“Are you home?” Kirill asked briefly, calling his wife during his lunch break. His voice sounded muffled, as if coming from another dimension—from that world where life hummed along as usual, where people hurried about, laughed, and made plans. That world seemed to Rita so distant, almost unreal, like an old dream whose details had already faded from memory.
“Yes,” Rita answered shortly, without taking her eyes off the screen. On the monitor, the heroine of a melodrama was suffering yet again—a dramatic scene with tears, trembling lips, and parting words. But Rita couldn’t even remember the woman’s name, though she was watching the movie for the second time, if not more. All those scenes blended into one endless stream of someone else’s pain, which was at least some faint echo of her own feelings, the only sound that resonated in her emptied soul.
The last two months had merged into one endless gray day. Time had lost clear borders: morning slipped imperceptibly into evening, and evenings dissolved into sleepless nights. She could lie for hours staring at the ceiling, watching sunspots creep slowly along the wall, replaced by dusk, and then a dull streetlight forcing its way back into the room. Her world had shrunk to the size of their apartment, and the apartment itself had become just a shell, inside which she existed like a restless ghost. And yet not so long ago she had been happy! The thought sometimes pierced her with a sharp, unbearable pain that made her want to scream—but she didn’t even have the strength for that.
It had all begun with joyful news—they were expecting a child. It was her first pregnancy, long-awaited, hard-won. For months, she and her husband had gone from doctor to doctor, taken tests, fretted before every appointment, catching the slightest hints of hope in indifferent medical terms. Every negative test became a small blow, and every “not yet” from a doctor a reason for quiet tears into the pillow. They wanted this baby so much that the dream had become part of them both, the most important and radiant plan for the future.
And then finally—two lines! Rita remembered that moment down to the smallest detail: how her fingers trembled as she took out the test, how she couldn’t believe her eyes and did two more, how she rushed to Kirill, unable to utter a word, only showing him the results. His face had lit up with such a happy smile that it took her breath away. They stood in the middle of the kitchen, hugging, laughing and crying at the same time, and it seemed as if the whole world held its breath with happiness along with them.
They made plans, picturing themselves as parents… There they were picking out a crib—arguing about the color, stroking the smooth wood, imagining how the baby would look in that tiny nest. There they were walking through the park on a warm autumn day: Kirill pushing the stroller, and she walking beside him, peeking in from time to time to make sure—yes, it was real—their child was sleeping peacefully under a warm blanket. And then the first “mama,” timid and hesitant, the kind that makes your heart stop and your eyes instantly fill with tears of joy… These images were so vivid, so real, that she could almost feel the warmth of that small body against her chest.
But now those dreams felt far away, like pictures from someone else’s life. The screen flickered, the characters lived through their drama, and Rita sat in the half-dark of the room, hugging her knees, feeling a heavy weariness pressing down on her shoulders. This exhaustion was heavier than any physical ailment; it emanated from within, from the very depths, draining her of every last drop and turning every movement into a feat.
Everything collapsed in the ninth week. At first there was pain—sharp, frightening, the kind that stole her breath. Rita tried to convince herself they were just spasms, that it would pass any minute, but the pain only grew. Kirill, seeing her pale face and trembling hands, immediately called an ambulance. In the ambulance, she gripped his hand so tightly that later there were nail marks on his skin. She looked at his terrified face and silently prayed to every god she had ever heard of, asking only one thing—that everything would be all right.
The hospital. White walls, harsh light, hurried footsteps of medical staff. Doctors said something, ran tests, administered medications—she remembered only fragments: “maintain… chances… unfortunately.” And then the quiet, merciless: “We couldn’t save it.” Those two words completely overturned the young woman’s world. They sounded like a sentence, severing her from that happy future which only yesterday had seemed so inevitable. They had already picked a name, chosen a lovely crib, ordered some furniture for the nursery… And now what? How to live on? That question hung in the air, unanswered.
The doctors patiently explained: this happens, it wasn’t her fault, sometimes the body “rejects” a pregnancy for unknown reasons. They spoke of recovery, of needing time, of the possibility of children ahead. But how do you accept that the tiny life inside you, the one you had already named and for which you had painted hundreds of future scenes, is no longer there? How do you come to terms with the fact that dreams that felt so close have turned to dust? Those questions remained unanswered, a heavy weight on her heart.
Rita stopped going outside. At first it was simply reluctance—then it turned into a habit. Cook? Why, if food had no taste and every bite stuck in her throat like dry sand. Clean? Who cared about dust on the shelves? She spent whole days lying on the couch under a blanket, watching one tragic film after another—not because she liked them, but because their pain felt familiar, understandable. Sometimes she cried soundlessly; sometimes she sobbed until the tears ran out. At times she fell asleep in her robe, without combing her hair or washing her face. She would wake up and reach for the remote again, to turn on a new film, a new plot, a new borrowed drama that distracted her from her own.
