Roman Viktorovich Serov, a distinguished-looking man with graying temples, sat in the cramped doctor’s office, clenching his hands so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His face, usually stern and composed, now betrayed a deep weariness, as though years of battling pain had finally etched their mark on him. For ten years, he had been haunted by excruciating pain in his leg—constant, like a shadow, stabbing through him in sharp, burning waves. He had long lost count of how many times he’d told the same story to doctors, like a memorized script—one that began with a tragic date: the death of Irina, his wife, whose absence had left a bottomless void in his life.
“I live with this pain like a curse,” he rasped, his voice trembling with restrained despair. “It gives me no rest, day or night. I wake up feeling as if my leg is being crushed by red-hot metal. Pills don’t work anymore. It’s like swallowing air.”
Vadim Konstantinovich Lebedev, a physician in his fifties with tired eyes and a touch of gray in his hair, silently studied the X-rays spread across the cluttered desk. His office resembled an archive: stacks of journals, folders, yellowed pages everywhere. The desk lamp cast a soft glow over the papers, giving the room a somber, old-fashioned gravity. Lebedev listened, nodded, but his face remained calm, unreadable. When Roman fell silent, the doctor set aside the scans and shrugged.
“To be honest, Roman Viktorovich, I see no pathology,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “No abnormalities. Your tests are normal. By medical standards, you’re perfectly healthy. Most likely, this is the effect of chronic stress. Perhaps muscular tension.”
A wave of disappointment rose inside Roman. He had heard these words dozens of times before: “You’re healthy.” But how could he be healthy when every step was torture, when the nights brought no rest, only brief pauses before a new attack?
“Stress?” His voice sharpened. “Ten years of stress? This isn’t tension, doctor. It’s like something is gnawing at my bones from the inside!”
Lebedev raised a hand, urging calm, and spoke gently, almost fatherly:
“I understand your pain, but medicine works with what it can see. If there are no physiological causes, we must try indirect methods. Massage, B vitamins. Safe treatments, sometimes effective.”
“Massage?” Roman gave a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Over the years I’ve tried everything: injections, physiotherapy, tablets—I’ve swallowed entire pharmacies. Nothing helped. Not a drop of relief.”
The doctor spread his hands, keeping his good-natured smile, though his eyes lacked conviction.
“I can only prescribe what I see,” he repeated. “Try again. What do you have to lose?”
Roman left the office with the crushing feeling that once again his pain had been dismissed as imaginary, a weakness. He returned to his empty apartment, where every object reminded him of Irina—her vase, her books, her photographs. Silence pressed down on him like a weight. Ten years had passed since she died, and his life had been frozen ever since. In a sudden rush of grief, he grabbed his wallet and told his driver to take him to the cemetery. On the way, he stopped at a flower shop—he bought white roses, her favorite. She always kept them in the kitchen, saying they brought light.
The cemetery greeted him with silence and rustling leaves. Roman knelt before the marble grave, laid down the flowers, and traced the inscription with his fingers: Irina Evgenyevna Serova. Memories surged back in sharp clarity—their travels, their laughter, the evenings by the fireplace. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he made no effort to stop them.
“My love,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “I’ve lived with this pain for ten years. Not one doctor can help me. And you… they couldn’t save you either. They stood by, watched you fade, and told me it was ‘inevitable.’”
He remembered the day it all began. Irina had weakened, her face turned pale, her eyes lost their sparkle. The diagnosis came too late—an inherited disease that had also claimed her mother’s life. The doctor in the white coat had spoken with pity, but without hope:
“The disease is progressing quickly. There’s almost no chance. We can only ease her suffering.”
“But there are clinics, research programs!” Roman had shouted. “I’ll pay any amount!”
“It’s hereditary,” the doctor replied softly. “Money can’t help. You must accept it.”
But he hadn’t accepted it. He had taken her around the world—Switzerland, Germany, America. He spent a fortune, searching for a miracle. But the illness was stronger. A year later, Irina was gone—on a rainy autumn day, to the rhythm of drops tapping against the window. He was left alone.
Now, at her grave, he whispered:
“I’ve made a will—after my death, they’ll study my body. Maybe they’ll find what no one else sees. I promised you I’d endure… But I have almost no strength left. Maybe soon we’ll be together again. And honestly, I almost look forward to it.”
As he walked away down the alley, a sudden figure appeared before him—an old woman. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles, her eyes piercing, as though they could see right through him. She leaned on her cane, smiling slyly.
“Spare a coin for an old woman, dear,” she croaked. “I’ll tell you the truth—about the past, the present, the future. Don’t be stingy, buy off your misfortune.”
Roman wanted to walk past, but her next words stopped him cold:
“I see you soon in a wheelchair.”
He froze. His heart pounded. He pulled out a banknote and handed it to her.
“Speak,” he whispered.
“Ten years ago you buried a woman here,” the crone began, narrowing her eyes. “It was hard. But you forgot another one—the one you left for her sake. Your soul suffers from guilt.”
Roman frowned. Olga? His first love? He had left her, choosing career and Irina. She had gone quietly. But the woman’s words stung.
“And on the day of the funeral, you stepped on a neighboring grave,” the old woman went on. “You desecrated a memory. Ask forgiveness from that soul—and the pain will leave you.”
“Ask forgiveness… at a grave?” Roman scoffed. “That’s superstition.”
“From the soul you offended,” the old woman repeated firmly, tapping her cane.
He got into the car, but her words gnawed at him. Curiosity won. He returned. At the neighboring grave stood a young woman in a gray coat, chestnut hair blowing in the wind. She was speaking softly, as if praying.
