“Miss, may I help you?” the man called, noticing how the woman was struggling under the weight of two bulging shopping bags.
“Sorry to come up out of nowhere, but it looks like they’re about to slip right out of your hands. Let me take them for you.”
“Oh, really? Are you sure? Aren’t they heavy?” she asked with a shy smile. “Thank you so much.”
He lifted the bags with ease, as though they were filled with feathers, and strode ahead with long, confident steps. The woman—pretty, soft, and a little plump—hurried after him, her curls bouncing with every step. Together they looked almost comical: he, tall and broad-shouldered, walking with a soldier’s parade gait; she, small and round like a fresh cheesecake, taking two quick steps for each one of his.
“Could you slow down a bit?” she gasped. “I’m completely out of breath.”
He stopped abruptly, as if waking from a trance.
“Sorry… I got lost in thought.”
“What were you thinking about so deeply?” she asked, studying him more closely now.
Her name was Galina, and she instantly noticed that he was dressed out of season—his clothes worn thin, patched here and there. There was something about him, something out-of-place, as though he had wandered into this street from another world entirely. Her curiosity wouldn’t let her stay silent.
“Well? What was on your mind?”
“Just… life,” he said with a sigh.
“What about it? Has it been hard?”
“No, not exactly,” he shook his head. “I just think a lot.”
She hesitated, then asked gently, “You don’t drink, do you?”
“No, never. I’m not that kind of man.”
“Good,” Galya nodded in relief. “By the way, I’m Galina, but everyone calls me Galka. And you?”
The man paused, as if searching for something far away in his memory—or trying to forget it.
“They call me Vaska. A nickname.”
“You don’t like your real name?”
“It’s not that,” he said quietly, lowering his eyes. “I don’t know what it is.”
Galina stopped in surprise, then quickly composed herself.
“You mean… you don’t remember?”
“That’s right. I lost my memory. They found me on the highway—barely alive, filthy, bruised, clothes in rags. I was lying there like some abandoned puppy. Someone finally stopped, called an ambulance. The hospital patched me up.”
“And you remember nothing?”
“Nothing real. Sometimes… there are flashes—faces, rooms, scraps of conversation, bursts of light. But they feel like someone else’s life.”
“What happened after the hospital?”
“They sent me to an orphanage. They gave me a name—Vasiliy. It stuck. I’ve been living under it ever since. At least I have a roof, food, and odd jobs to keep me going.”
“What kind of jobs?”
“Whatever I can find—carrying loads, helping at the market, sometimes with the butcher, cleaning. I make just enough to get by.”
“And before all this?”
“Nothing. My life started over from zero. I had to learn everything again—not crawling, but living.”
Galina shook her head softly. “You’ve had a rough fate, Vasya. But if you’ve made it this far without breaking, you’ll keep going. Memory’s tricky—it may come back all at once.”
“Maybe you’re right…”
“Of course I am. Why torture yourself over what’s gone? Live with what’s here and now. And I can see you’re strong and hardworking. Want a better job?”
“I’d like that more than anything.”
“Then come with me. I’ll talk to my employer—she’s got a big house, plenty to be done. We’ll find you something.”
He smiled faintly. “Then what are we waiting for?”
Only then did he notice they’d been standing still for several minutes, drawing glances from passersby.
“Is it far?”
“Not at all. I usually drive, but my driver’s busy today, so I came on foot. I went to pick up a turkey for the house.”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m a cook. It’s hard work, but the conditions are good. The lady of the house is kind—quiet, but generous. She’s been different since losing her husband and son, but she treats everyone decently.”
They soon arrived at a pair of tall wrought-iron gates. Behind them stood a two-story brick home, wrapped in greenery. White jasmine bloomed on either side of the entrance, perfuming the warm air. Vasiliy slowed suddenly. Something in his chest shifted—an almost-memory, fragile and elusive—but it vanished like smoke.
“Why did you stop? Come on, don’t be afraid.”
Inside, they followed a neat stone path to a bright, spacious kitchen. The air was rich with the scent of home-cooked food.
