How Aleftina ended up in the office — no one quite remembered. She appeared as if she had always been there: a quiet, inconspicuous woman or girl — it was hard to tell. Some considered her young, others thought she was older, but her appearance was hidden beneath a scarf tied in a rustic way and a long turtleneck sweater covering her neck.
She cleaned the floors, polished the toilets until they shone, wiped the metal door handles, the glass partitions — everything that clients’ hands and foreheads dirtied. This had been going on for three months, and not a single bank employee had heard a word from her.
No one saw any makeup on her, no one noticed the scent of perfume — only the freshness of the floor cleaner and clean air. Indeed, after she finished, the whole office sparkled and radiated a cozy, almost homely cleanliness.
The employees’ attitudes toward her varied: some felt sorry for her, some simply ignored her, and some allowed themselves to mock her.
“Hey, mute! There’s dust here!” — a young credit department manager pointed to an absolutely clean corner. He was deliberately looking for a reason to unsettle her, but Alya silently took the rag and did what she was paid for. No reaction — just work.
“Look, how she’s sweating!” — another laughed once, for which he got an elbow jab from more experienced female colleagues who sympathized with the cleaner.
Aleftina sighed, said nothing, carefully avoided rudeness as if used to it. And in the evening, she returned to her cramped apartment, fed her fish, cooked a modest dinner, and sat down to paint. Her paintings amazed with their softness, airiness — watercolor flowing over paper, creating whole worlds. She painted not for fame, she didn’t even show them to anyone. Only for herself. Sometimes she went outside to paint en plein air — then her works became even brighter, more mysterious, filled with the light of nature.
But at night the same nightmare came to her. For nine years it repeated unchanged. And every time she woke up from her own scream.
The outbreak happened on a June night. Somewhere in the stairwell sharp, frightened screams rang out. It smelled of burning. Smoke was sneaking through cracks, through the keyhole. So it wasn’t their place burning.
Alya’s parents and her little brother hurriedly grabbed documents and ran outside in pajamas and slippers. Neighbors were already gathered in the stairwell — all confused, some disheveled, but not fully composed either.
The apartment on the second floor was on fire — right opposite their door. The window was slightly open, and smoke was already streaming out.
“Did they call the fire department?” — asked a woman from the first floor, yawning. But as soon as she realized the fire extinguishing might ruin her renovation, she sobered quickly and regretted her words.
“It seems they did,” someone from the crowd answered, simultaneously asking everyone to keep quiet and not add unnecessary panic.
Alya barely knew the family living opposite. They had recently moved in — husband and wife of middle age, a boy Lesha, about six years old. There was almost no communication, but she somehow bonded with the child. Alya knew how to find an approach to children — once she worked as a school teacher, so well that students loved her and colleagues respected her.
She was about to go down to the street to join the others when she suddenly heard coughing inside the apartment. She listened — the cough was childish. Clearly, it was there, inside. She couldn’t delay.
Alya went to the neighbors’ door, checked — it was locked. What to do?
“Tools… where are the tools?” — she recalled frantically. Thank God, her father’s toolbox stood at home under the shoe shelf. She took out a crowbar.
“Please let it work… Please let me be in time!” — she thought, wedging the crowbar between the door and the frame.
If the neighbors had changed the front door in time, if they had installed a metal one, there would be no chance. But the old plywood double door still held on the Soviet-era lock.
The crowbar went in deep, the door gave way. Behind it was a dense cloud of smoke. Inside, the room was ablaze, the fire already engulfing the curtains and part of the furniture. In the living room on the sofa lay a woman — most likely suffocated by smoke. But where was the boy?
Alya stretched out her hand and found the small body. Lesha was barely breathing. She carefully lifted him, but couldn’t exit the same way — the flame had grown stronger.
“Need to the window!” — flashed through her mind. From the room to the corridor, through the fire, through the heat. The curtains were already flaming, the frames cracking from the temperature. She grabbed the hot window handle — the skin on her palm instantly swelled. Pain pierced her body, but Alya still opened the window wide.
Below, there was a gasp. The firefighters were already nearby, unrolling hoses, having heard the crowd’s screams. Seeing the window, they quickly unfurled a rescue sheet.
“Lesha! Son!” — shouted a man who had just returned from a business trip. He tried to run into the stairwell but was held back.
Alya, losing strength, lifted the boy and passed him through the window. She didn’t see how he was caught. Didn’t hear the parents’ cries. Didn’t feel herself losing consciousness, crawling out after them…
The fresh air that rushed in through the open window became fuel for the fire. The flames instantly engulfed the entire apartment.
She was only 22. That she survived seemed a miracle — doctors did not believe that a person with such burns could even make it through the first day. But the greatest luck was that her face remained unharmed.
