but I remember seeing him in a dream. The man was sad. And Moo was sad, too. They were both lost. They don’t belong here. They need to go back.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn’t understand it, but something about his words felt undeniably real. I had always known there was more to Moo’s story, but now it seemed like there was some connection between Moo and my son that went beyond the ordinary. The sadness in my son’s voice shook me, and I suddenly realized how much Moo’s presence had meant to him. It wasn’t just the rabbit that was finding a home—my son was, too.

I didn’t know how to respond, so I just hugged him, letting him hold onto me tightly as he sobbed softly. “I don’t want him to leave. But I think he has to. I think I’m holding him back,” my son whispered.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The quiet in the house was oppressive, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn’t quiet. My son had always been intuitive, but this… this felt different. The connection he felt with Moo, the unspoken bond—it was like there was more to this story than just a wild rabbit finding its way into our garden.

The next morning, I called the local animal shelter to ask if they could help us find a better place for Moo. Maybe they could return him to a proper wildlife sanctuary, where he could live with other rabbits in a natural setting. But when I explained Moo’s situation to them, they said something unexpected.

“There’s a gentleman who’s been looking for a rabbit like this. A few years ago, he had one just like Moo, but it ran away. He’s never given up searching for it.” The woman on the other end of the phone paused. “It’s a strange coincidence, but his name is… well, let’s just say, he’s been keeping an eye on the area for years, looking for his rabbit. His name’s Mr. Jacobs.”

I froze. Mr. Jacobs. That was the name my son had mentioned in his dream. The man Moo was with before. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

I told the woman I’d need some time to think it over, but my mind was made up. There was a connection here that was too strong to ignore. My son was right—Moo wasn’t just a pet; he was something more. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew we had to do the right thing.

Later that day, we met Mr. Jacobs at the shelter. He was a gentle, quiet man in his sixties, with kind eyes that had seen a lot of sorrow. As soon as he saw Moo, his face softened in a way I hadn’t expected. He reached out, slowly and carefully, and Moo hopped over to him like he’d known him all along.

“Thank you,” Mr. Jacobs said, his voice shaky. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

I watched as Moo nuzzled up against him, as though recognizing the familiarity of his touch. It was heart-wrenching to see, but it also felt right. Moo wasn’t ours to keep. He had a life that belonged elsewhere, with someone who had always been looking for him.

And then, just as we were about to leave, Mr. Jacobs turned to my son.

“Son, you’ve done a good thing,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You found Moo, and you gave him love when he needed it most. You made sure he wasn’t lost anymore.”

My son looked up at him, his face full of quiet wonder. “Is he really going to be okay?”

Mr. Jacobs smiled. “He’ll be more than okay. He’ll be home.”

As we walked back to the car, my son’s grip on my hand tightened, and I could feel the weight of the moment settling in his heart. But there was something else there, something new: a sense of peace. We had done the right thing. Moo would be okay. And so would we.

The next few weeks were a bit quiet around the house without Moo, but I saw something in my son I hadn’t seen before. A maturity, a kind of understanding that he hadn’t had before. And as for me, I realized that sometimes, letting go of something we love is the hardest thing to do—but it’s often the best thing for both us and the one we love.

In the end, Moo had come into our lives for a reason. He had given my son the love he needed at a time when he felt lost. And in return, my son had given him a second chance at life. Sometimes, the best way to love someone is to let them go.

By doing the right thing and letting Moo return to where he truly belonged, we all found something better—a deeper understanding of what it means to give without expecting anything in return.

Please share this post with anyone who needs to hear that love sometimes means letting go.

Jack checked on his dog Ralph who kept barking on the street, only to discover an abandoned baby with him. The baby turns out to be a very special girl who would change Jack’s life forever.

Despite being a wealthy man, Jack was known as one of the kindest and most generous people in town. He could have had it all until three months ago when he discovered his wife had been cheating on him with his best friend.

Jack divorced his wife, and she moved to a different state with his now ex-best friend. He didn’t let the incident harden his heart, and he remained kind towards everyone around him. However, everybody knew that he was quite a lonely man no matter how kind and friendly he was.

To ease his loneliness, Jack got himself a dog and named it Ralph. “At least you won’t betray me, right Ralph?” he said once he got him, smiling through the pain.

As he was a busy man, Jack had Ralph trained to behave. He would allow Ralph the freedom to run in their backyard in the afternoons, and once he grew tired, the adorable dog would find its way back inside the house.

One day, he let Ralph outside. He was watching a movie on TV when he realized Ralph had not returned home yet. He stepped out and heard the dog barking from afar.

Jack ran over the fence to get closer. Once he reached the road, he saw Ralph next to a baby lying on the grass.

“You poor child,” he said, saddened that someone would leave a helpless baby out on the street. He checked around the area for a bag that might have belonged to the child, but there wasn’t any. A tiny baby was crying, lying in a basket, while my dog sadly nudged her with his nose, as if out of sympathy. Inside the basket, I found a note. I read it with a heavy sigh.

“Don’t look for her parents. This child is yours now. Take care of her.”

Before taking her home, he went to the nearby convenience store and purchased baby milk and diapers so that he could properly care for the child. When they got home, he fed her and changed her diapers. Then he called the police and reported the incident.

“This poor baby was left alone on the street with nothing but her clothes. There were no other adults in the area, so I took her in,” Jack explained.

The police said that they would check CCTV footage in the area to find her parents. However, they were to search for foster parents for the baby for now.

After hearing this, Jack didn’t hesitate. “Can I become her guardian?” he asked. “I run my businesses from home, so I wouldn’t have any problems taking care of her.”

The police got a couple more details and proof of identification from Jack, and they allowed the little girl to live with him. Jack took care of her for months, and when it was determined that her parents could not be identified, she was up for adoption.

As soon as he could, Jack processed the papers needed to adopt the little girl, whom he named Emily, legally.

He raised Emily as his own daughter, even naming her after his mother who also raised him on her own. He loved Emily dearly and provided her with everything she needed and more.

Likewise, Jack was Emily’s hero. She looked up to her dad and always wanted to be around him. Together, they enjoyed every meal together and would go to the park, their favorite ice cream parlors, and the arcade where they spent time a lot of time together.

When Emily turned seven and started going to school, many of the parents and even teachers would note how Jack and Emily looked alike. Even Jack’s friends would say that they “looked like twins.”

Jack never thought of Emily as his adopted daughter, so he took these as compliments and would simply smile every time someone spoke about their resemblance.

