Late autumn. The wind lashes against the shoulders, driving fallen leaves between the tombstones. The sky is low and gray, like a hospital sheet hung out to dry. The cemetery feels forgotten here: no living voices, no movement — only withered grass and heavy silence. By one of the graves stand three people. Maria stands rooted to the spot, but inside her — emptiness.
Her hands, clad in black gloves, are clenched into fists; her face is pale, her gaze frozen. She wears a simple dark coat and an incongruously bright hat pulled almost down to her eyebrows. Everything about her looks frozen. As if her heart had already sunk into the earth with the small wooden coffin. Nearby stand Asya and Lena. Both younger, both a little lost, but trying to stay close. Asya sobs now and then, hiding tears in a handkerchief. Lena holds her face like stone, as if angry at the whole world for being here.
The priest quickly utters words, the wind tears fragments of the prayer away and carries them off. A man with a shovel — one of those who work for pennies — buries the coffin without looking. Each strike of the clumps of earth on the coffin lid echoes in Marina’s chest with a dull ache.
She does not cry. Does not move. Only her pale lips betray the tension.
“All done, Masha… all done,” Asya whispers, taking her hand.
Maria slowly turns her head. Her lips tremble, but no words come. Only a question in her eyes: why? Too soon. Too terrible. Too unfair. Beneath the ground lies the girl she had waited for so long, whom she sang to even before birth, bought the first dress for, and chose a name. A name that now no one will say aloud.
Maria stands still, staring at the fresh mound, as if looking not at the earth but at the emptiness inside her now. No tears, no cries — only heavy numbness, as if part of her heart has been ripped out and the rest left open.
Asya gently squeezes her hand; Lena, a little apart, hides her face in her collar. No one speaks. Everyone understands — there are no words to help. No questions with answers. And no one knows what will happen next.
And suddenly Maria blinks — sharply, as if from a bright light. The world before her eyes wavers, blurs. The cemetery, the wind, the cold — all recede, and instead another scene appears.
Bright office lights, the smell of coffee, unfamiliar faces — and him. Alexey.
Back then, it was different. She had come for a job interview at a small furniture company. A simple office manager position, nothing special. But on that very day, in the first hour, something clicked inside. He came to meet her himself — tall, with streaks of gray in his hair, wearing a cashmere coat, with a soft, confident gaze.
“You have calm eyes,” he said, reviewing her resume. “People like that are the foundation for us.”
Maria smiled shyly. Not because of his words, but because of the attention. Honest, mature, with no hint of flirtation. Within a week, she was working; within two, they were sharing coffee behind a partition, laughing at his strange dreams. Then came the first evening when he offered to give her a ride, and she agreed. The first morning call at eight: “Are you already at work?” The first cautious phrase: “I live with my wife only because of the business.”
Everything started slowly, almost innocently. As if it were possible to love just a little. To believe a little.
He did not pressure her, did not rush. He texted first, asked her out, and once said looking straight at her:
“If not for the documents, if not for the business… I would have left long ago. Everything is registered under Tatyana. There’s nothing left there for a long time. Only obligations.”
And for the first time in a long while, Maria felt chosen. Felt trusted. She didn’t make plans for years ahead — she just lived the “now.” Alexey was attentive, caring, gentle. He knew what kind of tea she drank, remembered her morning headaches. When the test showed two lines, he arranged for paid care at a good clinic.
“Everything will be different,” he said then. “I won’t let you be alone. And we will have a girl. You feel it, don’t you?”
She nodded. Inside everything sang. Even fear — that whispering voice that always said, “It can’t be that good” — disappeared somewhere. The pregnancy went smoothly. The girl grew, moved, the doctors praised. They chose a name — Veronika. Alexey said he had a grandmother by that name. Maria smiled.
Life seemed like glass — fragile but beautiful.
Until that very evening. An ordinary evening. It was supposed to end with a movie and tea. Alexey was running late; she had started to doze off when suddenly her stomach ached sharply. First a dull pull, then a cramp so strong she barely reached her phone.
“I feel bad… come quickly,” she whispered hoarsely.
He arrived fast. They dressed hurriedly; he sat beside her in the car, holding her hand.
“Probably just practice contractions,” he said to calm her. But Maria knew it wasn’t.
The maternity hospital was white and uncomfortable, like a train station. Doctors exchanged glances, called someone over the radio. One said shortly:
“Emergency C-section. Hypoxia. We’re starting now.”
She didn’t even have time to be scared. Everything happened fast: rushing down corridors, a mask on her face, cold, and then — darkness.
