“You will become the brightest star, the most gifted of all. They will notice you—your name will shine from every poster.”
Sophia sobbed quietly, burying her face in the blanket that covered her father’s frail body. His hand, weak yet still warm, slipped through her hair with a tender touch.
“Don’t cry, my girl,” he whispered hoarsely. “Fate cannot be tricked. Listen to me instead…”
Sophia lifted her tear-stained face. Each word seemed to cost him effort, his voice barely audible.
“Don’t interrupt me. I don’t have much strength left. Once, there were two of us—Mikhail and I, Grigory. We were inseparable, blood-sworn brothers. Then your mother appeared. We both loved her. And when love comes, even the strongest friendship begins to fade. She chose me… Mikhail couldn’t forgive it.”
Sophia shook her head, but he continued:
“He is a good man. If life becomes unbearable, go to him. He won’t abandon you. He owns the ‘Breeze’ restaurant now. Remember this, Sophia. It may save you one day. There’s more—but if he chooses, he’ll tell you himself…”
He paused, his eyes clouding with pain. “Remember, I love you with all my heart. I believe in you. I know—you’ll succeed.”
Sophia clung to him desperately, when suddenly his body shuddered and grew limp.
“Dad! Dad!” Her cry tore through the room.
Hands pulled her away as doctors rushed in, their movements quick and sharp. She stood frozen, watching from a distance, a single thought pounding in her head: I am alone. Completely alone in this world.
The funeral passed in a blur. When the last guest left, Sophia’s stepmother looked at her coldly.
“Tomorrow, you’ll find work. I won’t feed you.”
“But… I’m studying,” Sophia whispered.
“Studying!?” The woman laughed mockingly. “Songs won’t put food on the table. If you don’t work, you’ll be on the street. Understood?”
“But this is my home!”
Her stepmother’s eyes flashed.
“Your home? Ha! This is my home. I am your father’s lawful wife. Don’t test me, girl—I can be far less kind.”
Sophia ran to her room, slamming the door. All night she cried, clutching her father’s photograph. By dawn, a quiet decision took shape in her heart: she would finish her studies, no matter what. Her father had left her enough to survive. She would fulfill his dream—she would sing.
He had always believed in her gift. From childhood, she had won competitions, her teachers insisting her voice could open doors—or at least feed her, if fame never came.
“Imagine,” they used to say, “anyone who hears your name—Sophia Grigorieva—will never forget it.”
And she smiled, remembering that her father had given her not just a surname, but also a legacy: she was Grigorieva, and Grigoryevna—his daughter, his pride.
The next morning, she slipped out quietly to attend her classes, careful not to wake her stepmother. She would study. She must. For him.
But when she returned, her stepmother was waiting on the porch.
“Well? Did you find work?”
“I was at school,” Sophia said softly.
“School!” The woman blocked her path, hands on her hips. “You want to be a singer? You? Your voice is like rusty hinges, your head’s empty. With your looks, you belong scrubbing floors, not on stage. I warned you.”
She dragged out a suitcase and a bag, throwing them at Sophia’s feet.
“Take your things and leave. Go sing in the subway, frighten passersby—maybe someone will toss you a coin.”
Sophia stared in shock. Her stepmother slammed the door, the locks clicking shut.
Clutching her suitcase, Sophia stumbled down the street, praying: God, let no one see me like this. Let Dad rest in peace, wherever he is now.
Her feet dragged, her heart felt hollow. The tears had dried; her mind was empty. She had no relatives—both her parents had been orphans.
She didn’t know where to go. Or what to do.
It was already growing dark when she stopped. Ahead of her stood the “Breeze” restaurant—the very place her father had once spoken of. She had no other choice now. Gathering her courage, she stepped toward the entrance.
A neatly dressed young man greeted her at the door.
“Good evening. May I help you with your things and show you to a table?”
Sophia shook her head.
“No, thank you. Could I speak with the owner? Mikhail?”
“Mikhail Yurievich?” The young man hesitated, studying her carefully. “I’ll find out.”
Moments later he returned, accompanied by a tall, distinguished man in his mid-forties.
“Were you looking for me?” the man asked.
Sophia nodded. “Yes… I’m the daughter of Elena and Grigory Grigorieva. My father told me that if I ever needed help, I should come to you.”
“Elena and Grigory?” Mikhail’s expression darkened. “Why couldn’t Grisha help his own daughter?”
“My father is gone,” Sophia whispered. “He passed away a few days ago.”
Mikhail flinched as if struck. Sophia’s eyes filled, and tears spilled over. The young attendant quickly handed her tissues.
“Would you like some water?” he asked softly.
Mikhail stirred, his voice firm again.
“Maxim, take her things to my office and bring water.”
“Of course.”
Mikhail gently placed a hand on Sophia’s shoulder.
“Please, calm yourself. I… I didn’t know.”
When she managed to steady her breath, he pulled up a chair across from her and sat down, his gaze attentive.
“Now, tell me—why are you here with a suitcase?”
Sophia’s voice trembled.
“My father had been ill for a long time. After Mother’s death, things only grew worse. A woman named Zhanna appeared—she pretended to support him, but I knew she didn’t love him. No one believed me; I was too young. After a year and a half, she moved into our house. That was when Father first ended up in the hospital.”
She wiped her face, forcing the words out.
