The frosty morning was particularly chilly. The street, shrouded in gray clouds, was permeated with a cold that made it seem like even the buildings were shivering. Marina Alekseyevna hurriedly wrapped herself in her old wool scarf, which had long since lost its original color. She appeared to be about seventy, but life’s hardships and poor health added another decade. She tried to walk quickly, as her ailing legs would allow, but each movement was laborious.
Near the house where she had lived for many years was a small bakery. Marina Alekseyevna passed by it almost daily, each time feeling the warm aroma of fresh bread and sweet pastries awaken an irresistible desire within her. She knew that entering just like that meant facing a reality where she couldn’t even afford a piece of it. But today, her desperation overcame her shame. In the pocket of her old coat were just a few small coins, which could merely jingle. There was no food left at home, and the old woman decided to go in.
Upon entering, she immediately felt the contrast between the street’s cold and the shop’s cozy warmth. It smelled of pastry, cinnamon, and something else that awakened warm memories of times when her children were little. Near the counter, two women loudly discussed the latest news, while a young man in a sports jacket, with a crisp bill in hand, bought pastries. Marina Alekseyevna waited for them to disperse and stealthily surveyed the assortment.
The saleswoman, a young woman about twenty-five, stood behind the counter with obvious indifference on her face. Her hair was tied in a strict ponytail, and her nails, painted bright red, idly tapped on the cash register awaiting the next customer. When the line cleared, Marina Alekseyevna stepped forward, her knees trembling.
“Daughter, give me at least one bun,” her voice sounded quietly, almost pleading. “I haven’t eaten for two days.”
The saleswoman wasn’t surprised. She had encountered similar requests before, and her response was automatic.
“We do not run a charity, grandma,” she said coldly. “If you can’t pay, sorry.”
Marina Alekseyevna stood in confusion. Her eyes, dimmed from living alone, met the indifferent gaze of the young woman. At that moment, time seemed to freeze. The old woman didn’t insist, knowing it was pointless to explain further. She took a step back, muttered:
“Thank you,” and turned to leave.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she held them back. Her heart was heavy. She barely left her home, not wanting to show her weakness to the neighbors, and now this—open humiliation. It seemed that even the bakery walls were mocking her. However, just as she reached for the door handle to leave, a loud crash suddenly sounded behind her.
“Oh, there!” exclaimed the saleswoman. She had accidentally dropped a tray of croissants, which rolled across the floor like overripe apples.
Marina Alekseyevna turned around. On the floor lay the overturned tray, and croissants—golden, still warm from the oven—scattered across the tiles. Their smooth surface gleamed as if mocking the absurdity of the situation.
“What a day!” the saleswoman exhaled irritably. It was the same girl who had just refused the old woman. Her cheeks flushed, either from anger or embarrassment, and her hands reached out to gather the buns. Around them, a few curious patrons gathered. Some whispered, some just watched.
“Can’t you use your hands properly?” someone’s sneering voice came from the customers. The girl looked up but said nothing. Instead, she knelt down and began collecting the croissants into a box. Her movements were quick but sloppy; sometimes the buns fell again, and someone from the crowd even snorted, stepping back to avoid stepping on another croissant.
Marina Alekseyevna froze. She didn’t know what to do. Her natural shyness kept her in place, but something deep inside urged her to intervene. Finally, she took a step forward, carefully approached the girl, and, bending slightly, began helping her gather the fallen buns.
“No need, I can handle it myself,” the saleswoman snapped, not looking up.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” the old woman quietly replied. “It must be hard for you alone. I’ll help as much as I can.”
Marina Alekseyevna’s hands moved slowly but surely. She neatly packed the croissants into the box, ensuring that those that touched the floor did not mix with those that could still be saved. Her movements were so caring that they involuntarily attracted the attention of those around her. An unusual silence hung in the air, only the rustling of bags and the sound of buns falling into the box broke it.
The girl looked at the old woman but said nothing. Her irritation slightly eased, replaced by a light embarrassment. She clearly wasn’t used to someone helping her unconditionally, especially such a poorly dressed woman.
“It’s all written off anyway,” the saleswoman grumbled after a brief pause, trying to hide her agitation. “We have such rules: if something falls on the floor, it can’t be sold.”
“If it’s written off, then… may I take them?” Marina Alekseyevna hesitantly offered, lowering her eyes. “It will… be useful to me. And you’re going to throw it away anyway.”
The saleswoman froze, unsure how to react. Another girl, her colleague, peeked out from the back room. Seeing the situation, she smiled and said:
“Anya, just give it to her. What, do you mind? You won’t sell it now anyway.”
The girl, whose name was Anya, hesitated a bit. On one hand, she knew it was just a loss for the store, but something inside her stubbornly resisted: it seemed like they were trying to make her feel guilty. However, her colleague’s words and the old woman’s behavior made her reconsider her position.