When she came to, she felt only cold. It smelled of medicine and the hospital. She barely moved her hand, found the call button. But the door had already opened.
“Where… where is my daughter?” Maria whispered.
The nurse hesitated, then lowered her eyes.
“She stopped breathing at birth. We did everything we could.”
Maria stared at her, not blinking.
“She died?” her voice failed.
“We will process everything. You need to rest. Sometimes this happens…”
The words made no sense. They bounced off like balls. She didn’t hear. Didn’t believe.
After that, everything was a fog. The phone was silent. Alexey didn’t come. On the third day, she was told he left — for work, a business trip. Her things were handed over via security. Not a single message. No call.
When she demanded to take the daughter’s body, the administrator looked at her like she was crazy. But permission was given. The small coffin. Sealed. No right to open.
Asya and Lena helped with the funeral. They were near. They said: hold on. It would get easier with time. But Maria knew — it wouldn’t. Because inside, there was no life left. Days merged into one endless wait for something that would never come. She ate because Asya brought food. Went outside because Lena insisted. But everything was mechanical. Tasteless. Colorless. Meaningless.
She wandered the apartment like a stranger in a darkened house where the lights were off, windows and doors shut. Only emptiness remained.
She didn’t believe. Not in death — that was too real. But the explanation seemed so neat, so contrived, it looked unbelievable. Everything happened too fast, too conveniently for someone. Maria remembered almost nothing — neither doctors’ faces nor nurses’ voices. Only the small coffin remained — sealed, silent, nameless, without farewell.
Alexey’s phone was silent.
At work, they said he left on urgent business. No one knew when he’d return. Or maybe no one wanted to know.
Friends urged her insistently to deal with the paperwork: get the death certificate, the medical report, register the entry in the registry office. At first, Maria refused — even the thought of signing a paper with the cold word “died” paralyzed her. But over time, she agreed, almost mechanically. She couldn’t go alone — she went with Asya and Lena. She sat in the waiting room, curled up, as if trying to disappear inside her coat while they ran the errands.
That’s where everything changed.
One of the doors in the corridor was slightly open. Maria looked in out of boredom rather than curiosity. Inside someone was speaking. A female voice, even, a bit dry:
“Sign here. Mother’s surname — Tatyana Sergeyevna. Father — Alexey Vladimirovich. Gender — girl. Weight — three hundred thirty.”
These words struck her like an electric shock. Maria stood up. Moved closer. Through the crack, she saw Alexey’s profile. He stood in the same coat he wore at the hospital. Next to him was a tall woman with neat red hair. She smiled, holding a pink folder. That was Tatyana. His wife. The birth certificate lay on the table. For a girl.
What other girl?
Tatyana wasn’t pregnant.
Maria froze, unable to breathe. Something deep inside snapped — an ancient feeling where fear mixed with rage. Suspicion flared so sharply it pushed out pain and doubt. If they have the certificate, then who was she burying?
Cold pierced her to the bone.
Without realizing how, she was already standing before the door — she pushed it and entered. Her legs trembled, but her voice was clear and sharp:
“Who here is her mother?! Who?!”
A heavy silence rolled through the room. No one moved. Alexey turned around. His face showed no fear or surprise — only irritation. As if interrupted from something important.
“Excuse me, who are you?” he asked calmly.
“You… seriously?” Maria’s voice trembled. “You don’t know who I am?!”
The registry office clerk cautiously stood from behind the desk. Tatyana stepped back, hiding behind a smile full of fake concern.
“Alexey, is this some kind of incident?” she asked softly, though her eyes betrayed interest.
Maria did not take her eyes off him. Now she wasn’t shouting. She spoke calmly, clearly, each word like a blow:
“You were there when I was giving birth. Held my hand in the operating room. Promised everything would change when our daughter was born. Where is she? Where is my girl?”
He sighed. Quickly, as if from unnecessary fuss. Then pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, raised an eyebrow. As if deciding whether to continue this charade.
“Call security. There’s a woman here agitated. I don’t know her. Maybe from the clinic. I have a wife and a newborn daughter. Please — help us.”
Maria’s hands shook. She looked at him, then at Tatyana, and saw triumph flash in her eyes. She was not confused. She watched — cold-bloodedly, with interest — like at a performance she had already won.
Two security guards entered from the corridor. Asya and Lena followed, trying to explain something to the registry staff, but it was decided — Maria was escorted out like unwanted noise in an expensive hall. But now not only she heard everything. Her friends saw it too. And in Lena’s eyes appeared something new — not pity. Not fear. Uncertainty. The first cracks in the picture that was starting to crumble.