“Excuse me,” Roman began awkwardly. “I… someone told me I may have offended a memory. I wanted to know who is buried here.”
The girl turned. Her eyes—clear as summer skies—looked at him with sadness and understanding.
“My grandmother,” she said softly. “A kind, wise woman. Today is her death anniversary.”
They stood side by side, two people mourning loved ones in the same place. Roman felt an unexpected relief, as if something inside him had finally loosened.
“My name is Roman,” he said, extending his hand.
“Darya,” she smiled, and in that smile was warmth, almost familiarity.
For the first time in years, he felt peace. And he didn’t want to leave.
“Darya, would you like to have a coffee?” Roman asked, trying to sound casual though he felt awkward inside. “There’s a cozy café nearby. They say the coffee is excellent. I just thought—after a day like this, a little warmth might do us both good.”
Darya hesitated, her gaze flicking to her grandmother’s grave, then back to Roman. She frowned slightly, weighing his words.
“Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “We’ve only just met.”
“I know it’s unusual,” he smiled gently, careful not to seem pushy. “But I truly want to do something kind. I have the means to help—and I don’t want to waste the chance. Besides, it seems we both could use a break right now.”
She studied him a moment longer, as if trying to read his intentions. Then she nodded—her expression softened.
“All right,” she whispered. “But only for a little while. I need to get back to my mother.”
The café was small, with wooden tables, checkered tablecloths, and warm light streaming from the windows. The air smelled of fresh coffee and vanilla pastries. They sat by the window. Gradually, Darya relaxed and began to talk—about herself, her life, her mother, who was gravely ill.
“The doctors say she doesn’t have long,” she said quietly, eyes downcast, hands folded on the table. “I try to be with her, but… helplessness is the worst feeling.”
Roman listened, and her words echoed in his soul. He knew that pain—loving, clinging to every chance, while illness relentlessly stole the person you loved. In her voice, in her restrained sorrow, he recognized his own past, his own despair when he tried to save Irina.
“I’m so sorry, Dasha,” he said, looking at her with genuine compassion. “I know what it’s like to watch someone you love fade away. I took Irina all over the world, spent everything I had… But nothing helped. That feeling—it’s like being torn apart from the inside.”
Darya nodded. Her fingers tightened on the napkin, then she quickly composed herself, as though afraid to show weakness. In her eyes—clear, deep—there was a flicker of gratitude.
“Thank you for understanding, Roman Viktorovich,” she whispered. “Mama was always strong. She raised me alone. And now… now she can barely get out of bed. I read to her, I cook, but sometimes it feels like it’s all useless.”
Something in her voice, in that fragile resilience, pierced Roman to the core. In her he saw the reflection of his own guilt—toward Olga, his first love, whom he had abandoned for career and marriage to Irina. Back then he had chosen the path that seemed right, but now, looking at Darya, he felt old wounds begin to bleed again.
“Dasha,” he said carefully, choosing his words, “I want to help. I have connections, money, resources. If there’s even the smallest chance—I’ll find it. Let me try.”
She looked up at him—surprised, doubtful.
“But why?” she asked. “You don’t know me. Why are you doing this?”
Roman smiled—not condescendingly, but sadly.
“Because I know too well what it is to be powerless. When Irina was dying, I couldn’t accept it. I wanted a miracle. If I can save your mother—it won’t just be help. It will be… redemption. For myself. For not being able to change anything then.”
Darya was silent for a long time. Then she nodded.
“Come tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to my mother. She’ll be surprised… but glad.”
The next day, Roman stood before the door of an old house on the outskirts. Inside—dim light, the smell of herbs, mustiness. He knocked.
“Come in, Roman,” came a weak voice.
He entered. In a chair, wrapped in a blanket, sat a woman. Pale, frail, but in her eyes—a spark of recognition.
“Roma?” she whispered. “Is it really you? Do you recognize me?”
He froze. That voice… It pulled him back into the past—school years, first kisses, promises under the stars.
“Olya?” he breathed. “It can’t be…”
Darya stood nearby, glancing between her mother and him.
“Mama, you know each other?”
“He’s an old friend,” Olga smiled faintly. “From my youth. We lived in the same town. I stayed. And you left—for your dream, Roma.”
“But how… why didn’t you ever tell me?” he stammered.
“Pride,” she whispered. “We both chose our paths. I had Dasha… and lived as I could.”
Roman dropped to his knees before her chair. One thought spun in his mind: She bore my daughter…
“Olya, forgive me,” he whispered, clutching her hand. “I was blind, foolish. I left because I feared losing my future… And I lost everything that truly mattered.”
“Don’t say that,” she smiled weakly. “I had Dasha. And now—I have you, too.”
He looked at Darya. In her eyes there was no anger, only warmth, a shy hope.
“Papa,” she said softly. “You came.”
Tears streamed down his face. He hadn’t cried like this since burying Irina.
That night Roman returned home but didn’t sleep. He sat by the window, staring into the dark. For the first time in ten years, his leg didn’t torment him. The pain was gone. As if forgiveness he had long sought had finally found him—not in a doctor’s office, not in medicine, but in his daughter’s eyes and the smile of the dying woman he once loved.
He did everything. Found the best doctors. Paid for treatment. Against all odds, Olga recovered—if not for long, then for five more years. Five years filled with warmth, laughter, evenings by the fireplace, stories of the past, and new dreams.
And Roman became a father—truly. He taught Darya to ride a bicycle, took her to the park, listened to her sing. He read books to Olga, as he once read to Irina. Only now—without despair. With repentance. With love.
And the pain never returned.
He understood at last: it wasn’t his body that hurt. It was his soul. And healing came when he finally allowed himself to be human—weak, guilty, but willing to atone.