Lesha was also saved, unlike his mother. As it turned out later, she suffocated from smoke. Where the man went with his son after the wife’s funeral — no one knew. They disappeared without a trace.
Experts named old wiring as the cause of the fire — the very wiring that had long needed replacement.
Recovery was long and painful. Alya was literally put back together piece by piece. The hardest was to endure the loss of her mother: the woman’s heart gave out when she saw her daughter in the fire.
Scars covered her arms, shoulders, back. She would have liked to consult plastic surgeons, but there was no money, so she had to wear clothes with long sleeves and a high collar — to hide the painful memories on her skin.
“Alechka, maybe we should sell the apartment?” her father worried. “We’ll buy something smaller, we’ll get you treated…”
She only shook her head. She could no longer speak. After the fire and her mother’s death, she simply fell silent. Doctors shrugged — her vocal cords were fine, but the body seemed to have disabled this function itself. “Nervous condition,” they guessed. “Let’s wait.”
The apartment was still exchanged. Her brother got married, took a mortgage — they didn’t expect help from him. Her father took a corner for himself — in case guests suddenly arrived.
She could no longer teach.
“Aleftina Tarasovna, I understand your condition… But how will you teach children?” the school principal signed her dismissal with a heavy heart.
Alya silently nodded. Yes, now she was definitely no longer a teacher.
She found work by chance — in an office where a cleaner was needed. She was coming from another plein air painting session, saw the ad on the glass door, and without hesitation went inside. Why they hired her — no one knew to this day. But the manager never regretted it. Her hands ached from old burns, but she endured. Through the pain, she cleaned floors, wiped glass, polished handles — and over time her hands became a little softer, less tense.
All employees were satisfied — moving the fridge, lifting the cabinet, washing the ladder. No one guessed how much strength it cost her.
When the office moved to another district, the manager called his acquaintance:
“Mikhalych, hi! I have a recommendation for you. The girl is a real find. Just take good care of her.”
So Alya ended up at the bank. Of course, there were also cheeky young men, indifferent bosses… But work was work — and she performed it conscientiously.
“Hey, why are you silent all the time?” the manager provoked. “Can’t or won’t? Or is the salary too low?”
She did not answer. Only patiently polished the already sparkling glass.
And then one day whispers spread in the room. All clients, all employees turned to the entrance. An expensive car pulled up to the bank. A man stepped out and confidently walked inside.
“Boss! Sergey Mikhailovich! He’s here!”
Alya continued wiping the window — yellow gloves flashing over the glass.
“Hello, Sergey Mikhailovich!” greeted the chief accountant.
Alya trembled. She turned around.
The man noticed her. Recognition flickered on his face. He froze, then stepped forward, came closer. His eyes filled with tears. In front of everyone, he dropped to his knees and, taking off the gloves from her hands, kissed her scarred palms. Everyone present froze in confusion.
She was crying too.
“It’s you…” he whispered, standing up and hugging her. “You saved my son!”
He turned to the employees:
“This is the girl who almost at the cost of her life carried Lesha out of the fire!”
Tension hung in the room. Someone shyly lowered their gaze, someone coughed awkwardly. Then applause began one after another — first timid, then loud and friendly. Alya smiled shyly, hiding her hands, which Sergey was still holding.
And at that moment a boy about fifteen ran into the bank:
“Dad, you promised to be quick! I’ve been waiting for you for an hour!”
He froze on the spot, seeing his father kneeling before the woman.
Alya felt something tremble inside. Looked at the boy, then at the man — and understood. Sergey turned and quietly said:
“Lesha… This is the very woman who pulled you out of the fire.”
The boy rushed to her, hugged her:
“Finally, we found you!”
And then, like a lightning strike, her voice returned. Perhaps the stress helped wake it up — it happens. The voice was lower, a little hoarse, but that very intonation gave her mystery and depth.
They often met as a trio — in cafes, at home, in the park. They talked about everything that had happened all those years. For the first time in nine years, Alya did not wake at night from nightmares.
As it turned out, Sergey and Lesha had been looking for her for many years. They only knew she survived but did not know her new address — the apartment was occupied by others. And they didn’t expect to meet her again — especially as a cleaner.
When Sergey found out that this woman worked at their branch, he immediately arranged full treatment for her. Paid for all operations, necessary rehabilitation. He felt he had to do it.
And another Sergey’s acquaintance, the owner of a private gallery, accidentally saw her works. He was amazed. Her watercolor paintings, delicate and light, received recognition from experts. Now her paintings were being sold, and her name was becoming known among local artists.
Alya did not know that life could be like this — when you are valued, when you are thanked, when real beauty is seen despite everything.