“Well, here we are,” Galina said warmly. “This is my little kingdom—pots, pans, and all. Make yourself at home. I’ll take lunch to the lady and ask about a place for you. I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
Vasiliy glanced around. For the first time in years, something inside him eased. Warmth. Comfort. Even… familiarity.
“Sit, I’ll be right back. You must be hungry,” Galina said with a smile.
Minutes later, she returned with a plate of steaming food.
“Here, try this while it’s still hot. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Thank you… I don’t even know how to repay you…”
“Don’t mention it,” Galya waved her hand dismissively. “Just eat.”
Vasiliy took a spoonful. The taste stopped him mid-breath — rich, warm, deeply familiar. Homemade. The kind of flavor that lived only in memory. He closed his eyes, almost afraid of the emotions it stirred. He couldn’t remember the last time food had felt like this.
Galina stepped quietly into the living room. “Rimma, may I?”
Her employer sat with an old photo album spread open on her lap, as she often did — drifting somewhere far into the past. Galya had never seen the inside; Rimma always kept its pages turned away from others.
“Thank you, Galya, you can go rest. Or… did you need something?” Rimma asked, studying her with a sharp, searching look.
Galina fidgeted, twisting the hem of her apron.
“I wanted to ask… Please don’t be upset. I have a friend — he’s looking for work. Young, strong, doesn’t drink, very honest.”
“Does he have documents?”
“That’s the trouble — no papers. His story is complicated. But he’s a good man, hardworking…”
Rimma was silent for a moment, then gave a single nod.
“All right. Bring him to me.”
“Oh, Rimma Alekseevna, you haven’t even eaten yet!”
“We’ll eat later. Let’s go.”
They walked into the kitchen, where Vasiliy stood by the window, staring out into the distance.
“Vasya, come here,” Galina called.
He turned — and Rimma froze. Color drained from her face, her lips trembled. She drew in a sharp breath and swayed as if the floor had vanished beneath her feet.
“Rimma Alekseevna! What’s wrong?!” Galina rushed to her side. “Vasya, quick!”
Together they eased her into a chair and gave her some water.
“Are you better now? Should we call a doctor?”
“No… no doctor… What’s your name?” she asked the man, her voice shaking.
“Vasiliy.”
“And your real name? You’re not just Vasya, are you?”
“I don’t remember… I have memory loss.”
Rimma studied his face as if searching for a long-lost fragment of her own soul.
“Klim…” she whispered. “Your name is Klim.”
“What? How could you know that? I don’t even remember it myself.”
“Because I’m your mother,” she said quietly. “I gave you that name.”
Galina froze, staring at them in disbelief, her fingers clutching her apron.
“But you said your son…”
“I thought he was gone,” Rimma said in a trembling voice. “Galya, bring me the photo album. It’s in the top drawer of the cabinet.”
When the book was open before her, Rimma began:
“My husband and I couldn’t have children for years. We dreamed of a baby, but the doctors shook their heads. I cried, Oleg grew angry. Then my father-in-law, Klim, took us to his village. ‘Leave the city,’ he said. ‘Too much stress, too many hospitals. Live with the land, breathe clean air.’”
Her fingers turned a page.
“That’s where it happened — I found out I was pregnant. You were our miracle. I named you after my father-in-law. He never lived to see you born, but he knew he’d be a great-grandfather.”
Vasiliy — Klim — listened, not looking away.
“You were such a gentle boy. Teachers loved you. You cared for every stray animal you found. But your father wanted you to follow in his footsteps — a man with a ‘secure future,’ as he called it. I tried to shield you, but he was relentless. You started to resist — skipped school, talked back, came home in trouble. I begged you to stop… But you didn’t listen. One day, after a terrible fight, Oleg said, ‘Either he changes, or he leaves and never comes back.’ I broke down. You slammed the door and told us you didn’t need us anymore. Three days later, they called us to identify a body. The face was unrecognizable, but the watch, the passport, the phone… we believed it was you. We buried you. Not long after, Oleg’s heart gave out.”
Tears slid freely down Rimma’s cheeks. Vasiliy stared at the photo of a boy who looked like a reflection of himself in rippling water. Faint images began to surface — the sound of laughter, the scent of campfire smoke, the warmth of a mother’s hands.
“…Mom,” he whispered at last, his voice barely audible.