Household chores grew into a huge snowball that irritated her merely by existing. Dirty laundry piled up in a corner, letters and bills lay scattered on the table, the flowers on the windowsill began to wilt. Rita noticed all this with the edge of her consciousness, but she had no strength to change anything. Everything seemed unnecessary, devoid of meaning. Even Kirill himself, who tried to be there, who brought food and tried to talk, seemed like part of that gray, indifferent world.
And then today the call came.
“Someone will be coming—please open the door and let the woman in,” Kirill instructed his wife. His voice sounded a little tense, as if he expected resistance but was trying to speak as neutrally and calmly as possible.
“What woman?” Rita frowned, not understanding. Why should she let someone in? She didn’t want to see anyone! The thought that she had to get up, open the door, interact with a stranger felt impossible and painfully unpleasant.
“It doesn’t matter. Just open,” he answered quietly and hung up. There was such uncertainty and, at the same time, hope in his voice that Rita couldn’t bring herself to call back and refuse.
Rita held the phone and stared at the dark screen. She wanted to ask more—who the woman was, why she was coming, why Kirill hadn’t explained properly—but it was too late. Inside, everything resisted this unexpected intrusion, this violation of her fragile but familiar solitude.
She slowly put the phone on the sofa beside her. Everything seemed so insignificant, so far removed from the pain that lived inside. She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere beyond the wall the neighbors turned on music, outside cars passed by, life went on as usual—while for her, time seemed to have stopped. She existed in her own time stream, where there was no yesterday or tomorrow—only a never-ending, viscous today, full of emptiness.
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. The sound was sharp, piercing, tearing her out of her half-sleeping stupor. Rita flinched, blinked, trying to figure out where the noise came from. The bell rang again—insistent, demanding. She forced herself up from the sofa; her legs felt foreign, disobedient. She threw on a faded robe and shuffled to the hallway, dragging her feet. Each step took effort, as if she were trudging through thick, sticky mud.
A woman of about fifty stood at the threshold. A face with kind, slightly tired eyes; a bright smile, almost out of place in this gray apartment. In her hands—a huge bag from which came the muted clinking of metal. She stood so confidently, so solidly, as if she were not a random visitor but part of this stairwell, this building, this life that continued beyond the apartment walls.
“Hello! I’m from a cleaning service. Your husband sent me,” she said cheerfully but without pushiness, as if long accustomed to every kind of reaction. Her voice was even and calm, with not a trace of judgment or nosiness—only a readiness to work.
Rita silently stepped back to let her in. She couldn’t find the strength to ask anything, to object, or even to muster politeness. She simply moved aside, clutching her robe, and stared at the stranger with an empty gaze. The woman seemed to expect nothing; she just nodded and crossed the threshold.
The woman immediately began to survey the apartment businesslike. Not with judgment or disdain, but with the calm professionalism that comes with years of work. She turned her head, assessing the scale of the mess, then nodded to some inner plan, as if sketching out the order of operations.
“Wow, there’s a lot to do, but we’ll manage!” she declared briskly, setting the bag on the floor and taking out gloves. Her movements were practiced and precise: a snap of the package, rubber pulled on quickly. “You just rest while I get started. In a couple of hours it’ll be clean and fresh—you’ll see!”
Rita didn’t answer. She stood aside, watching the woman take out rags and bottles of cleaning solution. It was strange: a stranger bustling about in her space where, for weeks, only silence and disorder had reigned. But even this roused in her neither irritation nor curiosity—only a dull, all-consuming indifference. She turned and slowly shuffled back to the living room.
Rita returned to the sofa, but the movie no longer held her attention. The screen flickered, the characters continued their dialogue, but she didn’t hear a word—the sounds from the kitchen drowned everything out. Water ran ceaselessly, dishes clattered, and through those domestic noises came a light, almost carefree tune—the cleaner was whistling a cheerful melody. At first the sounds irritated her—it felt as if a stranger were invading her quiet, grief-filled space. But gradually the noise changed. It stopped being intrusive and became a soothing background, monotonous and even cozy. She even dozed off, and for the first time in a long while her sleep was peaceful, without the dreadful nightmares that had haunted her since the incident. She simply sank into darkness where there were no thoughts or images, only silence and rest.
