— Maybe it’s a sign? — Maria stopped at the gate, her gaze falling on an apple that had dropped right in front of her and split in two.
Nikolai silently picked up both halves. He handed one to his wife. His eyes said more than any words ever could.
The sixth test. The sixth disappointment.
But instead of tears — a firm decision.
— Tomorrow we’re going to the city, — Maria said, taking a bite of the apple. — To the orphanage.
Their house stood on a hill, surrounded by a garden where bees buzzed between the trees in summer and snow gently blanketed the birdhouses in winter. Old, two-storied, with carved wooden trims and a wide veranda — it wasn’t just a place to live, it was a living being that breathed with them.
— Are you sure? — Nikolai ran his hand over the rough bark of the old apple tree.
Maria nodded. Half a year ago, they had received the final diagnosis — they wouldn’t have children. But instead of pain came a strange peace, as if fate was whispering: This isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.
In the morning, they set off in their old blue pickup truck. Down a winding country road, through dew-covered fields. Maria stared out the window, her lips moving silently. Nikolai knew she was praying — not with words, but with her whole heart.
He took her hand and squeezed it tightly:
— Blood doesn’t choose how it’s born. But a soul always knows where it’s meant to grow.
The orphanage greeted them with lit windows and the smell of fresh cookies. It was neat and well-kept, but in the air lingered a quiet sadness — as if every corner remembered what it meant to be abandoned. The director, a woman with kind eyes and a tired smile, led them into the playroom.
— Don’t expect it all to happen right away, — she warned. — Sometimes a bond is born not from the first step, but the second. Or the tenth.
But then something happened that no one expected.
In the corner, slightly apart from the noisy children, sat a little girl. Very small, delicate, but with a focused expression, as if she knew something important was being decided right now.
The pencil in her hand moved confidently, almost seriously. Her tongue poked out slightly — a telltale sign of concentration, just like all true artists.
— That’s Liza, — the director said softly. — Her parents were never found. She doesn’t talk much, usually lost in her own world.
Maria slowly knelt beside her. The girl looked up. The woman froze — there was something in that gaze beyond curiosity. Something ancient. Familiar.
— What are you drawing? — Maria asked, pointing to the paper.
— A little house, — Liza replied calmly, remarkably so for a four-year-old. — It has a chimney. And birds around it. They bring happiness. I read that in a book.
Maria’s heart trembled like a string struck for the first time.
She reached out her hand. The girl hesitated, then gently placed her small palm into the stranger’s — light and full of trust.
— We have birds in our yard too, — Nikolai said, crouching beside them. — And bees. They make honey. But they can sting.
— Why? — asked Liza.
— Only if you hurt them, — he replied. — Everyone deserves the right to protect themselves.
The girl nodded thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, she wrapped her arms around Maria’s neck. Maria froze. A tear slipped down her cheek on its own.
Ninety-two days of paperwork and waiting later, they were back. At the doorstep of the orphanage. But this time, not as visitors — as parents.
Liza stood on the porch, trembling with both fear and excitement. A worn-out backpack in her hand, courage on her shoulders that didn’t yet know confidence, and an acorn pendant gifted by an older girl hanging around her neck.
The goodbye was brief. The director kissed the girl on the forehead. A caregiver wiped her tears with a handkerchief.
— Go on now, sweetheart, — she said. — But remember, we’ll always be waiting for you.
On the way home, Liza said nothing, clutching her bag tightly. When they arrived, she stepped out and paused, as if trying to measure up to a new life.
— Is this… my house? — she whispered, staring at the lit window of her room.
— It is now, — Maria smiled. — And we’re your family. Forever.
That night, a gentle knock woke Maria. Liza stood in the doorway, clutching a drawing of a house where every window glowed like a promise of warmth.
— Can I sleep with you tonight? — she asked softly. — Just for the first night…
Maria didn’t answer. She simply shifted toward the wall, making space. The girl climbed in carefully. The ginger cat, who had been peacefully napping at their feet, got up, sniffed the new arrival, and purred contentedly as he settled beside her.
— You’re home now, — Maria whispered, stroking Liza’s hair. — You never have to be afraid again.
The girl closed her eyes. For the first time in many months — without fear, without anxiety. Just peace. Warmth. Like home.
Twelve years passed like a single May morning. The sun gilded the treetops, and the air was filled with the scent of blooming meadows. Liza, now a young woman, helped her father gather honey at the apiary. Amber, thick, fragrant with summer and wildflowers.
— Don’t rush, — Nikolai said, showing her how to gently lift frames from the hive. — Bees can sense nervousness. If you’re calm inside, they’ll accept you as one of their own.
Liza nodded, listening attentively. Now tall, with a long braid and those same gray eyes that once moved Maria so deeply.
— Can I go to Katya’s after lunch? — she asked as she cleaned the wax. — It’s her birthday.
— Of course, — Nikolai smiled. — Just don’t be late. Your mom’s preparing something special. Tomorrow’s your day too.
Liza smiled. She loved those days: the smell of fresh pastries, the festive tablecloth on the veranda, the blue-rimmed porcelain plates reserved for special occasions.
