— How many children would you like? — Oleg asked with that special smile that made Christina feel warm inside. She noticed how the lamp light played in his eyes, coloring them a warm amber.
Christina lifted her gaze from her cup of tea and pretended to think seriously. Her eyes sparkled playfully.
— Many, — she said, pressing her palms against the warm ceramic. — About ten. All one after another — close in age.
Oleg laughed — lightly, a bit huskily. He scooted closer on the couch, clearly surprised.
— Are you serious? Ten?
— Of course! Imagine: morning, the whole kitchen is a mess with kids. Someone with a spoonful of porridge, another pulling my hair, one has already walked the dog, and someone is hiding in the pantry. And we stand in the middle of this chaos deciding who to wash first and who to send to the corner.
Oleg smirked, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close.
— I can picture it. But keep in mind: I spend half my life driving, and you’ll be alone with them?
— But when you come back from a trip — every child will pull you to themselves: one will show how they learned to read, another how they fell from a tree. And you’ll read to them while I prepare dinner. I want a home filled with voices, Oleg. I want it to smell like pies and baby shampoo. I want our life to sound like a song.
He looked at her for a long time, then quietly said:
— I want that too. Very much.
Back then, in that small rented apartment with peeling walls, they both believed: if you just want it, the dream will come true. They laughed, picked names for future children, debated what to name the third if it was a girl, and who would be the oldest — boy or girl. They kissed, hugged, and in their world, there was no reason for things to turn out differently.
But five years later, Christina stood at the doorstep of a large red-brick house in an upscale neighborhood. The house was beautiful, with stained glass, tall steps, and wrought-iron railings. The car door slammed shut behind her — but she didn’t even turn around.
“This is it,” she thought. “The house we dreamed of. But it’s too quiet.”
Oleg, who over those years had gone from a truck driver to owner of his own transport company, came up and hugged her from behind.
— How do you like it?
Christina smiled faintly, not turning around.
— Just… huge. Like it could fit all the Chinese.
— You’re exaggerating, — he smirked. — But admit, it’s spacious.
He kissed her and went inside, cheerfully slapping the cold wrought-iron handle.
Christina stayed standing. The wind tugged at her coat’s edge. The sun was setting, shadows stretching long, just like the silence in her chest. She remembered that evening — the couch, tea, the talk about children. Her heart skipped a beat. They had spoken from the heart then. Wanted the same thing. But years passed, and only half the dream came true. The house was here. But no children.
They inspected the rooms. Spacious hall, high ceilings, white walls, and a wooden staircase smelling of fresh varnish. Everything was new. Clean. Without signs of life. Their footsteps echoed as if someone invisible was following them.
Christina slowly moved from room to room. Living room with a fireplace. Kitchen with an island. Panoramic windows in the living room looking out onto the forest. Upstairs — five bedrooms, each decorated differently: blue, green, pink. Their bedroom — in pastel tones, with impeccably white bedding.
She peeked into one room. Empty. Just boxes on the floor. In another — a disassembled crib covered in plastic. A gift from her sister — a reminder of what never happened.
“Whose rooms are these?” she wondered. “Parents are far away. Friends… Who do we have left? And children…”
Sitting on the bed’s edge, Christina ran her hand over the rough bedspread.
“They should be here. I did everything right. Everything…”
She recalled years of doctor visits, injections, surgeries, expensive clinics abroad. The smell of sterility, the hope ringing in every diagnosis. All — for nothing.
Oleg never complained. He always said they still had everything ahead. That the two of them were already a family. But she noticed how he looked at other people’s children. How his gaze lingered on pregnant women.
He didn’t drift away. But inside her grew the feeling she was incomplete. Like she was falling short of some invisible bar.
And the house… It only amplified the emptiness.
Oleg sat on the veranda when Polina approached him.
— Hi… May I? I was just passing by.
He nodded — politely, but reserved.
— Beautiful house. Like from a magazine. You did well.
She sat down nearby, tracing her fingers over the wooden railing.
— You know… I keep thinking: why does Oleg need that woman? She doesn’t give you what you want. Children. But I can.
He looked at her silently.
— I can give you children, — she whispered almost. — Forget Christina. Be with me. I love too. I’m always here. I know you want a family. A real one.
The wind stirred the leaves. Not a sound.
Christina stood behind the door, hearing every word. Her lips went numb, her heart clenched as if someone was slowly squeezing it.
“Why… Why now…”
She stepped back but stayed.
Oleg stood.
— Polina, — he said firmly and calmly, — you’ve crossed the line.
— I’m saying what I feel.
— And I’m not. You’re just my wife’s acquaintance. Nothing more. Don’t ever come here again. Never.
— But you…
— Leave.
He went inside. Christina pressed against the wall, letting only one tear fall. The rest — would burn inside.
