Nearly two years had passed since that cold October day when fate struck Masha a heavy blow. The funeral had been quick, as if life itself was hurrying to hide the pain as fast as it could. But the internal wound remained open, still bleeding. And only now, after many months, did Masha finally dare to enter the pantry where Sergey’s things were kept.
The pantry was soaked with the smell of dust, old magazines, and his cologne — it seemed that the air still remembered its owner. Her heart raced wildly — it was unbearably difficult to step inside. Every box, every shelf hid fragments of the past that she was afraid to touch.
Slowly sorting through the items, she found old letters, photographs, neatly folded shirts… And then, suddenly, in the corner, beneath a pile of tattered magazines, her gaze fell on a notebook. An ordinary school notebook with lined pages, its corners bent and its cover faded.
Something stirred inside her. Her hands instinctively reached for it. Masha sank right to the floor, held the notebook tightly in her hands, and opened the first page… and nearly lost consciousness.
On the first page was her portrait. Drawn with a black gel pen — simple, not too skillful, but with such warmth that tears instantly filled her eyes. Beneath the drawing were the words: “For my Masha. My entire life is you.”
Her heart dropped to her feet. Masha frantically flipped through the pages. One after another — memories, confessions, poems. He wrote down things he had never said aloud. About his fears, about how afraid he was of losing her. About how he dreamed of growing old beside her, of seeing their grandchildren, believing she was his salvation.
“I remember how you smiled at me on that bridge. That’s when I realized: if I don’t go to you now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life…”
“You are my sunshine on gloomy days. My quiet harbor. My everything.”
Masha held the notebook like a living being. Tears flowed in streams, blurring the words. But she could no longer stop. On the last pages, something else awaited her.
A letter. A real letter, addressed to her.
“Masha. If you are reading these lines, it means I’m no longer by your side. I don’t want you to mourn. I ask you — live. Love life. Smile. Allow yourself to be happy. Know that I’m always with you, even if you can’t see me. In every sunbeam, in every gust of wind, in every star in the sky…”
She could not hold it any longer. She pressed the notebook to her face, as if hoping to feel the warmth of his hands through these yellowed pages. Everything inside her turned upside down. Instead of boundless sorrow, a strange feeling took its place — as if somewhere, beyond the bounds of reality, he still cared for her, still held her hand.
Several hours passed, maybe the entire night — Masha sat in the pantry, rereading the pages and remembering their life: their first meeting, their first date, their first rainy day together. And then she realized — Sergey didn’t want her to close herself off in a shell of pain. His love wasn’t chains, it was wings.
In the morning, for the first time in a long while, she opened the window wide. Fresh wind rushed into the room, fluttering the curtains, caressing her face. Somewhere in the distance, birds chirped.
Masha took a deep breath and smiled. Through the tears, through the pain — but she smiled.
Life moved forward. And now, in her heart, the notebook would forever reside — as proof that true love never disappears. It becomes part of who we are.
More than a month had passed since Masha found the notebook. Since then, many things had changed.
It was as if she had woken up from a long sleep. She began to leave the house more often, the place where she had once hidden from the world. She even went to the dacha, which she had abandoned after Sergey’s departure. There, she tidied up, weeded the overgrown garden, and transplanted roses — the same ones he had once planted under the windows.
Sometimes it seemed to her that he was nearby. Just silent. Just watching. Especially in the evenings, when the sky turned deep blue and the first stars lit up over the garden.
In the notebook, among the other entries, she found a list of places he dreamed of taking her: Kazan, Baikal, Veliky Ustyug — “to see the snow and return, laughing like children.” At first, the list brought pain, then — surprise. He had never mentioned this. And now it had become her goal.
“I will go, Sergey. For you. For us. To live the way you wanted,” she said to the emptiness of the room.
And she truly set off. She started with small steps — Kazan. She stayed in a modest hotel, walked around a lot, admired the Volga, and wrote him letters. Directly in the notebook. On the empty pages.
“Today I saw a bridge, where you would definitely want to take a selfie. I imagined you standing there, squinting in the sun and saying: ‘Well, now you can post it on Instagram.’ I smiled, and then I cried. Because you are inside me. And that hasn’t gone away.”
In Kazan, she accidentally met Igor. They sat at neighboring tables in a small café on Bauman Street, and the waiter mixed up their orders. She took his tea, he took her coffee. They both laughed like old friends.
He was calm, reserved, slightly thoughtful. Also a widower. The chance meeting turned into a conversation, the conversation — into an evening walk. He didn’t pry into her life, didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He was just there — silently, tactfully. And in that silence, Masha felt warmth.
When she returned home, he wrote to her. Asked if she had arrived safely. Then he wrote again. A week later, he called. The conversations were light, but with each day they became deeper. It was as if fate had decided to give her another chance.
Masha didn’t rush things. She still talked to Sergey in her thoughts. She reread his notebook like a prayer. But her heart gradually thawed. It wasn’t betrayal. It was a continuation of love — just in a different form, as if Sergey had led her to this meeting himself.