Asya held her hand all the way out. Silently, but firmly. And whispered:
“We’re with you. We’ll never leave you. You’re not crazy. It’s just too strange.”
And this “strange” became the beginning of something new — a thin, almost invisible thread leading to the truth.
They walked in silence. Maria felt bitter nausea rising — not from her body, but from the realization: she had been erased. Crossed out of the life she thought was hers. Everything was rewritten anew, done so confidently that any objection sounded absurd.
Asya broke the silence first. Her voice trembled like a child’s:
“Masha… do you realize that on paper they are right? Everything official. But this… what was that?”
“It’s theft,” Maria replied. “Not a coincidence. Not a mistake. He knew. He knew everything.”
The next day they went to the police. Maria brought everything: the hospital certificate, funeral documents, doctor’s report. She tried to speak calmly, orderly, though inside she was bursting to scream. The duty officer listened, frowned, called someone, then returned and without looking said:
“You should see a psychiatrist,” the policeman said, avoiding her gaze. “Sorry for bluntness. It’s a tragedy, but we have no grounds to open a case. No evidence of a crime. The body is already buried. No witnesses. You never even saw the girl.”
“And the birth certificate for another woman?” Maria snapped. “Does that mean nothing?”
He shrugged, throwing up his hands. Everything went back to papers. The ‘mother’ field, the name that had to be correct. Otherwise, you simply disappear.
Next was the Investigative Committee. There they at least listened. A young officer carefully recorded every word, asked questions, suggested filing a complaint. For the first time in a long time, Maria felt her voice didn’t vanish into emptiness. No promises, but there was a response. There was a statement. There was a protocol. That was more than nothing.
After that, she went to the maternity hospital. Not as a patient, but as someone with questions. She wore a simple gray jacket, tied her hair back, practiced a calm, confident voice. But the chief doctor met her with clear irritation. Not hostile — contemptuous.
“We’ve already discussed everything,” he cut her off. “The baby died. The operation was performed as indicated. All documents are in order.”
“I never saw my daughter,” Maria tried to speak evenly. “Why was the body handed over sealed? Why wasn’t I allowed to say goodbye?”
“Such cases are not subject to examination. The baby’s condition… did not allow it. We strictly follow protocol.”
“Whose baby had that condition? Mine, or yours, when you had to cover up a substitution?”
The chief doctor silently pressed the security button. This time she was not thrown out, but it was made clear: the conversation was over. She left, feeling the same emptiness as before, but now there was not only pain. There was something else — anger. And the thought that someone, somewhere, knows the truth.
And that someone was Anna.
That evening Asya called and said a voicemail came to the shared number — a woman, with a trembling voice, asks to get in touch. She says she worked in that very maternity hospital. That she can no longer keep silent.
Maria listened to it about twenty times. Her heart pounded so loud the last words almost got lost. They called back. The woman introduced herself — nurse Anna. She spoke fast, in a breaking whisper, as if afraid of being overheard:
“I was on duty that day. I remember you. I remember how at the very last moment the chief doctor personally came and took control. It was strange. He never goes down to the night wards. But then he gave orders himself. Then your file disappeared. Your name was erased from the registry. And in the children’s ward appeared a baby — a girl. With a different name. With marks that do not match in time. I saw it. I remember.”
Maria was silent, afraid to breathe too loudly.
“I was scared then. They told me if I spoke up — I’d be fired. I have a child. I stayed quiet. But recently my daughter was in an accident, and the chief doctor refused to give a referral just because I asked for a day off. Then I realized: silence does not save. Now I’m ready to tell everything.”
Maria sat with the phone at her cheek and could not believe this was happening. A stranger’s voice became the first real proof: this was not madness. This was the truth. Her daughter was stolen.
Anna agreed to give official testimony. A few days later they met at the Investigative Committee. She brought printed duty schedules, a copy of the medical record, a photo of the baby she managed to take when the chief doctor was absent. She spoke haltingly but firmly. And at some point the investigator looked at Maria not as a grieving mother, but as a victim.
Anna was officially interrogated. Her statements were compared with schedules — everything matched. Dates, signatures, time stamps appeared. The chief doctor was summoned for questioning. He came with a lawyer, answered shortly, formally, until suddenly declaring:
“This woman was not registered with us as a patient. Neither as a mother nor as a patient.”
But there remained a copy of the request for cesarean — with his personal signature in the system.
A week later Alexey and Tatyana came for questioning. They came together. They looked confident, held hands, answered clearly:
“This is our child. There was a pregnancy, we just didn’t advertise it. Witnesses — that’s our business. Proof — your problem.”