One day, while Emily was playing with Ralph in their backyard, she fell and scratched her head on the pavement. As Jack began to treat the wound with an antiseptic, he noticed an incredible thing.

“Would you look at that, sweetheart? We have the same birthmark!” he said, surprised. He never noticed Emily’s birthmark before because her hair covered it.

“We were always meant to be together, dad,” she said, wiping her tears away and smiling at her dad.

Curious about how this could happen, Jack decided to do a DNA test. He took a sample of Emily’s hair and sent it alongside his own. He didn’t think much of it, but he was stunned when the results came about three weeks later.

The test showed a 99.9% match that Emily was his daughter. He had always been a loyal man, so it only meant one thing – his ex-wife had been pregnant with his child.

He decided to give her a call, and she answered. “What do you want, Jack?”

“Why didn’t you tell me we had a daughter?” he asked her as soon as she answered.

“I didn’t want to raise your child, nor did I want to see you ever again, so I left her on the road. I knew you’d find her anyway. Bye now, and please don’t ever call me again,” she said before putting down the phone.

Jack couldn’t believe it and was in tears. While knowing that Emily was actually his biological daughter did not affect his love for her, he was glad to know that he was able to care for his own daughter.

“What’s wrong, dad?” Emily asked after she saw her dad crying.

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. I’m just really happy,” he explained. “Remember what dad told you? That you were sent to me from heaven even though I was not your real dad?” he asked her.

Emily nodded. “You are my real dad, dad. Don’t forget that,” she corrected him.

“Yes, sweetheart. I am your real dad. These DNA results prove that” he said, handing her the paper.

“I told you, dad. We were always meant to be together,” Emily said, hugging him.

A few years later, Jack found love again. Having been present in all of Emily’s school activities, he eventually fell in love with one of her teachers.

Two years after they got married, Emily gained a baby sister. Emily took on being a big sister with a lot of pride and joy.

Since then, Jack, Emily, and the rest of their family have lived peacefully and happily. They valued their time together as a family more than anything. This prompted Jack to retire early to spend more time with his children.

What can we learn from this story?

Experiencing hardships should not harden our hearts. No matter how painful it was for Jack to lose his wife and his best friend after they betrayed him, he didn’t allow it to embitter him. Instead, he picked himself back up and found ways to cope while remaining kind, generous, and truthful.
It’s never too late to start again. Jack never imagined ever having a family after what happened to him, but Emily entered his life and taught him what true love means. Through his healthy relationship with his daughter, he was hopeful that he’d be able to find love again, and he eventually did.

Share this story with your loved ones. It might inspire them and make their day.

The call came in as just another routine report—an abandoned puppy, shivering behind a dumpster. Officer Marcus Hayes rolled his eyes slightly when dispatch mentioned it. He’d been on duty for ten hours already, dealing with everything from domestic disputes to petty theft, and the last thing he needed was an animal rescue mission. Still, orders were orders.

When Marcus arrived at the dimly lit alleyway off 5th Street, he expected the usual: a scared, helpless animal left to fend for itself. The rain had started up again, turning the narrow passage into a slick obstacle course of puddles and discarded trash. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, finally illuminating the small figure huddled against the brick wall.

But when he picked up the tiny pup, barely big enough to fit in his hands, something inside him shifted. The little dog, wrapped in a torn sweater that might have once been blue, whimpered and nuzzled into his chest. Instead of fear, there was trust. Instead of hesitation, there was comfort.

Marcus sighed, holding the pup close. He had seen a lot in his twelve years on the force – things that hardened a person. Drug busts gone wrong, car accidents that still haunted his dreams, domestic violence cases that made him question humanity’s decency. But this? This melted him in a way he hadn’t felt since his daughter was born fifteen years ago.

He radioed in the find, but as he looked down at the puppy in his arms, already knowing what he was going to do, his voice cracked just a little. “Dispatch, this is Officer Hayes. I’ve got the pup. It’s… it’s coming home with me.”

A chilly autumn wind drove yellow leaves down the village street as Alina stepped off the bus. Her legs ached after the long journey, and her heart felt heavy—saying goodbye to her grandfather had been hard.

She had barely taken a few steps from the stop when she heard a familiar, slightly hoarse voice: “Alinushka, dear, how was your trip?”

Nina Petrovna, the local paramedic, hurried toward her, waving her arms. A plump woman in a worn medical coat over a warm sweater, she was one of the few in the village who could understand and support Alina.

Although her husband, Pavel, didn’t like the medic and often made fun of her professionalism, calling her a “country healer,” Alina had a warm and trusting relationship with Nina Petrovna.

“More or less, Nina Petrovna,” sighed Alina, slowing her pace. She didn’t want to talk about the trip, but she knew the conversation was inevitable. “But I still couldn’t make peace with Grandpa before he passed. He carried his grudge with him…”

“Yeah, my girl,” Nina Petrovna shook her head, adjusting a gray strand of hair that had slipped out from under her cap. “Your grandfather was a stubborn, proud man. With such a character, even if you wanted to, it wouldn’t always work to make peace. May his soul rest in peace.” After a pause, she asked, “How’s your husband? Still sick?”

Alina sighed deeply again, fiddling with the handle of her worn bag. “He’s lying there, weak. No appetite, no energy. We’ve seen all the doctors—none can help. He’s already preparing for the worst… He says he feels like his time is up.”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” Nina Petrovna suddenly snorted, her eyes flashing with indignation. “Your Pavel is clearly putting on an act! He’s putting on a performance—Stanislavsky himself would envy it!”

“Why are you saying this?” Alina was hurt, though deep down, doubts were beginning to creep in. “Pasha really is suffering. How can he be at fault if the doctors can’t find a diagnosis?”

“Ah, young one…” The medic waved her hand. “The reason the doctors don’t see anything is that there’s nothing to find. But you’ll understand everything in time,” she said cryptically, giving Alina a knowing look before disappearing down the alley, leaving the girl swirling in anxious thoughts.

Alina didn’t want to go home. She headed towards the river and sat on a fallen tree that the locals used as an impromptu bench. A scene from their farewell before she left for the funeral flashed in her mind.

When Pavel heard of her intention to leave, he dramatically sighed, covering his eyes with a hand that was as thin as wax: “Of course, go ahead, dear. I understand… Just remember, inheritance doesn’t lie on the road. When I die, there won’t be any money for my funeral anyway.”

