The autumn wind, cold and merciless, whistled among the marble angels and the plain wooden crosses, tearing the last withered leaves from the lone maple by the cemetery fence. It tossed Lev’s hair as he seemed to have grown into the wet earth beside the fresh mound. His shoulders, usually so straight and broad, were hunched now under the invisible weight of unspeakable grief. The tears did not need coaxing—they came on their own, quiet and bitter, leaving salty tracks on his unshaven cheeks that the wind at once dried, searing his skin with icy cold.
The villagers who had paid their last respects to Anna Stepanovna had already drifted away, hurrying along the churned-up road. Their muted words of condolence faded, leaving Lev alone with the loud, deafening echo of his loss. The world had shrunk to the size of the grave, to the smell of cold clay and faded chrysanthemums.
A light yet firm nudge to his arm suddenly pulled him from his stupor. A dry hand, worn by a thousand labors, closed around his wrist with a warm, almost fatherly strength.
“Come on, Lyovushka, come along, my dear. Whether you stand here or not, we can’t bring your Annushka back. After all, she lived out her span—eighty-seven years. A full eighty-seven. As for me, look—another year and I’ll be the same. It isn’t given me to know how much longer the Lord has allotted me to tread this Mother Earth.”
Lev slowly lifted his head. Before him stood Granddad Yefim, his old friend and mentor. The deep wrinkles on the old man’s face looked like a map of his long, difficult life, yet his eyes, like two glowing coals, burned with a quiet, unwavering light of wisdom and compassion. Lev nodded feebly and, shoulders bowed in submission, walked beside him, matching his unhurried, elderly step.
They walked in silence, their boots squelching in the autumn mud. The old man spoke first, and his voice, hoarse with time, sounded like the one thread binding Lev to reality.
“You’re pushing forty now, Lyovushka, and you’re still going about single. That’s not right. A great disorder. You’ve buried your mother, your provider; now you need to find a mistress for the house. Your peers have long since started families—their kids are already off at college. And you? You’re a good man, Lev, warm-hearted. Modest. But modesty, brother, is no helper in such matters. You must be bolder. Life passes by; it doesn’t wait.”
“I know, Granddad Yefim, I know…” Lev’s voice came out hoarse and uncharacteristically quiet. “I’d been thinking hard about it myself, even while Mother was still alive. She kept urging me too, telling me not to dawdle. I’ll think about it,” he answered, but his words were empty, faithless.
Lev, the youngest and late-born son of Anna Stepanovna, experienced his mother’s passing not simply as a heavy blow—it was an existential catastrophe. His two elder brothers, his supports and friends, had gone before him: one fell in a war zone, the other died tragically in a car crash. The big, sturdy house he had lovingly built with his own hands had turned from a cozy nest into a deserted, echoing space where every creak of the floorboards sent an icy chill through his heart. Until that day his life had been arranged and predictable: his mother always waited for him to come home from work; the house smelled of fresh baking; the swept-clean floors gleamed, and there was always a hot supper on the stove. She faded quietly, like a candle: lay down to nap after lunch and did not wake. Now he came back to emptiness. To silence. To cold.
He and his mother had lived in remarkable harmony and understanding. She had, of course, constantly hinted—and at times plainly said—it was time he took a wife, but Lev could never make up his mind. He was neither an ascetic nor a woman-hater—there had been women in his life, quick romances, chance meetings. But it never came to a serious decision, to marriage, though many of those women secretly hoped for it. Women liked Lev: calm, solid, with golden hands; he didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, kept an exemplary household. A true pillar—rare in our day.
Every village has its lonely men. Each has his own bitter story. Some drank themselves down and let themselves go; some are lazy and live off their elderly parents’ pensions; some are simply too timid and shy to take the first step.
Lev was none of these. It had just turned out that fate itself seemed to pass him by. In his youth he hadn’t met the one and only; he had relationships, but they didn’t catch at his soul or make his heart beat faster. After thirty it grew harder: he had nothing in common with the very young, and his contemporaries had long since married and were raising children. He even stopped going to the village club—it wasn’t his place, just restless youths. And so the days, months, years flowed on, imperceptibly stacking into decades of solitary, measured life.
Now, standing on the threshold of that empty house, he understood it couldn’t go on. He felt, keenly and physically, the freezing core of loneliness. A man cannot live alone—without a woman’s tenderness, without warmth, without someone to wait for and someone to care for. The decision ripened in an instant, like a flash. He began feverishly sifting through all the women he knew. There was, of course, Galina from the neighboring village, pleasant, hardworking, with a teenage son, long divorced. And the local one, Lidiya Petrovna, the bookkeeper—single and striking. But she was notorious for her nasty, quarrelsome temper and her sharp, venomous tongue. Lev was wary of her, knowing she could humiliate and insult anyone, regardless of who they were.
