Maxim sat at the computer, not taking his eyes off the monitor. One line of code replaced another on the screen—an endless stream of characters, understood only by him. The workday was coming to an end, but that meant nothing. Time had long lost its meaning for him—days, weeks, months had merged into one gray, monotonous existence. He felt neither satisfaction from completed tasks nor fatigue. Everything was shrouded in a dull veil of inner emptiness.
Outside, twilight was deepening. The winter evening looked muted and silent: the frost lightly tickled the skin, snow gently settled on the ground, and streetlights illuminated the streets with soft, diffused light. The city seemed distant, cold, and indifferent—as if it didn’t notice human pain.
Maxim turned off the monitor, put on a scarf, casually shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and went outside. He didn’t need to go anywhere—his steps, as usual, had no purpose. He had been wandering like this for several months since his mother died.
She had gone suddenly, unexpectedly, as if someone had torn out the most important piece of his life. His father left the family when Maxim was still a child, and the only person who was always there was his mother. She worked multiple shifts to provide for both of them, gave her son an education, raised him, and made him a self-sufficient person.
And then—one diagnosis, cancer—and in just a month she faded away. He held her hand in her final minutes, when she opened her eyes for the last time. Since that day, only a deep emptiness remained inside him—a depression he never named aloud but that slowly sucked the life out of him.
Outside there was dead silence. Cold, alien. Maxim walked slowly along the sidewalk, feeling the crunch of snow beneath his feet. Cars rushed past, but he hardly noticed them. One thought played over and over in his mind:
“Work is the only way not to go crazy. Programming extinguishes emotions.”
It was something like a mantra he repeated to himself, trying to keep at least the appearance of control. But even work stopped bringing joy. All tasks became the same: tickets, tests, fixes—an endless chain of monotonous routine. It didn’t save him, but at least distracted.
It became hard with friends. They unintentionally only increased his sense of loneliness. Their jokes began to irritate him, conversations seemed empty, and evenings together felt meaningless.
Girls didn’t bring relief either. Everything started as usual: texting, cafes, light flirting. They were different—beautiful, kind, bright. But as soon as the relationship passed the first stage, it all came down to the same questions: “Where do you work?”, “How much do you earn?”, “Do you have a car?”, “Is your apartment your own or your parents’?”
The questions were asked casually, as if in passing, but Maxim felt a cold calculation in them. They didn’t accept him as a person—they saw him as a set of possibilities. He wasn’t poor. He had a good position, an apartment, a car. But after every date, the same thing remained—emptiness. As if he was trying to warm himself again by taking something warm from the fridge. Everything external was fine. But inside—cold.
Sometimes he just sat in his car and drove around the city without music. For hours he circled from the center to the outskirts, as if looking for someone or something. Sometimes it seemed he was looking for his mother. Or the self he once was.
His mother taught him to be kind not through words, but through actions. Not in a teacher’s tone, but naturally, in everyday life. To help the elderly, buy products from them even if cheaper options existed. She said, “They’re not just selling—they’re trying to survive. And we can help. At least a little, but sincerely.” Those words stayed with him for life.
Even now, without her, he continued these small kind deeds—as a tribute, as a link to the past.
Today he wandered aimlessly again until he found himself near the metro station where he often went with his mother. He got out of the car. The frost lightly tickled his face, snowflakes quietly swirled in the air. Few people were around; the alley led to an underground passage, and in this silence Maxim’s gaze suddenly caught on something unusual.
On the steps sat a woman. She seemed elderly. Dressed simply—an old coat, a raincoat over it, felt boots on her feet. In front of her was a box with scattered things: books, a couple of apples, garlic, crystal glasses. It all created a strange but touching ensemble.
Maxim approached.
“Excuse me, tell me, what price are the apples?”
The woman raised her eyes. Slowly removed her glasses, carefully put down the book, adjusted her hood. Her gaze was kind, attentive.
“Take everything for free,” she replied. “I don’t bargain. Maybe someone will find it useful.”
Maxim smiled.
“You’re a bad seller. You didn’t even try to name a price.”
She laughed quietly.
“I’m not a seller. And the apples were bought… These books are mine. Especially this one—‘The Grapes of Wrath’ by Steinbeck. A very good book. It’s good to read it in winter. There’s more light in such books than in the news.”
Maxim took the book. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed but well preserved.
“Have you read it yourself?”
“Of course! I worked in a library for almost forty years. The central scientific one. And then I helped out in retirement.”
Maxim looked at her differently—not as a random passerby, but as a person with a rich life.
“How old are you?”
“Almost eighty-five. But age is not a number. It’s memory. As long as you remember who you are and why—you live.”
His heart tightened. He remembered his mother—her voice, her care, her warmth.
“I’m Maxim.”
“Yevdokiya. Nice to meet you. Thank you for not passing by.”
He looked at her hands—cracked, in old mittens, but the movements were careful, like those of a true librarian.
“Sorry if the question is too personal… Why are you here?”
The old woman fell silent, wiped her glasses.
“I have a home. My husband and I lived in it all our lives. Then the three of us with our son. Then the two of us. And then… my husband died. Cancer. The last months at home. And then the son… An explosion at the factory. Nothing left.”
Maxim felt the pain he had long hidden flare up inside again. He remembered the hospital, his mother’s cold hand, the day everything ended.
“I also… recently lost my mother,” Maxim said quietly.
Yevdokiya looked at him differently. In her eyes flickered understanding—not just sympathy, but a deep, almost invisible connection between those who have endured the same pain. Now they spoke no longer as random strangers but as those who know what a hole in the chest feels like, unseen by others but felt with every soul’s movement.