Now those words stung her heart. Alina remembered how it all began. After graduating from the music school, she categorically refused to pursue a career as a violinist, contrary to all of her grandfather’s hopes.

“I’ll never touch this instrument again!” she declared, placing her red diploma and the beloved violin her grandfather had given her when she was twelve before him.

“What do you mean, you won’t play?” Grandpa turned red with anger, his hands, rough from hard labor, clenched into fists. “I devoted my whole life so you could become a musician! Are you going to twist cow tails now?”

“Better twist cow tails than play the violin!” she blurted out, immediately regretting her words, but it was too late. Hurt and pride wouldn’t let her take them back.

That’s how she ended up in this village, becoming the head of the local club. Here she met Pavel—the only guy who didn’t swear and seemed like the perfect life partner. He admired her determination, spoke beautiful words about the future, and gradually, Alina forgot about city life and suitors who were willing to carry her violin.

The first year of their married life passed in a blur. She worked tirelessly: bought a cow, even though Pavel dreamt of a motorcycle. He was upset at the time, claiming she didn’t care about his interests and ignored his dreams.

Now Alina bitterly thought: she would have sold everything, bought a dozen motorcycles, just to get back the Pavel she had fallen in love with—the one who had been there, supporting her.

The family crisis began four months ago, when during a heavy rain, water started dripping onto the dining table. “Pasha, what’s this?” she asked, holding a bowl under the leaks.

“Water, what else?” he laughed, not taking his eyes off the TV. “What’s so funny? The roof is about to collapse!” Alina raised her voice for the first time in her life, feeling the years of frustration break free.

“What do you want me to do?” he snapped, finally turning to face her. “To fix the roof, we need money. Do you have any?”

“And you?” Alina exploded. “Other husbands work from dawn to late at night, providing for their families and worrying about the future! What are you doing?”

“There’s no work for me in the village!” Pavel jumped up from his seat. “I’m not going to dig through manure for some country farm. I wasn’t born for that!”

After this argument, he moved to his mother’s house, and when he returned a week later, he collapsed with some mysterious illness. Now, Alina was slowly walking up the familiar path to their house, reflecting on the strange hints of the medic. The gate was wide open, even though she distinctly remembered locking it before leaving. Voices were coming from inside the house.

Approaching the door, she overheard her husband talking to his mother.

“No, Mom, she’s as dumb as a post. The cabbage rolls today are amazing! Haven’t eaten anything this good in a while.”

Alina peered through the crack and froze—her “dying” husband was eating lunch with great appetite, gesturing energetically. His cheeks were flushed with health, and his voice sounded perfectly lively.

“Don’t forget,” his mother advised as she poured another helping, “when she comes back, you should be really ill. Talk about a sanatorium, expensive treatment. After all, she inherited from Grandpa, let her spend it on you.”

“Exactly,” Pavel laughed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “The treatment will cost as much as her inheritance! Then I’ll gradually start getting better.”

Alina’s breath caught. She silently slipped out of the house and headed to the neighbors. An hour later, the cow and chickens were sold for a symbolic sum, and she was methodically packing her things into an old suitcase. When Pavel saw this, he immediately “fell ill.”

“Alinushka, bring me some water… I feel really bad.”

“No, dear,” she replied, looking at him with scornful pity. “You’re sick from your lies and your mother’s advice. Look at yourself—a healthy man who lies on the couch all day. What kind of man are you?”

That evening, she left for the city, where she still had an apartment after her grandfather’s death. A week later, the divorce papers arrived. Pavel, armed with his mother’s advice, rushed to the city, planning to win her back. He spent hours pacing in front of her apartment, imagining how soon he would be the owner of the city apartment and leave the hated village.

When a black luxury car pulled up by the entrance and an elegant, silver-haired man helped Alina out, Pavel stood frozen.

She appeared before him as someone entirely different—perfectly styled hair, fashionable clothes, confident gaze. There was no trace left of the simple village woman she had been just a week ago.

“What are you doing here?” she raised an eyebrow, surprised to see her ex-husband.

“I came to see my wife! And you’re here with some gentlemen…” he tried to act outraged.

“First of all, this is Andrei, my old friend. And second, what business is it of yours? Didn’t you get the divorce papers?”

“I got them, but I won’t agree! We love each other!” he blurted out the phrase he had rehearsed, feeling how false it sounded.

Alina laughed—lightly, as if freed from the burden of the past. “Go home, don’t make a fool of yourself. How dare you show up after your ‘deadly illness’ and your mother’s cooking?”

She took Andrei’s arm and confidently headed towards the building. Pavel took a step after them, but when he met Andrei’s steady gaze, he reconsidered—there was such strength and confidence in Andrei’s gray eyes that Pavel wanted to disappear immediately.

Six months later, Alina, dazzling in a snow-white dress, entered the registry office with the same Andrei—happy and free from the past life with the pretender.

Her new partner turned out to be not only a successful man but also a talented musician. And when, in the evenings, the sounds of the violin filled their city apartment, Alina thought about how strange fate can be, bringing us back to what we once rejected.

— My God, who is this out in such a blizzard? — Anna threw back the blanket and shivered as a cold gust ran across her bare feet.

The knock on the door came again—insistent, demanding. The wind outside howled like a wounded beast, battering snow against the windowpanes.

— Ivan, wake up, — she touched her husband’s shoulder. — Someone’s knocking.

Ivan sat up, blinking sleepily:

— In this weather? Maybe you’re imagining it?

A louder knock made them both start.

— No, I’m not imagining it, — Anna draped a shawl over her shoulders and headed for the door.

The flickering kerosene lamp cast dancing shadows on the walls. The electricity had gone out last night—winters in Ustinovo were always harsh, and 1991 had brought not only political upheaval but record-breaking frost.

The door opened with difficulty—nearly buried in snow. On the threshold stood a girl, fragile as a reed, wearing an elegant dark coat. In her arms she held a bundle. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes wide with fear.

— Please help me, — her voice trembled. — You must hide him. Take care of him… They want to get rid of him…

Before Anna could respond, the girl stepped forward and placed the bundle in her arms. It was warm. Alive. A tiny face of a sleeping infant peeked from the swaddling.

— Who are you? What’s happening? — Anna instinctively pressed the child to her chest. — Wait!

But the girl had already vanished into the storm, her silhouette swallowed by the swirling snow in seconds.