“I’ll go see Granddad Yefim,” it suddenly struck him. “He’s old, he’s seen much, he’s wise. I’ll go for advice. Maybe he really will suggest something sensible.”
Granddad Yefim sat at a plain wooden table, leisurely drinking tea. He held an old saucer with a gilt rim in his thin, sinewy fingers and loudly, with relish, sipped the fragrant drink from it. He faithfully kept the habits of his youth: tea must be from a samovar, with herbs, and drunk just so—from a saucer, with feeling, sensibly, in due measure. He had buried his old woman, Marfa, more than ten years ago and had lived alone since, preserving their shared rituals.
“Good day, Lyovushka, come in, you’re welcome,” the old man greeted first, even before seeing who had entered, as if sensing his approach.
“Good day, Yefim Kuzmich,” Lev replied dully, taking off his wet jacket in the entryway.
“Sit down, sit at the table; I’ll pour you some hot tea. It’s with oregano and mint—good for calming the soul. There’s a mug on the shelf, you see it. You haven’t come empty-handed, I can feel it in my heart…”
Lev poured himself tea from the gleaming copper samovar, sat on the bench, and heaved a heavy sigh.
“You guessed right, Granddad. Not for nothing. I’ve come for advice—how to live on. I’ve decided to marry. But I can’t choose. There’s one I have in mind… well, Galina from Zarechye, with a son. They say she’s a good housekeeper. But I’m not sure. And our Lidiya Petrovna… well, you know. She’s striking, single, but her character… like an angry wasp. Tell me, Granddad, whom would you choose in my place?”
“Ah, Lidka’s clear enough,” the old man snorted, putting the saucer aside. “The whole district knows her. Her tongue is sharper than a razor, and her temper worse than a balky goat’s. With her, Lyovushka—you quiet and meek as you are—you won’t see happiness. You’re patient, that’s true, but patience can snap. You don’t need such a wife, that’s my word.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, then continued more gently. “As for the one with the child, I don’t know her. But I’ll say this: she’s been married; it didn’t work out. She’ll compare you to her first husband, and she’ll always put her own child first. That’s the law of nature. No, you should marry a woman who’s alone, without children, without all that past. You’ll have your own flesh and blood. That’s my whole advice.”
Lev stared thoughtfully into the dark depth of his tea as if hoping to find an answer there.
“Hmm… So who then? A mistress of the house is needed all the same. The house is good, big—I built it for a family, for children… I can manage the chores myself. Turns out getting married is a whole science…”
“Then marry Ariadna. You’ll be happy to the very end of your days,” Granddad Yefim said suddenly, quite calmly.
Lev even choked on his tea.
“Ariadna? Oh come now, Granddad Yefim! Really! She’s… an old maid. And a redhead, all freckles, as if a thrush had speckled her with an egg. Probably because of that look no one took her. They say she’s an excellent housekeeper, kind, cheerful… but still…”
“Just take a closer look at her,” the old man cut him off. “She’s not ugly at all. Redheaded—why, that’s a rarity! Only one like her in our whole area! You’ll get used to her freckles; see, they’re like little golden sparks scattered about. And when she smiles, the whole hut seems to light up like the sun. It’s clear the sun itself loves her, since it rewarded her with such a golden ingot. And as a wife she’ll be caring, faithful, kind. Marry her, Lyovushka—you won’t regret it. I can’t recommend anyone else. You came for advice—there it is, from a pure heart.”
All that evening and through the night Lev didn’t sleep, tossing on his wide bed. The old man’s words rang in his ears. “An old man won’t give bad advice,” he thought. “I’ll take a closer look at this Ariadna…”
And he began to. Once he met her on the street as she was returning from the store with a heavy bag. Lev quickened his step and caught up.
“Hello, Ariadna,” he said with a restrained smile, reaching out his hand. “Here, let me help.”
“Hello, Lev,” she sang in a melodious, wonderfully gentle voice, and smiled back at him.
And Lev froze. Her smile was like a sudden flash of sunlight on a gray autumn day—broad, sincere, reaching her eyes, transforming her whole face, while her golden freckles seemed to start dancing. “Well now… how bright she is,” he thought in amazement, recalling the old man’s words. “Truly, like the sun. And her freckles don’t spoil her at all…”
Ariadna, a clever and sensitive woman, understood at once that this meeting was no accident. She was six years younger than Lev but had never married. There were practically no men in her life. She was the eldest daughter in a large family, and all her young years had gone into caring for her younger brothers and sisters while their parents worked day and night on the collective farm. There was no time left for parties or the club. That’s how her youth went by, and in the village she earned the rough nickname “the lifelong bride.”