That evening, they sat on the porch sorting strawberries. The air was scented with lilac, grass, and the first breeze of dusk.
— Mom, — Liza said suddenly, — I want to study at the art college.
Maria raised an eyebrow slightly:
— In the city?
— Yes.
— That’s far.
— Two hours. Not exactly the moon.
Maria paused. In front of her wasn’t a little girl afraid to sleep alone anymore. It was a young woman with dreams in her eyes.
— You draw better than anyone in school, — she finally said. — So you should be where you can become even better.
Liza hugged her, resting her cheek on her mother’s shoulder:
— I’m not disappearing. I’ll come every weekend. For every holiday.
That night, a storm swept over the house. Lightning slashed the sky, thunder shook the windows, the wind tore branches from the trees, and the stream behind the house overflowed, leaving wet trails across the paths.
In the morning, they worked together: Liza held the boards, Nikolai nailed them, and Maria straightened the sagging parts of the fence. The wind still played with her braid, but the sky had already cleared.
— Look! — Maria suddenly exclaimed, pointing toward the horizon.
A rainbow stretched across the valley — rich, vivid, as if painted by a delicate hand.
— You brought us the sun, Liza, — said Nikolai. — Before you, we lived in half-light.
The girl lowered her gaze shyly, but happiness sparkled in her eyes.
Everyone at school knew about her talent. The teachers said she had a special gift — the ability to see what others overlooked. The corridors became her gallery. On the walls: her paintings — portraits of neighbors, landscapes of familiar fields, abstract works filled with light and movement.
— Volkov sent your work to the regional competition, — Katya said as they walked home. — And he didn’t even tell you. I overheard him talking to the principal.
— Seriously? — Liza froze. — He didn’t say anything…
— Of course not! — Katya laughed. — But I heard him say you could get a scholarship to the Academy of Arts.
Liza fell silent.
— That’s not a college, — she said slowly. — That’s a university. In the capital.
— Exactly! — Katya picked up. — Just imagine: galleries, exhibitions, real masters!
That night, Liza lay wide awake, staring at the twinkling stars. Something inside her had begun to shift. She knew her path would soon stretch far beyond the village hills.
Her birthday morning began with the smell of warm dough and old melodies — a favorite violin recording Maria played every year. On the table lay a leather-bound sketchbook. High-quality paper, thick pages, perfect for painting.
— We found it just for you, — Maria said. — For your big journey ahead.
Liza gently stroked the cover as if it were something alive.
— Thank you… for everything.
Outside, neighbors had already gathered. The table was full of food, Nikolai was grilling kebabs. Someone brought a guitar. Laughter, music, warmth. A simple village celebration — but so real.
When a pause fell over the guests, Maria stepped up to her daughter and quietly said:
— We will always be proud of you. No matter where you are — here or in another city. We’re with you. Always.
Liza nodded. She knew it.
That’s what made it easy to dream.
And that’s what made it easy to move forward.
She nodded again, her eyes drifting beyond the hills, where the outline of the city faintly emerged.
— You’ve given me everything, — she whispered. — More than I ever dreamed. More than the stars could promise. But something inside me is waiting… as if, beyond the horizon, another life is calling.
Just then, a black car drove into the yard. Gleaming, impeccably clean, it stood in stark contrast to the rustic setting — like a drop of night falling into a summer day. Everything froze. Conversations stopped. Even the guitar on the table fell silent.
A woman stepped out first. A beige suit, neat haircut, confident posture. Behind her, a man with graying temples and light glasses. They looked around, clearly feeling like aliens in this world of birdhouses, bees, and old apple trees.
Maria instinctively stepped forward, almost shielding Liza.
— Hello, — the woman attempted a smile, though it came out more tense than warm. — We need to speak with the people who live here. It’s important.
Nikolai wiped his hands on his apron.
— I’m the head of the house. What’s the matter?
— Not here, — she said gently but firmly, glancing at the gathered neighbors. — May we speak inside?
A ripple of murmurs ran through the guests. Liza felt a chill rise up her spine. Something about the man’s face… felt familiar. As if from a past she didn’t know, but somehow remembered.
— Come in, — Maria nodded, trying not to let her voice shake.
In the living room, the guests cautiously sat down on the couch. They declined tea and treats. The woman opened an expensive handbag and pulled out a folder.
— My name is Veronika Streltsova, and this is my husband Andrei. We’ve been looking for our daughter for fourteen years. And today, we believe we may have found her.
Maria gasped, placing a hand on her chest as if to calm her heart. Nikolai turned pale. Liza pressed herself against the wall, trying to melt into it. Her face turned white, like a blank canvas. Even the air in the room seemed to tighten.
— Her real name is Alisa, — Veronika continued. Her voice trembled, but she held it together. — She was taken from our home when she was just over a year old. The police searched for a long time. So did we. And eventually… we just tried to go on living. But now everything has changed.
She handed over the documents as if they could explain everything. Andrei silently pulled a worn photo from his inner pocket. It showed a little girl with storm-colored eyes, sitting on a red swing. Her smile was one Liza hadn’t remembered in years.