“The doctors said his heart was worn out, like that of an old man. Zhanna cooked for him, stayed in our house, and when he came back from the hospital, he didn’t drive her away. Later, they married. I prayed life would get better, but instead Father worked even harder, against the doctors’ advice. He always said his ‘star’ deserved a bright future. He meant me. He believed I’d become someone.”
Her lips quivered.
“Before he died, he reminded me of your friendship. He said if I was ever in need, I should come to you. He told me you had once been like brothers—until my mother came between you.”
Mikhail’s face softened with a sad smile.
“Your mother never wanted to destroy our friendship. She hesitated for so long, even tried to leave to spare us both. But Grisha wouldn’t let her go. Even though he and I parted ways, Elena and Grigory remained family in my heart. And so are you, Sophia. You can count on me as you would on a father. Tell me—do you wish to pursue a career, follow your father’s dream for you?”
Sophia lowered her eyes.
“No. I only want a normal life. To work… and, if possible, finish my studies.”
Mikhail thought for a long moment, then said gently:
“What if I offered you a place in my home? I live in a large house in the city center. If that feels too sudden, I can put you up in a hotel until we find something suitable.”
Her answer was almost a plea.
“Could I stay with you? Please? I don’t want to be alone…”
Sophia sniffled, and Mikhail added quietly, with warmth in his voice—
“Of course, I don’t mind. I live alone—unless you count my fat, lazy cat, who barely acknowledges me. He’s convinced I’m useless.”
Sophia gave a faint smile.
“How do you know what he thinks?”
“When I come home, he’s already fed, brushed, and pampered—the housekeeper adores him. And when I try to pet him, he just flicks his tail at me and walks away like I’m beneath him.”
Mikhail grew serious, studying the girl.
“I know how hard things are for you right now. But believe me, Grigory was right. I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“Were you really that close? Then why did you stop talking?”
“We were friends once. But life has a way of tangling things up until you don’t know who’s right or wrong. Maybe one day I’ll tell you the full story.”
A few days later, when Sophia had regained some calm, Mikhail invited her out.
“Come with me to a café. We’ll talk, think about what comes next.”
“Could we go to your restaurant instead? I’ve never been there.”
“Of course. Let’s go.”
At the restaurant, Mikhail encouraged her to continue her studies.
“But how will I live? You’re not obliged to support me. I was going to find a job.”
“Wait—”
Before he could finish, Maxim, the young man Sophia had met earlier, burst in.
“Mikhail Yurievich, emergency!”
“What happened?”
“In half an hour, there’s an anniversary. The contract demands live music. But… Artem won’t show up again.”
Mikhail rubbed his temples.
“Not again. Call every performer who’s worked here before.”
“We already tried. No one’s available. If we fail, we’ll owe a penalty.”
“Forget the money. But our reputation…”
Sophia gently touched his hand.
“Uncle Mikhail, I can sing.”
He stared at her.
“What? You? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Don’t worry—I can handle it.”
“Sophia, you’ve never sung in a restaurant before. It’s not like a recital—there’s noise, distractions…”
“It’ll be fine. Trust me.”
When Sophia began to sing, the room fell silent. Mikhail remained seated all evening, listening. During the last song, he whispered, almost to himself:
“Elena… I swear, our daughter will become a star.”
Years ago, Mikhail had acted poorly toward Elena. Too insistent, too reckless. When she discovered she was pregnant, she wanted to leave. Grigory found out the truth and stopped her. Their friendship shattered in a bitter fight. Mikhail later regretted everything, but Grigory demanded he stay away forever. Now, Mikhail resolved that Sophia would never learn this story—it would only wound her.
That evening, Zhanna arrived at the restaurant with her new husband.
“Finally,” he muttered with relief.
Zhanna loved flaunting her “superiority.” They didn’t have much money, but she chose this place to impress her friends. With them already seated, she made a grand entrance, signaling the waiter with a flourish.
“What entertainment do you have tonight? Anyone singing?”
The waiter smiled.
“You’re in luck. We have Sophia performing—a rising star from right here.”
Gasps of delight ran through the group.
“Impossible! Really?”
Zhanna, though she had heard of her, feigned ignorance.
“Oh, I didn’t know she was from our town.”
“Yes, she studied here. Perhaps you remember Grigory Grigorieva?”
Zhanna paled.
“Grigory Grigorieva?”
Her husband frowned.
“Wait—wasn’t your maiden name Grigorieva?”
Zhanna snapped back quickly.
“Coincidence. As usual, you don’t understand. And you picked the wrong restaurant. Everything here is awful.” She gestured irritably. “Look at those curtains. Burgundy! Disgusting.”
Her husband raised his brows.
“How was I supposed to know you judge restaurants by curtains? And why are burgundy awful when you have the same ones in our bedroom?”
Zhanna slammed her chair back and sat with her back to the stage.
“My God, what a husband I have! Other women have normal men—mine ruins every holiday.”
The hall fell into silence. A young woman’s voice began to sing, delicate and sad. Zhanna crushed her napkin in her hand and tossed it onto the table.
“Well, what now? Are we going to sit here all evening listening to her?”
Her husband sighed and stood.
“Ladies, excuse me. I’ll return later to drive you home.”
Zhanna blinked after him in shock, then let out a dramatic sigh.
“Wonderful. Now I’ll just have to sit here like a statue—no turning, no dancing…”