They were offered a DNA test — voluntarily. They agreed. Calmly. Almost defiantly.
“I hope you apologize for slander,” Alexey added before leaving.
But the test never happened. The morning after their interrogation, Maria got a call from the investigator. The voice was collected, sharp:
“They are trying to leave. According to our data, they left town at night — with the child. A wanted alert has been issued. Prepare: if confirmed, personal identification will be required. Not much time left.”
Maria put down the phone and covered her face with her hands. Almost didn’t dare believe. Almost didn’t dare breathe. But the truth was near — almost within reach.
And that truth found them on the southern highway. In a car with foreign plates. Alexey driving. Tatyana in the back. And between them — a sleeping girl wrapped in a blanket, with a pacifier in her mouth. She didn’t know who she was. Didn’t know whose arms those were. Didn’t know she had come home.
They were stopped on the highway by patrol officers based on the alert. The traffic police acted quickly, Alexey and Tatyana didn’t even try to resist. He tried to explain it was a trip to the dacha — they just forgot to notify, left spontaneously, phones left at home. But within a couple of hours they were sitting in the Investigative Committee’s office.
Tatyana kept her composure until the end. Not a single nervous gesture, no hint of anxiety. She behaved like a confident person, as if all this was just an annoying formality to get through like a rainy day.
Alexey broke first.
After six hours of interrogation, after a confrontation with Maria, after reviewing Anna’s testimony and hospital records, he lowered his eyes. Not angrily, not theatrically — almost tiredly.
“It was her idea,” he said quietly. “I… didn’t know how to get out of this situation.”
The investigator turned on the recorder. Alexey spoke quickly, as if afraid to change his mind:
“Tatyana and I have had problems for a long time. She… she can’t have children. And everything we have — house, business, finances — is registered to her. If I left, I’d be left with nothing. She found out about Maria almost immediately. And gave me a choice: either we play by her rules, or I lose everything.”
He ran his palm across his face as if wiping away the traces of the conversation.
“When Maria got pregnant, Tatyana came up with a plan. We’d make the child ours. She arranged with the chief doctor, found the right connections. I agreed. I did nothing else. Didn’t even want to think how it would be. Thought it’d sort itself out later. That Maria wouldn’t find out.”
He fell silent. The investigator pressed “stop” and looked at Maria:
“It’s all recorded. A genetic exam will be assigned. Prepare: there’s a lot of work ahead. But now you have a real chance to get your child back.”
Maria nodded slowly. There was no joy. No relief. Only tense silence inside. And cautious hope, which now seemed almost frightening in its closeness.
The tests were done quickly. Biomaterial from Maria, the girl under clinical supervision. Doctors’ conclusions were unequivocal: healthy, developing normally, no abnormalities. A tiny life sleeping in a white box, unaware that someone tried to rewrite her birth.
The results came in a few days. Complete match on all markers. No doubt. She was her daughter.
Maria received official documents. Then custody papers. Then the right to take Veronika home. The process was strictly regulated: lawyer, investigator, social worker — all as required. But one day, after the long paperwork, came the simplest moment: she was led to a room where in a crib lay what she went through hell for. Small, alive, real. With her eyes. Her chin. Her breathing.
She didn’t cry. Just sat down beside her, stretched out a hand, and softly said:
“Hi, Veronika. I’m here. I found you.”
The girl opened her eyes, turned her head, furrowed her brow slightly as if remembering something. Then closed her eyes again, trustingly falling asleep.
On the way home, driving together — with Asya behind the wheel, Lena holding the baby carrier in the back seat — the first snow began to fall. Light flakes swirled in the air, covered the hood, illuminated asphalt, empty tree branches. Maria looked out the window and for the first time in months felt not emptiness, not pain, but silence. Warm, alive, possible.
She knew the journey was not over. Papers, court, questions — all ahead. But the most important thing had already happened. Her daughter lay nearby. And it was worth every step.
At home, she carefully changed the baby into warm pajamas, laid her in the crib she took from the closet. Sat beside her until she fell asleep. And suddenly realized: she was no longer alone. Never would be.
Veronika stretched in her sleep, dropped her toy from her hand and turned slightly toward her. Maria leaned over, hugged her as gently as if apologizing for every day spent apart.
“Now everything will be different,” she whispered, looking at the sleepy face. “I’m here. Always.”
The girl sighed softly and slept without waking. And Maria, for the first time in a long time, smiled. Truly. Because this smile was no longer a response to pain. It became the beginning of something new. Something whole. Something hers.