Grigory loved the road — that endless, shimmering asphalt ribbon in the scorching heat haze, stretching far away as if inviting adventures. Every long haul for him was not just a job — it was a ritual filled with loneliness, reflection, and a quiet resistance to everyday life. This time he set out alone, without his usual partner. The old colleague with whom he had shared the cabin for years was ill — heart, blood pressure, age… But, to Grigory’s own surprise, solitude did not weigh on him. On the contrary — in the silence of the cabin, beneath the monotonous hum of the engine and the steady beat of the wheels, his thoughts unfolded like old film reels, bringing him back to the past, to the most cherished memories.
His father, a strong, silent man with a scar on his brow from past road troubles, was also a trucker. In those harsh 1990s, when the country was breaking apart and the roads ruled by jungle laws, he transported cargo through snowstorms and summer dust. But one day, the road took him away. Bandits lurking in the forest by the roadside ambushed the truck, shot into the cabin, and disappeared with the truck and cargo. Grisha was only five then. He remembered that day like a nightmare: his mother’s scream tearing through the silence of their apartment, her falling to the floor as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet. He didn’t understand why she was crying, why she couldn’t hug him, why the whole world suddenly became gray and strange. Since then, he knew: the road was not just asphalt and kilometers. It was a place where people could disappear, leaving emptiness behind.
Help came from his grandfather — Fyodor Ivanovich, a former locksmith, a man with golden hands and an iron character. He took his grandson to spend weekends with him, teaching him to fix old engines, disassemble carburetors, read the stars. He had a garage smelling of oil, rust, and tobacco — a whole world where every tool had its place and every breakdown had a solution. Once he opened the door to this world for Grisha and said sternly but warmly:
“Here’s the thing, Grigory. Life doesn’t forgive the weak. You have to learn to work hard. You’re not some weakling, are you? Come on, learn a profession that will keep you on your feet through any storm.”
Since then, every day in the garage became a lesson in survival. Grandfather taught him not only to repair machines but to face difficulties without bending under their weight. Under his guidance, Grisha got his driver’s license at sixteen and joined the army at eighteen — no longer a boy, but a strong, composed man. He returned after two years — strong, resilient, with an inner backbone like his father and grandfather. When his mother saw him, she did not recognize him: before her stood a man capable of bearing responsibility not only for himself but for others.
Grigory dreamed that his mother would never know need again. He got a job at a transport company without any hassle — his skills, discipline, and ability to handle the wheel in any weather spoke for themselves. Within a month, he and his mother completed a major renovation of their old apartment — wallpaper, flooring, new kitchen. The following month, Grisha brought soft furniture, a warm carpet, and even bought his mother the very stove with six burners she had dreamed of since he was little.
Girls noticed him: tall, fit, with a clear gaze and no bad habits. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t go to nightclubs. He seemed as reliable as a rock. Many dreamed of winning his heart, but he was closed off, like a safe door. Until Katya appeared — bright, determined, with fire in her eyes. She didn’t wait or flirt — she simply took. Six months later, they stood at the altar, and Grisha, looking at her smile, thought that maybe this was happiness.
But happiness proved fragile. Katya rented an apartment in a new district, which could be bought on installment. Grisha worked like a man possessed — taking double shifts, driving two weeks nonstop, leaving his wife alone. His partner warned him: “Brother, this won’t work — you’re moving away from home, and she’ll be alone. Lonely, you know.” But Grisha didn’t listen. He believed: money, comfort, stability — that’s what happiness needed.
One day, coming home after a three-week trip, he caught Katya in the arms of another man — young, laughing, wearing his own robe. Grisha didn’t yell or make a scene. He silently packed his things, put the keys on the table, and left. He drove to his mother’s all night, without turning on the radio, only the noise of the road in his ears. He didn’t cry. He just felt something inside finally break.