Anna stood on the threshold, feeling flakes melt on her cheeks. Ivan came up behind her and peered over her shoulder.

— What the… — he trailed off at the sight of the baby.

They exchanged a wordless glance. Gently, Ivan closed and bolted the door against the howling blizzard.

— Look at him, — Anna whispered, carefully unfolding the blanket.

He was a boy, perhaps six months old. Rosy cheeks, plump lips, long lashes. He slept with soft little sighs, oblivious to the bitter cold, the late hour, or the strange exchange.

On a delicate chain around his neck glinted a small pendant engraved with the letter “A.”

— My God, who could abandon such a child? — Anna felt tears pricking her eyes.

Ivan said nothing, simply stared. Over all their years together, they had never managed to have a child of their own. How many nights had he heard Anna’s soft sobs? How many times had they watched other couples’ babies with painful longing?

— She said they want to get rid of him, — Anna looked up at her husband. — Ivan, who would want to discard a newborn?

— I don’t know, — he murmured, rubbing his stubbly chin. — But that girl was clearly not from here—her accent was city, and that coat… it must have cost a fortune.

— Where could she have gone in a storm like this? — Anna shook her head. — No car, no other sounds…

Suddenly the baby opened his clear blue eyes and stared at her. He neither cried nor flinched—just gazed, as if measuring his new fate.

— We have to feed him, — Anna said firmly, heading to the table. — We still have some milk left from last night.

Ivan watched as she bustled by the stove, warming the milk, checking the swaddling, cradling the infant with a tenderness that spoke of a mother’s heart.

— Anna, — he said at last, — we’ll have to report this to the village council. Maybe someone’s looking for him.

She froze, clutching the child to her breast.

— What if they really do want to abandon him? What if we put him in danger?

Ivan ran a hand through his hair.

— Let’s wait until morning. If no one shows up, then we’ll decide what to do.

Anna nodded gratefully. The infant quietly slurped from a little bowl of warm milk sweetened with a spoonful of sugar.

— What do you think his name might be? — she asked.

Ivan leaned in, touching the pendant.

— A… Alexander? Sasha?

The baby smiled a toothless grin, as though agreeing.

— Sasha, — Anna repeated, her voice brimming with the tenderness she’d held onto for so long.

Outside, the blizzard raged on, but inside that little cottage on the edge of Ustinovo, it felt warm—like fate itself had stepped through the door and decided to stay.

Seven years later, a tall, bright-eyed boy stirred porridge in a pot by the stove.

— You’ll be a master chef yet, — Ivan chuckled. — Soon you’ll outdo me.

Anna watched her son with a heart full of love. Seven years had flown by in a day. Every morning she’d woken half expecting someone to come for him—but they never did. The mysterious girl never returned.

— Mom, can I have some sour cream? — Sasha reached for the clay bowl.

— Of course, dear, — Anna replied, moving it closer. — Just be careful, it’s hot.

A knock came at the window. Anna flinched.

— Anyka, come on! Time to drive the cows out! — called their neighbor, Zinaida.

— I’m coming! — Anna called back, adjusting her headscarf.

— Can I go with you? Then I’ll run down to the river, — Sasha asked.

— Did you finish your homework? — Ivan asked, packing his tools.

— I did it yesterday, — Sasha replied proudly. — Maria Stepanovna said I do the best in class.

Anna and Ivan exchanged knowing glances. Sasha was gifted—everyone said so. But though they dreamed of sending him away to a better school, money was tight.

— Maybe one day we’ll save enough to send you to the district school, — Anna mused.

— If only, — Ivan sighed. — The kolkhoz hasn’t paid us this month, either.

Years passed, and that little boy grew into Alexander K. Kuznetsov, the village’s pride—and still Anna and Ivan’s cherished son. Though his hair was light and theirs dark, and sometimes other children whispered that he was adopted, they only laughed.

— You’re our son in every way that matters, — Ivan would say.

— Like a fairy tale, — Sasha would grin.

— Real life is sometimes more marvelous than fairy tales, — Anna would reply.

On his graduation day, Sasha stood tall on the stage of the village club, accepting a gold medal for best graduate in ten years. Anna wiped tears as Ivan straightened his shoulders proudly. Afterward, the family sat down for a modest feast. Ivan raised a toast:

— To you, son—and to your future!

They clinked glasses, and Sasha felt a lump in his throat. Poor though they were, he knew he’d always been surrounded by the greatest wealth: love.

That very evening, the rumble of an unfamiliar car at the gate startled them. A black SUV—shiny, imposing—pulled up. A well-dressed man got out, briefcase in hand.

— Good evening, — he said, introducing himself as Sergey Mikhailovich, a city lawyer. — I’m here for Alexander Kuznetsov.

In the cramped kitchen he laid out documents and photographs, telling them that Alexander’s real name was Belov—that his parents, Nikolai Antonovich and Elena Sergeevna Belov, had been killed in 1991 by rivals, and that the child had been whisked away by the family nurse to save him. According to his late grandfather’s will, Sasha was now heir to a vast fortune.

The revelation stunned them. Ivan slumped into a chair; Anna wept behind her hands. But Sasha stood firm:

— My real family is right here. I won’t abandon you.

Three days later, Sasha met his dying grandfather—blind, frail, but proud—and learned the full story of his birthright and sacrifice. Months later, Ustinovo itself was transformed: new roads, power lines, a sports field, a modern school. Sasha, newly arrived home on a holiday weekend, cut the ribbon himself, thanking the villagers who had raised him.

For Anna and Ivan he built a simple, sturdy house with wide windows and a modern stove, surrounded by a rose garden and a woodworking shop for Ivan. Anna tended her flowers; Ivan worked at his bench, spared by time’s hardships but unbroken.

— I always thought fate would bring you to us and then take you away, — Anna confided one evening in the garden.

— Instead, I chose you, — Sasha replied. — The heart knows best.

On his twentieth birthday, he founded a charity for orphaned children, named for Anna and Ivan Kuznetsov—despite their embarrassed protests.

Back in his Moscow apartment, Sasha carefully placed two treasures on his dresser: the little pendant with the letter “A” and the threadbare scarf Anna gave him on the day he left for the city. Two symbols of his past and present—blood and love, two paths that had merged into one destiny.

— Who’s crying out there? Stepan, can you hear? In such dismal weather, someone is crying!

— Probably it’s just the wind howling, Katyusha. What tears could there be on a night like this…

I ran out onto the porch without even grabbing my scarf. The autumn rain whipped against my cheeks, yet I kept straining my eyes into the darkness.