“Okay, take them,” she finally said, putting the croissants in a bag. “Just don’t come here with such requests again, alright?”
The old woman gratefully nodded, carefully accepting the bag into her weary hands. She clutched it to her chest as if it was not just a few buns but something far more valuable.
“Thank you, daughter,” she whispered. “May everything be well for you.”
Anya silently watched as the old woman headed for the exit. Strange feelings wrestled in her soul. On one hand, she felt irritation at the whole situation; on the other, she understood that she could have behaved differently. She wasn’t used to gratitude that sounded so sincere.
As Marina Alekseyevna was about to leave the door, one of the patrons, a young man in a down jacket who had been standing aside all this time, spoke to the saleswoman:
“You know, you could have been kinder to her. Try just helping next time. It’s not that hard.”
Anya didn’t respond, just shrugged and went about her business. However, his words lingered in her mind, reminding her of how easy it is to hurt someone, even if you don’t intend to.
Outside, Marina Alekseyevna stopped to adjust her scarf. Snow began to fall again, softly landing on the ground. The old woman clutched the bag tighter and walked toward her home, feeling a mix of warm gratitude and bitterness that would continue to warm and torment her simultaneously.
The raw cold outside was the kind that penetrates to the bones and makes you shiver and wrap yourself in a scarf. Marina Alekseyevna walked slowly, carefully stepping over icy sidewalks. In her hands, she held a bag filled with the warmth and aroma of croissants. The snow began to fall in large flakes, quietly settling on her shoulders and the gray scarf she had pulled over her head.
The old woman quickened her pace. She couldn’t wait to get home, shelter from the icy wind, and finally taste a piece of that pastry, which now seemed like a true treasure to her. But her thoughts were interrupted by a voice from behind.
“Grandma, wait!”
She froze and turned around. A young man was hurrying toward her. Tall, in a dark blue down jacket, he walked, slightly slipping on the ice. It was the same guy who had stood in the bakery and observed her conversation with the saleswoman.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he began, barely catching up to her. “I saw what happened in the store. Can I talk to you?”
Marina Alekseyevna looked at him warily, but she stopped. The young man’s face was friendly, with no signs of condescension or pity, which she couldn’t stand. He smiled, noticing her mistrust.
“My name is Maxim. I work at another bakery nearby,” he said. “We often have unsold pastries. It’s good food, just by evening it can’t be sold anymore. If you want, you could take it. It’s better than throwing it away.”
The old woman didn’t immediately understand what he was offering. She shifted her gaze to his kind eyes, then to her bag of croissants. Something pinched inside: such offers were rare, and she still couldn’t believe that someone might offer help just like that.
“Are you… serious?” she cautiously asked, gripping the bag a little tighter.
“Of course,” Maxim nodded. “We write it off anyway, so it’s no problem for us. You just need to come in the evening, around eight. I’ll remember you.”
Marina Alekseyevna hesitantly nodded. A faint but sincere smile appeared on her face. This guy didn’t seem cunning or duplicitous. On the contrary, he spoke simply, as if he were offering the most ordinary thing, requiring no gratitude.
“Thank you, Maxim,” she quietly replied, trying not to burst into tears right on the street. “God bless you, son.”
“It’s nothing,” the young man smiled and waved his hand. “Then I’ll wait for you tomorrow. Just don’t forget to come.”
Maxim, wishing her a good evening, turned and left, while Marina Alekseyevna remained standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Her old boots creaked on the snow, and a wave of strange warmth rose in her heart. She couldn’t remember the last time someone offered her help without any ulterior motive. For a moment, she even felt awkward: what if he regretted getting involved? But the thoughts quickly evaporated when she looked at her bag again. Tonight, she wouldn’t go to bed hungry.
When the old woman reached her building, twilight had set in. On the stairs, she was met by a neighbor from the third floor, Valentina Ivanovna. They rarely spoke, but today the woman couldn’t contain her curiosity, seeing a whole bag of pastries in Marina Alekseyevna’s hands.
“Marina, where did you get this?” she asked, as if checking if something strange had happened.
“They gave it at the bakery, written off,” the old woman replied reservedly, not wanting to go into details.
“And what, will they give me if I go?” Valentina persisted.
“I don’t know…” Marina Alekseyevna was slightly embarrassed. She herself didn’t understand why she had been so lucky.
The neighbor looked at her skeptically but asked no further questions. She just shrugged and disappeared behind the door of her apartment. And Marina Alekseyevna went up to her own place and finally stepped over the threshold.
Her apartment was old and uncomfortable. Cracked wallpaper, a faded carpet on the floor, and a dim kitchen where the lamp barely illuminated the table reminded her of how long it had been since it was last renovated. But today, this home seemed a bit warmer to her. She placed the bag on the table and sat down, feeling the fatigue leave her body.