Every detail evoked something distant but painfully familiar.
— These are DNA test results, — Veronika placed the papers on the table. — We took samples through the school. It’s a full match. Your Liza is our Alisa.
She spoke softly, almost apologetically, but the words struck like a thunderstorm.
— That’s impossible! — Nikolai cried. — We adopted Liza legally! All the paperwork is in order!
— Yes, — Veronika nodded. — The child was found at a bus station in another city. No documents, no trace of her family. She was sent to an orphanage. We don’t question the legality. We just wanted to tell the truth. And meet her.
Andrei added, looking at Liza:
— Look behind your ear. Alisa had a birthmark shaped like a crescent. It’s still there.
Liza instinctively touched her face. That very mark. The one she always thought was just a blemish.
— So what now? — Liza’s voice trembled. — You came to destroy everything? To take me away?
— No, — Veronika replied. — We came to make sure you’re alive. That you’re happy. And to let you know: we were. We are. And if you want — we’re here.
— And if I don’t want to? — Liza took a step back. — If I don’t want to be Alisa? If I don’t want you?
Andrei and Veronika exchanged a glance. He spoke:
— Then we’ll just know she found her home. And be grateful for that.
Liza couldn’t hold back. She flung open the door and ran out, leaving everyone frozen. The celebration halted. The table stilled. Even the wind fell silent.
No thoughts, no destination, only her feet carried her — to the old oak at the edge of the field. Her secret spot since childhood. A place to hide from the world.
That’s where Nikolai found her. Half an hour later. Liza sat hugging her knees, watching the sunset. He sat beside her in silence.
— I don’t believe them, — she whispered. — I don’t want to believe.
— I checked the papers, — he said softly. — They’re real. So is the test.
— Will you give me to them?
— Never, — Nikolai said firmly. — No one will take you from us. But…
— But?
He looked at the horizon, where the sun sank behind the forest.
— You can learn your story without losing this one. We are your home, Liza. We are your roots. But if you want to understand where you came from — that can be part of you too.
Liza leaned against Nikolai, just as she had on her first night in their home.
— I don’t want to choose, — she whispered. — I can’t.
— You don’t have to, — he kissed the top of her head. — Family isn’t just blood. It’s love. And you have plenty of that. There’s no such thing as too much love.
When they returned home, the guests were still there. Veronika and Andrei sat at the table. Maria sat across from them — pale, composed, like someone who had weathered a storm inside.
Liza stepped slowly into the room, stopped in the center, and said:
— I don’t know who you are to me. Maybe you really are my parents. But my family is here. These people. Mom and Dad. They raised me. They gave me a home. Gave me a name. Gave me love. That is my real family.
Veronika nodded, wiping away tears.
— We don’t want to take anything away, Liza. We just… hope you’ll let us be a part of your life. If you want to.
Four weeks later, Liza took a step forward. Her heart pounded as the car pulled up to the iron gates of the estate.
The house where she was born looked just as she had imagined: cold, perfect, like a museum. White columns, pristine garden, a blue pool no one had ever used.
Her room — bright and spacious — smelled of new wood and unfamiliar memories. On the walls: photos of a little girl Liza didn’t know. In the corner: toys she’d never had.
— Here’s your first birthday, — Veronika said, flipping through an album. — And here you are taking your first steps.
Liza quietly stared at the images — like something from a parallel world.
Gradually, the two families found a rhythm. The meetings were awkward, the words cautious. But over time, a bond formed. Andrei and Nikolai spent time fixing the old greenhouse together. Veronika and Maria swapped recipes. Even the cat got used to the new visitors.
For Liza’s seventeenth birthday, everyone gathered around one table. No longer strangers. Not quite family. Just close.
Veronika gave her a silver pendant — an oak leaf.
— You have two stories now, — she said. — And two homes. You’re unique, because you belong to both worlds.
Liza enrolled in the Academy of Arts. The Streltsovs paid the tuition, and her real parents paid for her apartment in the city. On the wall in her room hung two photographs: one of the village yard with the apple orchard, the other of the white columns and neat lawn.
— I have two wings, — Liza would say when asked what it was like to belong to two families. — One inspires me, the other keeps me grounded. Together, they give me the strength to fly.
Five years later, her first solo exhibition opened in the heart of the city. The gallery was full. Maria and Nikolai stood in their best clothes, a little shy in their black shoes and the formal atmosphere. Beside them — the Streltsovs, in elegant suits but with the same spark in their eyes.
Everyone was staring at one painting. The centerpiece. The largest one.
On the canvas — a sprawling oak. In its branches — two nests. One held wind from the fields, grass, and the hum of bees. The other — city light, glass, and movement. Between them — a young bird with wide wings, not choosing, just soaring.
Free. Whole. Strong.
When reporters surrounded Liza, microphones in hand, she was silent for a long moment. Then she placed her hand on the painting’s frame and said:
— This is my story. Two roots. Two families. Two beginnings woven into one. It’s not division. It’s wholeness. It’s my family. Every single one of them.