And suddenly — that sound again. Not the wind, no. Human sobbing, so faint, so vulnerable.

At the bottom step lay a bundle, wrapped in an old scarf. Inside — a child, a boy of about three years old.
His eyes were wide open, yet his gaze was empty. He didn’t blink when I brought my hand to his face.
Stepan came out, silently picked up the bundle with the little one, and carried it inside.

— It’s a divine decree, — he said simply as he set the kettle down. — Let’s keep him.

In the morning, we headed to the district hospital. Doctor Semyon Palych shook his head and sighed heavily:

— He’s blind. Apparently since birth. He doesn’t speak, but he does react to sounds. His development… it’s hard to say. Ekaterina Sergeyevna, you do understand, there are so many children like this in orphanages…

— No, — I replied softly but firmly enough to silence the doctor. — I don’t understand. And I refuse to understand.

Later, we completed the paperwork.

Nina from the village council helped — a distant relative on my mother’s side. They organized everything as an “adoption.” They named him Ilya — in memory of Stepan’s grandfather.

That day we returned home as a family.

— How are we going to manage him? — Stepan stammered, awkwardly holding the little one as I opened the door.

— We’ll manage as best we can. We’ll learn, — I replied, not fully trusting my own words.

I had to leave my job at the school — temporarily, I thought. Ilya required attention every moment.

He did not see danger, didn’t know where the edge of the porch was, where the stove was.

Stepan worked in the logging camps, coming home exhausted, but every evening he would create something for the little one — wooden handrails along the hut’s walls, pegs with ropes in the garden so that Ilya could move around by holding onto the stretched cord.

— Look, Ekaterina, he’s smiling, — Stepan smiled for the first time since Ilya appeared, showing me how the little one was feeling his big, rough hand.

— He recognizes you, — I whispered. — By your hands.

The neighbors split into two groups. Some expressed sympathy, while others condemned. The first group sent children to help, brought milk and eggs. The others whispered on the benches:

— And why do they need him? They’re healthy themselves; they could have their own.

That infuriated me, but Stepan wisely said:

— They don’t know, they don’t understand. We didn’t know either until Ilyusha appeared.

By winter, Ilya began uttering his first words. Slowly, hesitantly:

— Ma-ma.

I froze with a spoonful of porridge in my hand. In that moment, something inside me changed — as if a river that had been flowing in one direction suddenly reversed.

I had never considered myself a mother. A teacher, a wife, a village woman — but not a mother. And now…

In the evenings, when Ilya was falling asleep, I would sit by the stove and re-read old textbooks, trying to figure out how to teach a blind child.

Discoveries came gradually. I guided his hands over objects, naming them.

I let him touch different surfaces — smooth, rough, warm, cold. We listened to the sounds of the village — roosters, cows, the creak of gates.

— Don’t lose heart, — Baba Dunya said as she brought a pail of milk. — God willing, he’ll grow up. After all, blind children… have keener hearing and more sensitive hands. Who knows, he might even surprise everyone.

— I’m not losing heart, — I answered. — It’s just… we don’t know how. Nobody does. We simply love him.

— And that’s all he needs, — the old woman nodded, setting the pail on the table. — Love conquers all.

By spring, Ilya was already following me around the house, holding onto my apron.

He recognized Stepan by his footsteps, reaching out to him.

And when the neighborhood children started coming into our yard, he laughed for the first time upon hearing them play tag.

— Katyusha, — Stepan embraced me, watching as Ilya sat on the porch, listening to the children’s voices. — I’m thinking… it wasn’t we who found him. He found us.

Time passed. Ilya grew up, as all children do — remarkably fast. By the age of seven, he knew our home better than we did.

He could walk from the porch to the shed without ever straying from his path. He recognized the trees in our garden by the texture of their bark. He helped me sort through potatoes, unfailingly picking out the rotten ones.

— This one gives off a different scent, — he explained, setting aside a decaying tuber. — And if you tap it with your nail, the sound is muffled.

Stepan built for him an entire network of guides — pegs of different heights all over the yard, rope paths, handrails.

And I searched for ways to teach him reading.

— How will you learn your letters? — the neighbors wondered. — Perhaps you don’t even need it?

I stayed silent. At night, I would carve letters out of linden wood — three-dimensional, with sharp angles and raised curves. I’d hammer small nails into planks, stretch wire — forming lines. Though very simple, just a couple of words.

Ilya ran his fingers over these homemade symbols, memorizing the shape of each character.

The day he read his first word, Stepan brought an enormous pine board from the forest.

— Let’s make a desk for studying, — he declared, his eyes glowing. — With sides so that the textbooks won’t fall.

Official representatives learned about our Ilya when he turned eight. A commission from the district education department arrived — to check why the child was not attending school.
— Citizen Vorontsova, — began a stout woman in a strict suit, — do you realize that you are breaking the law? A child of school age is obliged to receive an education.

— He is receiving one, — I indicated at our homemade alphabet, the exercise books with pages punctured where Ilya learned to write, pressing the paper.

— But not from professional teachers, — she objected. — In our region there is a specialized boarding school for blind children. There you’ll get professional care, proper methods…

— No, — I felt my face stiffen.

— Think about it, citizen. He isn’t even your blood relative. Why suffer so? They’ll take better care of him there.

I slowly stood up from my seat.

— He’s ours. And he will live a full life, not merely exist.

They left, but I knew — they would return. Stepan was silent for two days, then began building an extra room onto the house.

— For Ilya, — he said as he hammered in the first nail. — His own space. To store his textbooks.

I was allowed to return to teaching at the school, and at home, I was given permission to educate Ilya myself. Every day after classes, we learned together. He absorbed everything instantly.

Sometimes other teachers would come by; we managed to arrange lessons.

— Ekaterina Sergeyevna, — the school principal once said to me, — do you know that your boy… is special?

— I know, — I smiled.

— No, I’m not talking about his blindness. He has an extraordinary memory. And his speech… How does a village child have such a vast vocabulary?

Every evening I read to him. Pushkin, Tolstoy, Chekhov. Stepan brought books from the district library — where Anna Pavlovna worked, who became our protector.

She would set aside the latest books for us, and when the first cassette recorder appeared, she began recording books onto tape.
Ilya listened, memorized, repeated. His speech truly stood out from that of other children — unhurried, thoughtful, as if he tasted every word before speaking.