“Listen, Ariadna,” Lev ventured, gripping the handles of her bag, “how about we take a walk one evening? Around the outskirts. We’re not freshmen anymore, of course, but… I’d very much like to talk with you, get to know you better. If you don’t mind.”
“Why would I mind?” she beamed again with that astonishing smile. “I don’t mind. I agree.”
They walked beyond the village along the old drainage ditch, already touched by the first frosts. Lev listened in amazement as Ariadna told captivating stories from the books she’d read and quoted poetry—turns out she had devoured an entire library over her life, while he had read none at all; all his time had gone into work, the household, and aimless channel-surfing. And when he tried to joke, her laughter—clear, ringing, sincere, as if scattering into thousands of crystal shards—filled his soul with a long-forgotten, aching sense of joy and peace.
That night Lev didn’t sleep again—but now not from grief, rather from a strange, warm stirring in his chest. Granddad Yefim had been right a hundred percent.
“She’s a good one, Ariadna… How did I not notice before? Not see? Everyone kept saying ‘the redhead, the redhead,’ and I paid it no mind. Yes, she’s not a classical beauty, but there’s so much light in her! So much warmth! And that smile… For one such smile you could give away everything in the world. How blind I was all these years!”
Lev didn’t circle around for long. Three months after his mother’s funeral, he braced himself and, plainly and simply, asked Ariadna to marry him. The village at once began to buzz with gossip, spiteful and caustic. Everyone savored the story, certain Lev was just “making sport” of the old maid—he’d have his fun and leave her. “Who’d want a redhead like that?” they hissed behind their backs.
But soon the whispers gave way to astonishment—they held the wedding. Not a raucous feast with loud music, though—the elders advised them to wait on a lavish celebration out of respect for the recently departed Anna Stepanovna. Lev and Ariadna heeded them. Only the closest relatives and a few friends gathered in their new shared home. At the head of the table, in the place of honor, sat Granddad Yefim, glowing with happiness like the groom’s father.
The wedding meal ended, and everyday life began. At first the village still buzzed like a disturbed hive, but gradually those conversations died down, yielding to new events. And in Lev’s house a new, genuine life took hold. From the very first day he and Ariadna understood each other at half a word, half a glance. He would only think of something, and she was already reading his thoughts and handing him the needed tool or setting on the table exactly the dish he’d been dreaming of. Lev kept catching himself in a state of quiet, luminous amazement at his wife.
She proved a truly excellent mistress of the house. While Lev was out in the byre and yard in the mornings, Ariadna was already at the stove, cooking plump, golden pancakes whose aroma filled the whole house, and brewing fragrant herbal tea. In the evenings a hearty hot dinner awaited him; and if he grew tired and sat down on the couch, a fresh newspaper and the TV remote were already at his elbow. She wasn’t just caring—she was his true half, a clever woman and the guardian of their common hearth. Lev saw that warmth, that boundless self-giving, and answered in kind: he helped with everything, protected her, created comfort. They lived soul to soul, and soon he simply stopped noticing her freckles, while her red hair seemed to him the most beautiful in the world—a copper flame playing in it, especially in lamplight. She became, for him, the most beautiful woman in the entire universe. Their love was not youthful, impetuous, and blind, but mature, deep, and strong—the kind built on respect, tenderness, and a shared fate.
Soon Ariadna began walking about the village with a noticeably rounded belly, and her famous smile shone even brighter. Watching her, the villagers no longer called her plain. Ordinary human envy and annoyance stirred in them: “Look how Lev has arranged his life. And he’s happy, the devil.” Then a son was born—Yelisey—redheaded, like a little chick. Taking him in his arms, Lev grinned from ear to ear and said, looking at his wife:
“Now I’ve got two suns in my house. Two dearest, warmest suns.”
The only dark cloud in their cloudless sky was Granddad Yefim’s passing. The whole village turned out for his funeral; his daughter and her family came too, whom Lev had notified of the sad news at once. Everyone loved and respected the old man—for his wisdom, his kindness, his bright heart.
Life, like a full-flowing river, went on. In time Lev and Ariadna had a daughter, whom they named Annushka, after her grandmother. The girl was the very image of her father, and Lev even felt a little pang that she hadn’t been born redheaded. “Then I’d have three suns in the house,” he told his wife, “and the more suns there are, you know, the brighter and warmer it is.” He wouldn’t have traded his Ariadna for any other woman in the world, not even the most celebrated beauty queen. And he often said so—to everyone in the village—with pride and boundless tenderness. To the end of his days he was endlessly grateful to old Granddad Yefim for that simple, brilliant piece of advice that had given him an entire universe of happiness and warmth.