“Why does it hurt so much?.. Has money become the only thing that drives people? Why can even those close to you hurt you like that…”
The phone in her pocket vibrated. Another test. Another call from the clinic. Another voice saying: “The situation is difficult.” Those words no longer hurt — only fatigue. Hope had long dried up like a flower under the scorching sun.
She sat on the bedroom windowsill, watching the garden where someone trimmed bushes. Oleg came in, sat beside her, placed his hand on her knee.
— I can’t anymore, Oleg… — she whispered. — I can’t keep treating myself, can’t keep waiting. I’m tired of feeling incomplete.
He didn’t answer. Just hugged her. Tight.
— I’m scared, — she added. — Afraid that one day you’ll leave. Find someone who can…
—I won’t, — he said, stroking her hair. — Because I already have everything. You — and that’s all. The rest — we’ll figure out.
Days after moving in, there was a knock at the door.
A couple stood on the doorstep. A woman with a tray under an embroidered towel, neat hairstyle, and porcelain-doll eyes. Behind her — a middle-aged man in a checkered blazer holding a hat.
— Hello! We’re your neighbors — Katya and Sergey Pavlov. We live in the blue house with arches.
Christina took the tray, thanked them. Inside, a strange feeling stirred — as if something clicked, a warning.
— Come in for tea, — she invited.
In the kitchen, while the kettle boiled, Katya fussily looked for a place for a jar of honey.
— Sorry, we haven’t unpacked everything yet, — Christina noted.
— Oh, no problem. I’ll run for my tea — can’t do without it.
And she disappeared.
Christina stayed with Sergey. He stood by the window, hands behind his back, silent. Then suddenly said…
— You have a great house, — Katya said, looking around the living room. — Children will feel happy here.
Christina tensed inside. Did he not know? Or did he suspect?
When Katya returned, Christina had the thought: something was off about this couple. Sergey looked too old for her — at least twenty-five years older. And when she called him her husband, her voice trembled slightly. Instantly, almost imperceptibly.
Their speech was too clear, words rehearsed. As if they followed a pre-written script.
“Are they really husband and wife?” Christina wondered, observing them at the table.
Dusk was falling outside, and a quiet tension hung in the house — like before a theater curtain rises.
— We’ve been together four years, — Katya said, folding her legs neatly. — Husband and wife. True, the age gap is big — almost twenty-seven years. But when the heart chooses, it doesn’t look at the passport.
Christina sat with her cup in hand but didn’t take a sip. Her gaze lingered on Katya’s flawless makeup, on how she held her hands — calmly, slightly theatrically. Her voice was even, almost emotionless. Like she had played this role many times.
— I see… — Christina replied softly. — It must take a lot of strength.
Katya smiled.
— We rarely talk about it. People don’t always understand.
“That’s strange,” Christina thought, watching them as a couple. “But who am I to judge? Maybe it really is love?”
But inside, contradictory feelings tore at her — a mix of anxiety and curiosity. As if a part of the picture refused to fit the whole. When the neighbors left, Christina leaned against the door, lingering on the lock with her hand. Oleg appeared behind her.
— So, what do you think of them? — he asked.
— They’re kind of strange, — she whispered.
—I thought so too, — Oleg nodded. — More like father and daughter.
Christina wanted to laugh but something held her back.
— Her face… as if painted, — she murmured. — And her voice… as if rehearsed.
— Didn’t you rehearse when you went to your first exhibition? — he teased. — Your series of nude portraits caused a stir back then.
Christina snorted but smiled. She remembered how nervous she’d been showing her work publicly.
But deep inside, anxiety remained.
Late at night, unpacking groceries, Christina suddenly froze.
— Shh, — she whispered.
From behind the wall, as if from the house’s depths, came children’s laughter — clear, cheerful, like kids playing hide and seek or tickling each other.
She froze holding a jar. Oleg kept rearranging grains, hearing nothing.
The laughter faded.
“What was that?” she wondered. “Hallucinations?..”
She didn’t say a word. Didn’t dare. Didn’t want Oleg to think she was losing touch with reality. Especially now.
The next day, when Oleg left for the city, Christina stayed alone. The house seemed especially quiet, as if listening. She walked the rooms, drew the curtains, brewed tea. But even the usual bustle didn’t help — something foreign lingered in the house.
In the living room, just as she sat on the couch, the sound came again. Clearer this time. Laughter. And a voice — thin, boyish:
— Mooooommy!
Christina jumped up, clutching her chest as if to calm her wildly beating heart.
“The basement,” she realized. “That’s where it’s coming from.”
But they didn’t have the keys to the basement. Its door was massive, wooden, with an iron handle and an old lock, like from a horror movie. Neither she nor Oleg had looked inside yet.