In the village, everyone got used to him. The children no longer teased him, but ran toward him:

— Ilyukha, come with us! Tell us a story!

He told them fairy tales — both those I had read to him and those he composed himself.

He would sit on a log at the edge of the village, surrounded by wide-eyed village kids. Even adults would stop to listen.

— You know, Stepa, — I said to my husband one evening, — it seems he notices more than we do. Just in a different way.

— He sees with his heart, — Stepan nodded. — And we look with our eyes, yet don’t always truly see.

When Ilya turned seventeen, we sat together on the porch. I was mending Stepan’s shirt,

while Ilya ran his fingers over a book I had specially obtained for him — designed for the blind.

— Mom, — he suddenly said, — I want to write. So that others aren’t afraid.

— Write? — I pricked my finger with a needle. — You want to become an author?

— Yes, — he turned his face toward me. — I want to tell the story of those who can’t see. Yet still perceive the world. About you. About Dad. About everything you have given me.

I looked at his face — lean, with high cheekbones, so reminiscent of Stepan’s, though they were not related by blood. My son. Our son.
— I’ll record every word you say, — I told him, squeezing his hand. — Every single word.

The year 2025. Outside, spring resounded — noisy, ringing, with the cries of jackdaws and the scent of melting earth.

I sit in a wicker chair on the terrace of our new home. Spacious, bright, with wide corridors and no thresholds. A home that Ilya built for us with the royalties from his works.

— Mom, the tea is getting cold, — Ilya sets a new cup before me. Forty-seven years old, yet his movements remain as careful and deliberate as ever.

Now he navigates not only our home — but the entire world.

— I was thinking, — I smile as I take the cup. — I remembered how we started.

Stepan comes out of the garden, leaning on his cane. The years have not been kind to his sturdy back — he had hauled too much lumber, too many boards he had hewed.
— What are you two talking about? — he asks, sitting down beside me.

— About the past, — Ilya answers and laughs. — Mom, you’re lost in your memories again.

— She’s our dreamer, — Stepan takes my hand. His palm still rough, though now marked by age spots.

I look at them — the two most important men in my life — and I cannot believe how much has happened over the years.

After that conversation on the porch, Ilya began dictating stories to me. At first hesitantly, then ever more boldly.

I recorded every word in a thick notebook. When personal computers appeared, we mastered the technology together.

Anna Pavlovna from the library helped us establish contact with the editorial board of a literary publication.

Ilya’s first story was published in 2000. “Listening to the World” — a narrative about a boy who distinguished people by the sound of their steps. Then came a novella, a novel, a collection.

Ilya’s creativity is unique. It tells of people who perceive reality in another way. Of voices, sounds, touches.

Of a light that one can feel on the skin. Of a memory that is more powerful than sight.

Now he has his own studio in a large house — with a computer that voices everything that appears on the screen. With speech recognition programs that capture his words.

Technological innovations have transformed the lives of people like him. But Ilya asserts that the main transformation did not come from the equipment.

— People have started to listen, — he explains to journalists who come for interviews. — They have learned to heed those who are different.

Stepan activates a radio — an old device that we keep like a relic.

— They’ll be talking about our boy again, — he says proudly.

Ilya grimaces:

— Dad, turn it off. It’s awkward to listen to things about yourself.

— But I love it, — Stepan insists stubbornly. — Do you remember, Ekaterina, the first time he said “mom”?

I smile.

— How could I forget… I cried like the last fool back then.

The radio broadcasts news about Ilya Vorontsov’s new novel, which has become a significant event in literature. About his small charitable foundation for blind children.

About how society’s attitude toward people with visual impairments has transformed.

There’s a knock at the door — a new device has been delivered for Ilyusha’s studio. My son goes to answer — confidently, without brushing against the walls. In a house built for him, he needs no guides.
— Imagine, — he returns beaming, — they’ve invited me to join the “People of Light” foundation! They want me to be their representative.

— You’ll go? — Stepan asks.

— I don’t know, — Ilya sits between us. — Only if you come with me. I’m nowhere without you.

The three of us sit on the terrace, listening to spring. I watch my son — tall, a stately man with noble streaks of gray at his temples.

Behind him, my husband — aged, yet as reliable as ever. And I reflect on that rain, on that cry in the night.

I always believed that we gave Ilya life. But with time, I realized — he gave life to us. Filled it with meaning, with a light that cannot be seen but is felt every day. He taught us to notice what others miss. To listen with the heart.

If that October night were to happen again — I would run out onto the porch once more. Barefoot, into the rain. And I would again say: yes. Yes to this fate. Yes to this son. Yes to this life, which turned out to be far richer than I could have dreamed.

— Mom, what are you thinking about? — Ilya touches my hand.

— That you are the best thing that ever happened to us, — I say simply.

— No, — he shakes his head and smiles that special smile I’ve known for many years. — The best thing that happened is us. All of us together.

— Oh, son, there go your wife and daughter! Let’s go meet them.

And now, would you like to know how Ilya perceived everything that was happening? Let’s take a look at the story from his point of view.

My world was always peculiar. Not “dark” — as many believe. Just different, filled with sounds, scents, touches.

My earliest memories are of the warmth of my mother’s hands. Her voice, ringing like a spring brook. My father’s rough fingers, exuding the smell of resin and wood.

I don’t know when I realized I couldn’t see — because I had never seen otherwise. I was five when I first became curious about it.

— Mom, why can’t I see like everyone else?

She froze. I heard her breath catch. Then she took my hands and placed them on her face. — You see in a different way, Ilyusha. With your hands, with your ears, with your heart. Eyes are only one method. You have others.

That day she took me into the garden and let me touch every tree, every bush. “Remember their voices,” she said. — “The birch rustles differently than the aspen. The apple tree smells unlike the cherry.”

The world for me was a symphony of sounds. The creak of the floorboards in the house, which told me exactly where I was. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen. The rustle of pages when mom read to me in the evenings.

When I was six, a neighbor boy named Vovka asked: “And how do you see dreams?” I thought for a long time about how to explain. — In my dreams, I soar. I touch the treetops. I hear the sound of every leaf.

— But what color are they? — he pressed.

— Colors… they have sounds, — I said then. — Yellow rings like a little bell. Red rumbles like a trumpet.

Vovka fell silent. Then he grabbed my hand:

— Come on! I’ll show you something!

He led me to the river. He scooped up water with his hands and let me feel it.