Taking out one of the croissants, the old woman brought it to her face, inhaled the aroma, and carefully took a bite. The dough was tender, soft, with a light taste of butter. Tears welled up in her eyes. This was the tastiest food she had had in recent days.
Leaving some of the pastries for tomorrow, she put on the kettle and pondered. What if this young man, Maxim, could indeed help her not to feel hungry? For the first time in a long time, Marina Alekseyevna felt a faint, but bright, hope that her days might become a bit easier.
Since then, the life of Marina Alekseyevna had changed a little. Every evening, carefully wrapped in her old scarf and wool coat, she headed to the neighboring block. The walk to the bakery took about twenty minutes, but the old woman never complained—on the contrary, these walks became her little ritual. Snow, sometimes soft and fluffy, sometimes painfully prickly, accompanied her, but Marina Alekseyevna walked confidently, firmly holding the handle of her worn wicker bag.
Maxim always waited for her. The young man stood behind the counter of the bakery, cleaning up the last remnants of the working day. He always smiled when he saw the old woman. Her presence had become something mundane, but pleasant for him. Sometimes he joked, sometimes he shared something about his plans, but more often, he simply handed her a neatly packed package with croissants, pies, or even sweet bread.
“Well, how are you there? Everything good?” he invariably asked, handing her the warm bundle.
“Everything’s good, Maxim, thank you, dear,” she answered with a grateful smile.
These few minutes of conversation warmed her soul. It had been a long time since someone cared about her, even if from a distance. In this young man, she saw something sincere, almost familial.
Soon, news of her “food evenings” reached the neighbors. Valentina Ivanovna, that same curious woman from the third floor, one day knocked on her door in the evening, just as Marina had returned home.
“Marina, you… tell me more, where do you get this food?” she began right from the doorstep.
The old woman didn’t know how to react. She was embarrassed to admit that they just gave her the pastries.
“At a bakery nearby. A guy there works, Maxim. He allowed me to take the written-off buns,” she finally replied.
“So, maybe I’ll go too? What, do they give it to everyone?” the neighbor’s eyes sparkled with greedy interest.
Marina Alekseyevna frowned. She didn’t want her small source of joy to become a reason for a crowd of neighbors to attack the bakery. She understood that such generosity was not infinite.
“I don’t think they’ll give it to just anyone. Maxim just… helps me,” she cautiously said, lowering her eyes.
Valentina Ivanovna looked at her skeptically but did not insist further. After that conversation, she no longer asked questions, but sometimes she cast sideways glances when she saw the old woman with a bag of pastries.
One evening, Marina Alekseyevna returned from the bakery earlier than usual. She brought so much pastry that she decided to share it with one of the neighbors—a young mother living a floor below. The woman often stayed alone with her small child, while her husband came home only late at night. Marina carefully knocked on her door.
“This is for you, Natasha. Here are some bread and buns. I have a lot, and it might be useful to you,” she said, extending the bag.
Natasha was taken aback. She did not expect such generosity, especially from a neighbor who herself barely made ends meet.
“Oh, Marina Alekseyevna, thank you! But how about you? Maybe you shouldn’t?”
“Don’t worry, dear. I have enough. And you have a child. He needs everything now,” the old woman replied, softly smiling.
This incident marked the beginning of their friendship. Now Natasha sometimes invited Marina over for tea, and she, in turn, was glad that her modest help was useful to someone. The old woman’s life gradually filled with warmth, which she no longer hoped to feel.
Anya, the same saleswoman from the first bakery, once accidentally met Marina on the street. It was morning when the old woman was returning from the grocery store, carrying a small bag with potatoes and pasta. Anya recognized her immediately and hurried over.
“Hello. Marina Alekseyevna, right?” she began.
The old woman stopped, slightly surprised that she was remembered.
“Yes, daughter. Anya, right?” she asked, trying to remember.
“Yes, right. Listen… I wanted to apologize. That time, in the bakery, I was rude to you. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Forgive me,” the girl said, a bit embarrassed.
Marina Alekseyevna smiled. She had long held no grudge.
“Ah, what are you, daughter. I understand everything. Your work is so difficult. You know, the main thing is that you still helped me then, and the words… I forgot them long ago.”
Anya was a bit taken aback. She didn’t expect such a simple and sincere response. After a short pause, she added:
“If anything, come over. We sometimes have leftover pastries. Tell me—I’ll set aside some for you.”
These words touched the old woman. She thanked the girl, and Anya, embarrassedly nodding, went about her business. That evening, Marina Alekseyevna thought long about how many people around were ready to help, if only given a chance.
Thus, the life of the old woman, which once seemed quite lonely to her, gradually filled with bright moments. Thanks to the kindness of one person and random encounters, she felt herself part of a world that had become cozy and warm for her again.