One day, while cleaning the same room where she had found the notebook, she discovered another one. Small, pocket-sized. Apparently, it had fallen out at some point. Inside, there was only one entry, written diagonally, as if in a hurry:
“If I leave first, let her know — I bless her for happiness. Let her not live in the past. Let her find someone who will cherish her, as I did. Just don’t be afraid. I’m not jealous. I’m still here.”
She held this notebook against her chest for a long time. Closing her eyes. Silently. Then, for the first time in two years, she called Igor.
“Come visit. It’s almost spring here…”
“With pleasure, Masha,” he answered. And she felt it: he smiled.
At that moment, the wind quietly touched the curtain outside. As if someone had passed by. Quietly. Cautiously. In their own way, happily.
Igor arrived at the end of April. He brought with him a warm jacket — “just in case it’s chilly in the village” — and a jar of jam from his sister, with whom he had lived after his wife’s death. He stood at the gate, looking a little confused, as if afraid she had changed her mind. But Masha just smiled, opened the gate, and said:
“Come in. It really is spring here…”
She made dinner, simple and homemade: potatoes with mushrooms, salad, fresh apple pies. Not because she had to, but because suddenly she wanted to care, to share the warmth that had built up inside her while she was learning to live again.
In the evening, they sat on the veranda, drinking tea. He told her how hard it had been to cope with the loss, how he hadn’t left the house for a year, how he was afraid to get attached to anyone again. And then he quietly added:
“But when I saw you, with your bright eyes and sad smile… I knew that life is still worth living.”
Masha listened and felt: he was speaking the truth. Without any pathos, without pretense. Only those who had gone through their own grief speak like this. She silently placed her hand on top of his. And he didn’t flinch, didn’t seem surprised. He simply covered her palm with his — and they sat like that, needing no words.
He stayed with her for a week. During that time, she laughed until she cried for the first time in a long while. They worked in the garden, went into the forest for lily of the valley, roasted potatoes over a fire. Sometimes they just sat in silence — and that silence was warm, like a blanket.
Before he left, he said:
“If you say it, I’ll come to stay forever. I have nowhere to hurry, except to you.”
She didn’t answer. She just hugged him tightly. And that was enough.
But the next day, when Masha opened the mailbox, her heart clenched again. Among the bills and advertising leaflets was a thin envelope, with no return address. It was in Sergey’s handwriting. Undoubtedly his — with the slant, the familiar capital “M” as in “Masha,” which he always wrote especially carefully.
She stood in the middle of the yard, staring at the envelope, and the world around her seemed to stop. Her heart was pounding in her ears, her hands were trembling.
Inside, there was only one sheet.
“If you ever find this letter, it means the time has come. I didn’t know how to tell you this when I was alive, because I was afraid of hurting you. But you need to know: I have a son. He’s sixteen now. I found out about him late, before our wedding. His mother is my former classmate, we weren’t together at the time, it was before you… I didn’t want to ruin our happiness. I didn’t know how to tell you. I kept thinking — later, later… But later never came.”
There was an address below. And a request: “If you can — find him. He knows nothing about me. But he’s a part of me. And that means, a part of you.”
Masha sank onto a bench. The letter trembled in her hands. She didn’t understand what she was feeling: resentment, confusion, or anxiety? Her chest tightened. Sergey… How could he hide this? Why? But instead of anger, another feeling grew inside her — a painful, sharp feeling, like the prick of a needle: longing. Not because of the truth, but because he hadn’t been able to say it. Because life isn’t a movie. Because people sometimes stay silent, not out of malice, but from fear of losing.
The next morning, Masha got in the car and drove to the address. It was a simple private house in the Moscow region, a little shabby, with a front garden full of forget-me-nots.
A teenager opened the door. Tall, blonde, with eyes… Sergey’s eyes. Exactly the same.
“Hello…” he said, distrustfully.
“Hello…” Masha replied. “You… you’re probably Daniil?”
He nodded.
“I need to talk to you. May I come in?”
He paused, then opened the door wide.
They sat in the kitchen. She told him everything: about Sergey, about the notebook, about the letter, about love. About how afraid she was, how she drove there with trembling hands. And he listened. Silent. Sometimes nodding. Sometimes pressing his lips together.
When she finished, he said:
“I never had a father. At all. I didn’t even know who he was. My mom said — it’s none of your business. And now you’re telling me… that I had a father. A real one. The one who loved me. He just didn’t know how to say it. This is… hard. But thank you for coming. Really. Thank you.”
Masha looked at him — and suddenly a light ignited in her heart. So much now made sense. Suddenly, everything became clear: why there was that notebook, that trip, Igor, all of it… There is nothing random in life.
She hugged Daniil. At first, he froze, not knowing how to react. Then, he hugged her back.
Another six months passed.
Now, there were two men living in Masha’s house. One, with a warm, calm gaze and a slight touch of gray at his temples. The other, with a restless soul, teenage maximalism, and a father’s eyes. They didn’t interfere with each other. Each had his own place beside her.
And in the evenings, Masha still opened Sergey’s notebook. But now — not with tears. But with gratitude.
For everything that was. And for everything that would be.