— See how blue it is, — he said. — Like cold water.

Thus began our friendship. And my understanding of colors through touch, sounds, temperature. When it came time to learn, mom created a whole world of embossed letters for me. I would run my fingers over the rough boards for hours, memorizing the shapes. I mastered the alphabet in a week. Reading opened up a whole new universe for me.

— How do you remember so quickly? — mom marveled.

I didn’t know how to explain. To me, each letter had its own character, its own voice. And words came together in melodies I could not forget. At eight, people came who wanted to take me away. I stood by the door, listening as mom argued with them. “He’s ours,” — she said in a way that sent shivers down my spine. — “And he will live only with us.”

Then I realized for the first time — not being able to see in this world means being in danger. They could take you away, separate you, hide you from everyone else. And I also understood that I had protectors. Dad built me a room. I helped him, handing him nails, holding the boards. He never said “be careful” or “don’t touch” — he simply explained:

— Hold the hammer firmly. Strike accurately, without fear.

At twelve, I began to tell stories. First, I retold the ones mom read to me. Then I started inventing my own. — Where do you get these stories from? — the village kids asked, gathering around me.

— Out of thin air, — I laughed. — I hear them whisper.

In truth, the stories were born out of sounds. The creak of a door became the beginning of an adventure.

The sound of rain transformed into a march. The whir of mom’s sewing machine turned in my imagination into the measured clatter of train wheels.

I could almost physically feel how the train carried its characters further and further from familiar places — to where new territories and unknown challenges awaited.

At seventeen, I was struck with the realization — my stories should not vanish into thin air.

They yearned to be set on paper, demanded to exist beyond my voice. I wanted to reveal to people how the world is experienced by one who has never seen it. — You dictate, and I’ll write, — mom simply said when, overcome with emotion, I shared my dream with her. There was not a trace of doubt in her tone, as if she had been waiting for that moment for a long time.

She recorded every word I dictated. Every day after her school classes, she would sit beside her notebook. I heard the scratch of her pen, the rustle of the pages. It was our secret, our ritual. The first story was printed when I was twenty-two. I remember dad reading it aloud — published in a magazine, a real one. His voice trembled with pride.

The surrounding reality transformed around me. Computers appeared, talking programs, e-books. I embraced new technologies, discovered opportunities I never could have dreamed of in my childhood. At thirty, I met Marina — an editor at a publishing house who came to negotiate a new book.

She walked across our yard, and I immediately recognized her footsteps among all the other sounds — light, yet confident, with a distinctive rhythm, as if she were not walking but dancing along the edge of the earth.

And her voice… It interwove notes that touched something deep within me — like a string resonating in unison with my heartbeat.

— Confess, — she said, leafing through the manuscript of my new book, — what’s your secret? Your descriptions are so… tangible. I literally feel everything you write about.

— I perceive the world through other senses, — I answered. — And I translate them into a universal language.

A year later, we married. Two years after that, our daughter Anya was born — with eyes like Marina’s (as mom says), and long fingers like mine (I already know that by touch).

With each new book, the accolades kept coming.

Interviews, travels, meetings with readers. I founded a foundation to support blind children. Together with Marina, we created a small studio — our own little island where books come to life.

We built a home — not just walls and a roof, but an extension of ourselves, with rooms that seem to breathe in rhythm with its inhabitants. In the garden, where I know every bush by its scent, now rest parents whose hands have earned that peace.

On the threshold of forty-seven, I look back and feel like a collector of treasures that money cannot buy — they come only through fate, through encounters, through overcoming challenges.

Not sight — but the ability to perceive the world in layers, in depth. Not an ordinary childhood — but one filled with the love of two people who never let me feel “different.” People often pity the blind. They ask, “How do you cope?” I always answer, “And why should I not cope?”

My world is full of colors — they just have sounds, scents, textures. My world is full of faces — I just feel them with my fingertips.

I did not lose my sight — I found other ways to perceive reality.

And I also found parents who taught me the most important thing: blindness is not an obstacle. The obstacle is fear. And love is stronger than any barrier. Here, on the terrace, between the two dearest breaths, amid the mingling voices of the spring garden, I sometimes feel a strange sensation — as if I see the world more clearly than many who can see, because I have learned to distinguish the essence of things, sifting the chaff of the trivial from the grains of the genuine.

And if you ask me: “Would you like to see as everyone else?” I would answer: “Who said that I see any less?”

Yulia Antonovna had long served in the Grigoryev household — Vladimir and Lyudmila. Today the owners had gone somewhere, and the maid, having finished all her chores around the house, sat down to rest by the window. Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a little boy on the street. Skinny and clad in tattered clothes, he was wandering along the fence of their property.

«Perhaps he’s hungry,» sighed Yulia Antonovna, feeling pity for the unfortunate child. Glancing at the huge clock in the living room, she decided that the couple wouldn’t return anytime soon, and stepped out into the yard.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly, addressing the boy who was attentively watching the street. “Vasya,” he replied, casting a cautious look at her from beneath his disheveled bangs. “Well then, Vasya, come with me. I’ll feed you some fresh apple pie,” the woman offered, and the boy, without hesitation, followed her. His stomach had been rumbling from hunger for a long time: he hadn’t eaten anything that day.

In the kitchen, Yulia Antonovna carefully cut an impressive slice of pie with a knife and placed a plate in front of the hungry little one.

“Oh, it’s so delicious!” Vasya exclaimed, greedily biting into the soft pastry. “My mother used to bake a pie just like this once!” “And where is your mother?” the woman asked cautiously. The boy froze, stopped chewing, and sadly lowered his eyes. “I’ve been looking for her for a long time… She disappeared,” he murmured softly. “Eat, eat,” Yulia Antonovna gently encouraged him. “You’ll find your mother, I’m sure you will.”

At that moment, the front door creaked, and Vladimir and Lyudmila entered the house. The maid flinched upon hearing the footsteps.

“And who do we have here as a guest?” Vladimir asked in surprise as he peered into the kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw the boy. “Who did you bring in, Yulia?” he said sternly to the maid. “This child is looking for his mother; he’s hungry, and I decided to feed him,” the woman replied calmly, shrugging her shoulders.

“So now you’re feeding every stray? And our opinion no longer matters to you?” the master of the house protested.

Hearing these words, Vasya began to cry. “I’m going to leave now,” he mumbled, putting the half-eaten piece of pie back on the plate.