Katya didn’t come back. Neither after a week nor a month. She married a wealthy businessman and moved abroad. Grisha mourned as strong people do — in silence, in solitude. Then he returned to his old life: the road, the truck, his mother, the dumplings she baked on Sundays. He learned to live with emptiness but not to give up.
And today, years later, he was on the road again. The day passed in a monotonous rhythm — kilometers, gas stations, heavy trucks overtaking each other. The highway emptied, the sun slipped below the horizon, and only rare headlights of oncoming cars broke the darkness. Suddenly, in the rearview mirror, he noticed a silhouette on the roadside — a figure in black, a woman waving. Stopping at such hours was risky. But Grigory hit the brakes. “You can’t abandon a person,” he thought. “Especially when there’s only darkness and wolves around.”
When she got into the cabin, he saw — it was a nun. A strict black habit, a headscarf covering her hair. But her face… God, what a face! Pure, with soft features, eyes glowing with intelligence and fatigue. She thanked him in a trembling voice:
“Thank you so much! If it weren’t for you… the night, the forest, the wolves… I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Grisha smirked:
“Nowadays, it’s not wolves you should fear, but people.” — Then he blushed. “Well, not me, of course.”
She laughed — quietly, as if she had long forgotten how to laugh.
“My name is Eva,” she introduced herself. “And ‘Mother’ is already in the past.”
“Are you from a monastery?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes. I left. I want to see my father. He’s dying. The abbess let me go.” Her voice trembled. “I prayed and fasted for four years, but the heart can’t be caged. I want to say goodbye to him. To forgive… or ask for forgiveness.”
And then she told everything. How her mother died. How her father, broken by grief, married a woman strikingly resembling the deceased. But outwardly — yes, inwardly — no. The stepmother turned out to be evil, vindictive, greedy. And her son — Eva’s peer — was the same: deceitful, arrogant, ready for anything for profit. He harassed her, intimidated her, once even attacked her in the garden. When she tried to tell her father — he didn’t believe her. Said she was “ruining his happiness.” Then Eva left. To the monastery. To disappear. To survive.
Now she was returning — not for inheritance, but for forgiveness, for one last embrace.
“I don’t know if they will let me into the house…” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t go there alone,” Grisha said firmly. “We’ll stop in town. Buy you some proper clothes. And go together.”
An hour later, a girl in a light coat, with her hair down, wearing heels, came out of the boutique. Grisha froze. He didn’t know she could be so… alive. So beautiful.
At the gates, they were met by a guard. The house was filled with tense silence. Eva’s father, Igor Sergeyevich, lay in bed, pale, exhausted. Seeing his daughter, he cried. Hugged her, pressed her to his chest.
“Forgive me, Eva… I was blind. I’m guilty before you…”
At that moment, the stepmother entered the room — accompanied by a stout man in an expensive suit and tie.
“Darling! I’m here!” she exclaimed. “I came with the notary. You’re not going to leave me without inheritance, are you?”
Seeing Eva, she fell silent. The son standing behind her sneered:
“Oh, who do we have here? Did you come for your slice of the pie too?”
Grigory couldn’t stand it. He stepped forward, grabbed the stepmother’s hand, led her to the closet, and shut the door. He did the same with her son. Shouts of “Security! Security!” echoed from inside, but Grisha only said:
“Let them sit. Let them think.”
Later it turned out: Igor Sergeyevich had been poisoned. The stepmother and stepson had been adding poison to his food for years, planning to inherit the business, property, and bank account. Eva and Grigory’s arrival ruined their plans. The police arrived quickly. The hands of the deceivers were handcuffed. The investigator said:
“You are detained on suspicion of premeditated murder.”
The examination confirmed: traces of a powerful toxin were found in the businessman’s body.
A month later, Igor Sergeyevich began to recover. Eva and Grisha took him to their shared home — warm, bright, with a view of the forest. Grisha also brought his mother — so she could bake dumplings, smile, and wait for grandchildren, whom life might soon bring.
And the road? It still calls. But now Grigory knows: the main thing is not the kilometers, but those you carry in your heart.