That evening they visited the neighbors — who invited them “for tea.” Christina hesitated but Oleg insisted: “Just a meeting. What could happen?”
Katya was waiting at the gate — in a white sweater, with a blanket on her shoulder. Sergey sat in the living room with a glass of wine. Cheese, fruit, nuts on the table. It felt like a cozy evening. Too cozy.
The women sat on the veranda, the men in another room. Oleg showed something on his phone, Sergey listened attentively.
— Do you have children? — Christina asked suddenly.
Katya hesitated.
— No… not yet.
Christina raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Not yet”? For a man over sixty? That sounded strange. Almost absurd. Who says that? “Not yet.” Like motherhood was still possible. Or not for her?
Late at night in bed, Christina couldn’t hold it in:
— Oleg…
He opened his eyes, slowly realizing where he was.
— What?
— I hear voices. Children’s voices. Every day. From the basement.
He sat up, leaning on a pillow, looking at her carefully.
— Maybe it’s just someone outside?
— No. I checked. No one there. But I hear them. Clearly.
He looked at her long, quietly.
— Do you want me to take you to a doctor?
— Oleg! — she flared. — I’m not crazy! Not hysterical! I’m not making this up! Check it yourself!
— Okay. Tomorrow’s a day off. We’ll figure it out, — he said softly, but with caution in his tone.
Christina turned to the wall. And again felt loneliness — even next to the one she loved.
In the morning, she woke up sensing something strange in the air. Not light, not noise — no. Just the atmosphere felt heavier, like a storm approaching. Oleg stood by the window, in a T-shirt, in shadow. His face tense, as if just back from another world.
— Oleg? — she called. — What are you doing there?
He turned slowly, as if not recognizing her at first.
— I hear it too, — he said.
— What?! — she jumped up. — You’re joking? Seriously? Or trying to calm me? Or push me over?
Her voice cracked. Throat tightened, hands trembled.
Oleg came over, sat beside her.
— I was in the kitchen around three. Pouring water. All quiet. Then… I heard it.
— What exactly?
— Laughter. Children’s. Not loud — like hiding and giggling. Footsteps. And a voice… clear. Then someone closed the basement door downstairs. I thought I was imagining things. Then I realized: it’s real. It’s there.
Christina looked at him, breathless.
Relief pierced her chest like the first breath after a long dive. But then came the anxiety. It means — something is happening. She hadn’t lost her mind. But it also meant — something alive was in the house.
— We need to open the basement.
Oleg nodded. Pale but determined. Only there was no key on the ring they got with the house. They couldn’t reach the previous owners — they had long gone abroad. They had to contact the management company.
The guard rummaged through a drawer, grumbling about rules and instructions, but finally gave a heavy metal key with an engraving on the loop.
The basement was dark and cool, smelled of dust and dampness. The flashlight revealed boxes, shelves, an old armchair… and toys.
Christina froze. Against the wall stood a wooden toy kitchen. Nearby — a dollhouse. Exactly the one she dreamed of as a child. Colored windows, miniature furniture. Even a teapot.
On the floor — dolls, pillows, crumpled as if someone had recently slept there. Torn pictures cut from magazines and glued to the wall.
Christina carefully touched one doll. Oleg was silent, looking around.
— Look, — he called. — Someone’s been here.
A pillow was shifted, carpet nap pressed down, candy wrapper nearby.
— This isn’t just a basement. Someone lives here. Or hides. Or plays.
The flashlight illuminated a wall. There was a door — metal, new, with a modern lock. Apparently used regularly.
The next day Oleg left. Returned in the evening, his face tense. Holding a laptop.
— Sit down, — he said. — Listen.
Christina sat opposite in the kitchen. He opened several tabs.
— I checked Sergey Pavlov. No records about him — neither as businessman nor owner of anything. But Maksim Sergeyevich Pavlov exists. He’s thirty-five. Owner of sixteen companies.
Christina felt her insides clench.
— I don’t understand…
Late at night, when the house fell silent, they heard it again. Voices. Children’s. Clear. Alive.
Christina put a finger to her lips, stopping Oleg. They tiptoed down and listened at the basement door. Voices were inside.
They opened the door, turned on the light. In the corner — two girls, five or six years old, in nightgowns, barefoot. One held a doll, the other rummaged in a box.
— Oh! — one exclaimed. — Run!
The children dashed for the exit, slipping past the adults. Christina ran to the basement window. Through dusty glass, she saw small figures running across the lawn and disappearing behind the blue house — the Pavlovs’ house.
Fifteen minutes later, they were knocking on that very door.
Sergey opened quickly, in casual clothes, face tense.
— How did children get into our basement? — Christina asked directly.
— Who are they? — Christina asked. — And why were they hiding?
Ekaterina appeared in the hallway. She didn’t raise her eyes, lips tightly pressed.