Then Lyudmila intervened: “Wait, boy,” she said softly. “Tell me, where are you from? Where did you lose your mother?”

Lyudmila had always been gentler than her husband. Sometimes Vladimir would scold her for being overly kind, but he had never succeeded in changing her nature.

“I live with my grandfather, but he’s mean. He’s always scolding me for something, and sometimes he even hits me. I ran away from him,” Vasya confessed and pulled from the pocket of his old, tattered pants a yellowed photograph.

“These are my parents. We used to live together,” said the boy, wiping away his tears, and handed the photo to the homeowners.

Lyudmila, taking the photo in her hands, froze. In the photograph was her daughter, Varya! “Look, Volodya, it’s our girl!” she exclaimed, trembling as she passed the photo to her husband.

Vladimir reluctantly took the photograph. “Vasya, how did you come by this photo?” he asked in surprise.

“I stole it from my grandfather. On the other side is an address, so I came here. I thought maybe my mother lives here,” the boy answered as he calmed down. “Grandpa always says that my mother is like a cuckoo who abandoned me. But I don’t believe him!”

“It can’t be! It can’t be!” Lyudmila repeated, recalling how their daughter Varya had once run away with a Gypsy named Manush. For several years they hadn’t heard from her, and then she returned, only to be involved in an accident soon after. That day became a nightmare for them, after which they were left completely alone in these huge mansions.

“And where is your father?” Vladimir asked. “And my father is gone. He was buried six months ago,” Vasya cried once more.

The couple was stunned. They had found a grandson! Tired of loneliness, they decided to keep the boy with them.

“You know, little one, we’ll take you to your room,” said Lyudmila. “And will my mother come?” asked Vasya. “Your mother is now with your father,” the woman replied sadly.

Vasya paled.

After a while, the couple finalized the adoption documents. The boy’s grandfather did not object upon learning that his grandson could be taken in by affluent people.

Yulia Antonovna was delighted. Thanks to that day when she met the little one, the homeowners became happy. In time, Vasya was no longer the destitute, hungry stray. Instead, he became a well-dressed boy, aware of proper manners, with a loving family.

Stewart was only 13 years old but carried the weight of a heart fortified by sorrow. He rejected his adoptive mother, Jennifer’s love, his resentment following her even beyond the grave. But one fateful day, an envelope left on her tomb unraveled a truth that shattered his defenses and brought him to his knees.

The linoleum floor of the children’s shelter squeaked under Stewart’s small sneakers as he clutched a worn teddy bear, its faded fur his sole companion against the world’s indifference. Laughter and joy echoed around him, but Stewart stayed apart, a solitary figure in a sea of togetherness. He was “unwanted,” resigned to loneliness. His deep, weary eyes told a story far too old for a five-year-old boy. Couples came and went, their smiles kind but fleeting, never lingering long enough for him. His shyness and the shadows of his past seemed to render him invisible, unworthy.

Then Jennifer appeared. Her breath caught as she saw him, a quiet boy clutching his teddy bear like armor. Something about him struck her—a silent plea for love, buried under layers of pain. Jennifer, too, carried her burdens: financial struggles, sleepless nights, and a heart that had learned to endure. Yet in Stewart, she saw a reflection of her own resilience and a spark of hope waiting to be kindled.

“Hi there,” she greeted softly, kneeling to his level. Her voice was gentle, a whisper of warmth.

Stewart tensed, clutching his bear tighter. “Are you just another person who’ll look at me and leave?” he asked, his voice small, guarded.

Jennifer’s heart ached. “No, sweetheart. I’m Jennifer, and I promise you, I’m not here to leave.”

Stewart’s eyes, large and skeptical, studied her. He had heard too many promises before. “Do you really want me? Everyone says I’m too gloomy.”

Jennifer’s eyes glistened with tears as she replied, “More than anything in the world.”

Jennifer adopted Stewart, giving him a home. But the boy refused to call her “Mom,” clinging to the walls he’d built around his heart. Jennifer tried her best, showering him with patience and love, yet his rejection cut deep.

“You’re not my real mom,” he would say during heated arguments. Every harsh word was a dagger, but Jennifer saw the truth: a boy too hurt to believe in love.

Still, she persevered. Late at night, she would sit by his bed and whisper, “I might not be your real mom, but my love for you is real. I’ll always be here for you.”

Stewart never replied, but in the darkness, he held his teddy bear tighter, her words echoing in his mind.

At 13, Stewart’s world shattered. Jennifer was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The woman who had never stopped fighting for him now faced a battle she couldn’t win.

One day, Jennifer handed him a notebook filled with life lessons and instructions. “This is for after I’m gone,” she said gently.

“Stop it!” Stewart yelled, his voice breaking. “Stop acting like you’re leaving me!”

Jennifer’s eyes softened, filled with unspoken love. “I’m trying to protect you, sweetheart. I always have.”

After Jennifer passed, Stewart stood at her funeral, emotionless. Inside, however, a storm raged. Her absence left a void he didn’t know how to fill.

Nine days later, Jennifer’s best friend, Carol, approached him. “Your mom left something for you at her grave,” she said.

Stewart hesitated but eventually made his way to the cemetery. There, on her tombstone, was an envelope addressed to him in Jennifer’s familiar handwriting.

With trembling hands, he opened it and began to read:

“My dearest Stewart,
I’ve loved you from the moment I knew you existed. I was a scared 19-year-old when I gave birth to you, abandoned by your father and unable to provide the life you deserved. Leaving you at the shelter broke me, but I vowed to bring you home one day.

When I adopted you, I didn’t tell you the truth—I wasn’t just your adoptive mother. I was your biological mother.

Every harsh word, every moment you pushed me away, I understood. You were protecting yourself. But I never stopped loving you.

Forgive me, my son. I’ve always been, and will always be, your mom.

Love forever,
Jennifer.”

Tears streamed down Stewart’s face as he read. The walls he had built around his heart crumbled. Memories of Jennifer’s unwavering patience and love flooded him, each one now tinged with the truth of her sacrifice.

“MOM!” he cried, collapsing beside her grave. “I’m sorry. I love you. I always loved you. I just didn’t know how to show it.”

A gentle breeze brushed his cheek, as if Jennifer herself was comforting him.

From that day on, Stewart visited Jennifer’s grave daily, not out of obligation, but out of love—finally understood, finally embraced. Her love had been patient, enduring his rejection and waiting for the moment his heart could accept it. It was a love that remained, unbroken and eternal.