“I forgive you,” she said softly. “It becomes part of you. You carry it, live, work, talk, but inside it’s like emptiness. And only someone who has also lived through this can understand.”
She paused a little, then spoke again—calmly, without complaints, as if telling someone else’s story:
“I had a grandson, Andrey. A good boy, smart, loved to study. Especially books. But then everything changed. He dropped out, started hanging out with bad people, drinking. Every day he became meaner.”
Maxim listened attentively, not interrupting. Her voice was even, without hysteria—she spoke as if just wanting to tell the truth without evoking pity.
“He brought a girl—Masha. He said: ‘This is serious.’ But I looked—and she didn’t care. Unkempt, rude, always on the phone. They sat in the kitchen, smoked by the window, and I had a cough, and the cat suffered too.”
She held the book tighter to her chest as if defending herself.
“One day he said to me: ‘Either you leave with the cat, or I’ll throw her out the window.’ Can you imagine? Just like that. And Musya is not just an animal. She’s the last thing I have left.”
Maxim felt a chill inside. He couldn’t imagine someone talking like that to a person who had lost everything except a little ball of warmth.
“Before that, there was Luna,” Yevdokiya continued. “A little dog. I took her from a shelter when I still worked at the library. We lived together for many years. One day Andrey said he would take her for a walk. He came back alone. Said she ran away. But I knew: she wouldn’t leave. Even if scared, she would find her way home. Probably… he just left her somewhere. In the cold.”
The old woman’s voice trembled, but she did not cry.
Maxim felt a real rage rise in his chest—not theatrical, not showy, but true, from the awareness of injustice. This woman didn’t ask anyone for anything. She was just telling her story—and in every word was a huge, silent pain.
“I looked for Luna,” she added quietly. “In yards, by trash bins, near bus stops. Called her… People laughed. Then I stopped. Just cried.”
She reached for the box beside her. Under the scarf was a cat—a ginger one with white paws, curled up in a ball. From her appearance, it was clear: cold, hunger, illness. But her gaze was kind, even a little smart.
“This is Musya,” Yevdokiya said. “I found her at the library. She ran between the shelves, hid. Over time, she became one of us. Welcomed readers like a staff member. When I retired, I took her with me. Luna and Musya were friends. Now only we remain.”
Maxim reached out his hand. The cat cautiously touched his fingers with her nose, meowed, and curled back into the scarf.
“Take her,” the old woman asked. “Please. At least for a while. She won’t survive here. She has sick kidneys, I treated her, but the medicine ran out. I can’t anymore…”
She covered the box with another scarf carefully, like a child.
“She’s kind. Trained to the litter box, patient. Very gentle character,” she smiled slightly through tears.
Maxim was silent. His heart resisted—how could he just give away someone who had become the last support?
“And you yourself?” he asked. “Where will you go?”
“Sister Lera will come. She’s allergic, has children… Can’t live with animals. We tried leaving Musya in the entrance, on the balcony—it doesn’t work. I need to find her a home. At least temporary.”
Her voice broke. She cried—not loudly, but with pain.
“I… can’t. But I must. Please… at least for a while. I will call. Maybe everything will change…”
Maxim sat down nearby. Looked into her eyes—there was an abyss, but in that abyss burned a spark of strength. Not screaming, not heroic—but quiet, unbroken.
“I can rent an apartment for you,” he suddenly offered. “Nearby. So you’d be warm. Together with Musya.”
But Yevdokiya shook her head.
“No. Don’t. I’m not used to taking. I just need to know she’s safe.”
“Then I will take her. But on one condition—you call me. Here’s my number.”
He wrote the digits on a piece of paper, underlined them twice. Yevdokiya carefully hid the sheet.
“Thank you, dear…” she whispered.
She took out from the cart things: food, litter box, bowl, brush. Maxim took them.
“Then it’s settled,” he said. “I’ll buy books. I’ll definitely finish reading.”
She nodded as if that mattered too.
“Let me say goodbye,” she asked quietly.
Maxim brought the box closer. Yevdokiya held the cat to her chest, stroked her long and gently. Tears ran down her cheeks, fell on the ginger fur.
“We will definitely meet again,” she whispered. “Everything will be fine, my baby… He’s kind. I won’t let him lose you…”
She kissed Musya, lingered for a second, inhaled her scent. And handed the box to Maxim.
He walked away, stepping carefully on the snow. Inside, everything trembled, everything was collapsing. Tears ran down his face by themselves, big, hot, unstoppable. He didn’t hide them. Let them flow. It wasn’t shameful. It was right.
“I promised myself… not to cry anymore,” he exhaled.
But he cried. Because he understood: strength is not in holding back emotions. Strength is in acting. He was doing something more than just saving a cat. He was preserving someone’s love, holding back from disappearing trust, tenderness, human connection.
Two days passed. No call, no message.
Maxim couldn’t stand it. He returned to the metro. Asked everyone he could. Nobody knew. Until one woman said:
“Are you the guy with the cat? Yes… She died. Right here. As soon as you left. No pulse. The ambulance came—too late.”
He stood, unable to believe. The world had just found meaning… And fell apart again.
At home Musya awaited him. Cozy on the chair, wrapped in a blanket, purring with closed eyes. She accepted him. He accepted her.
He sat down nearby, placed the book—‘The Grapes of Wrath’ by Steinbeck—on his lap. Yellowed pages, pencil notes in the margins, neat brackets, petals as bookmarks.
He opened the first page. Musya curled up on his lap and purred.
The silence was not empty. It was alive.