Sergey cleared his throat and quietly said:
— Liza, Masha… Come down.
There was a light tapping — someone running down the stairs. Two girls, the same from the basement. One slightly older, her look full of anxiety. Hair roughly braided, hands clasped behind her back.
— Daddy… Sorry… — she whispered.
Maksim held out his hand.
— I told you — don’t go there anymore. Give me the keys.
The girl pulled the key ring from her pocket, approached, and placed it in his palm.
— These are our daughters, — Sergey said almost in a whisper, as if he couldn’t believe his own words.
Christina and Oleg exchanged looks. The silence grew thick, palpable like fog.
— I work as a guard here in this settlement, — Sergey continued. — I have access to all basements. While your house was empty, I gave them keys — just to play. It was warm, cozy there. We made sure no one noticed. They didn’t bother anyone.
— But why the basement? — Christina’s voice trembled. — Why not outside? Why not like everyone else?
Sergey sighed heavily. Ekaterina stood in the corner, hugging herself as if holding back some tense impulse.
— Because, — he answered, — no one must know we have children.
Christina shook her head as if trying to shake off those words.
— What are you saying? Why?
Sergey looked at Ekaterina. She nodded briefly.
— Ekaterina was my son’s daughter-in-law, — he began. — Wife of Maksim Pavlov, a big businessman.
Christina paled. Oleg slowly leaned back on the couch as if all the air had left his lungs.
— My wife Tatyana was seriously ill even then. We lived in constant anxiety. And Katya was young, kind, attentive. She cared for Tanya, made the house brighter. We didn’t notice how feelings changed…
Ekaterina looked away at the window.
— It was mutual but forbidden love. We tried to fight it, stayed silent, waited… When Tatyana died, we confessed everything to Maksim. Decided to be together. Not hide.
— And he? — Christina asked quietly.
Sergey closed his eyes.
— He lost his mother, wife. He took it as betrayal. Was furious. Kicked us out. Took everything away. Started to persecute. First through court, then — through connections. We left. Hid.
Ekaterina turned, tears shining in her eyes.
— He remarried but never forgave. Knew he now had two little sisters and literally went crazy. Threatened us. Vowed to destroy everyone.
Sergey shrugged.
— We gave up everything: business, past. I disappeared from all databases, write books under a pseudonym. We live on the leftover funds. Hide the children. Not out of shame, but fear.
— Here in the settlement, no one knows about them, — added Ekaterina. — Only you.
— We’re used to it, — Sergey said. — Hiding. Living in fear. Even the children learned to play in whispers.
Christina looked at Oleg. He still didn’t take his eyes off the old man.
They walked home along dark fences, between tall trees that looked like black silhouettes against the night sky.
— Do you understand them? — Oleg asked, looking ahead.
Christina was silent for a long time.
— Maybe if we had children… But we don’t. And it’s hard for me to imagine hiding other children from one child, hiding the truth like something shameful. It all seems… very strange.
The next morning, when Oleg left on business, there was a knock at the door. Christina opened. Ekaterina stood there.
— May I come in? Even for a minute?
She entered, holding a small bundle. Her face was embarrassed.
— Sorry about the girls, — she began. — We didn’t want to…
She looked Christina in the eyes and sat down.
— When I betrayed my husband with his father… I found out I couldn’t have children. I thought it was punishment. I don’t believe in God, but then I decided — it’s a penalty. I went to church, asked for forgiveness…
Christina sat opposite.
— And then… I got pregnant. Maybe that little angel helped. — Ekaterina unfolded the bundle. Inside was a tiny porcelain angel. Old, matte, with a barely noticeable childlike smile. — A poor woman in church gave it to me. She said: “Keep it. It brings hope.”
She handed it to Christina.
— Let it be with you. Even if you didn’t say anything — I still feel your pain. You know what I mean…
Christina took the angel. Didn’t say a word.
Months passed. Christina woke up early. The sky was gray, heavy clouds hung low. Oleg still slept. Silence filled the house.
She went to the bathroom, closed the door. The little angel sat on the shelf, as always. She took out a test. As usual. As a thousand times before. In recent years, it had become a kind of morning ritual.
The test lay on the sink edge. The first line — as always. Expected. Normal. And suddenly — the second.
Clear. Black. Real. Like a line drawn by fate.
Christina didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t run. She just sat on the edge of the bathtub, closed her eyes… and cried.
She held the angel in her palm.
— Maybe it’s not your fault, — she whispered. — But let you be near.
Oleg woke when she sat down beside him on the bed.
— Oleg… — she said quietly. — We’re going to have a child.
He didn’t believe it at first. But she showed him. He took her hand. Said nothing. Just stroked her palm, again and again, as if to make sure — she was real. And everything happening was real too.