By evening the apartment sparkled with cleanliness. The cleaner had done a splendid job: surfaces gleamed, the air was filled with the fresh scent of cleaning agents, and the windows—whose dusty panes had dulled the light—now let in so much sun that Rita had to squint. She hadn’t seen her apartment so bright, so… alive in a long time. It felt as if someone had wiped away a film of gray dust that covered not only the furniture but also her perception of the world. She walked slowly through the rooms, running her fingers across surfaces, breathing in the clean air, and something stirred inside her—a faint, barely perceptible response.
The cleaner, leaving a trace of freshness and order behind, departed after a warm farewell and a promise to return the following week. Rita remained sitting on the now-clean sofa, taking in the unusually neat room. She ran her hand over the smooth coffee table, touched the freshly washed glass of the vase, and inhaled a pleasant floral scent. It felt so nice… The thought sounded unexpectedly in her head, like an echo from her former life. Simply nice. No strong emotions—just a light, almost physical sense of comfort.
The doorbell rang again. Rita started—after a day of quiet and solitude, the sound felt almost foreign. She rose slowly, went to the door, and opened it. Kirill stood on the threshold, holding a large container from which light steam rose.
“I brought your favorite meatball soup,” he said, coming in and setting the container on the table. His voice was soft, with that special care he rarely expressed in words but always conveyed in deeds. “And a crab-stick salad, the way you like it.”
Rita looked at him silently. Tears stood in her eyes—whether from exhaustion, from the unexpected care, or from that strange, still timid feeling that had begun to awaken inside. She couldn’t identify it: relief, gratitude, or simply the first spark of hope. She just stood and looked at him—at this man who kept fighting for her when she had long since given up.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice quivering, as if she hadn’t spoken in so long that words came with effort. It was the first word in a long time that she spoke not in answer to a question but of her own will.
“Eat while it’s hot,” he smiled gently and sat beside her, not forcing conversation, not trying to fill the silence with empty phrases. “And you know what? You don’t need to worry about cooking or cleaning anymore. I’ll take care of it.”
His words hung in the air, filling the room with new meaning. Rita looked at the soup container, at the neatly packed salad, at the clean surfaces around them—and for the first time in many weeks felt that perhaps she wasn’t alone in her pain, that beside her was someone ready to share the burden and help her to her feet. She slowly opened the container, and the aroma of hot broth filled her nostrils, awakening a long-forgotten sense of hunger.
That was how her slow return to life began—not abrupt or sudden, but gradual, step by step. At first it was simply the warmth of the soup in her hands, then the taste of food that she could finally feel again, then the thought that tomorrow she might get up early and open the windows wide to let in even more light. Those small, almost unnoticeable steps added up to a long road from darkness to light.
Every evening Kirill came home with containers of food. He tried—remembered what she liked and brought her favorite dishes or something new to vary her meals. Sometimes it was fragrant borscht with thick sour cream, sometimes roast chicken with vegetables, and a couple of times he even managed to find her favorite raspberry pie from a small bakery across town.
“Try this—it’s delicious,” he would say, setting plates on the table. “I asked Aunt Lucy—she said you loved it as a child.”
At first Rita ate almost mechanically, without much appetite. But gradually the taste of food began to awaken something in her—first simply a feeling of satiety, then a light pleasure, and one day she even smiled at a familiar childhood flavor. The smile was weak, unsure, but it was there—and that was already a miracle.
Once a week the same cleaner came—the woman with the kind smile and inexhaustible optimism. She didn’t just tidy up: deftly dusting, moving things, setting everything in its place, she somehow managed to get Rita talking. Sometimes she told a funny story about her grandson who decided to cook compote and flooded the kitchen; sometimes she shared an amusing incident from work; sometimes she simply asked how Rita was feeling—without prying or lecturing.
“You know,” she said once, polishing a glass vase, “life is like cleaning. It seems like the mess is everywhere and you can’t cope. But you start small—tidy this corner, wipe here, stack that there—and look, it’s already brighter, cozier.”
Rita listened, sometimes nodded, and occasionally answered with a few words. These visits gradually became a kind of small ritual for her—predictable, safe, almost soothing. She began to look forward to them, to the feeling of freshness and order that remained after this unusual woman left.
Two weeks later Kirill unexpectedly came into the room with a special sparkle in his eyes.
“Today a manicurist and pedicurist is coming—to the house,” he announced, sitting on the edge of the sofa.
“Why?” Rita looked up from a book she was barely reading, only turning pages without taking anything in. The idea of someone touching her hands felt strange and a little frightening.
“Because you deserve care. And beauty,” Kirill answered simply, looking at her with a warmth he had long hidden behind errands and worries. There was no demand in his gaze, only an offer—a gift.
The technician turned out to be a nice girl with a quiet voice and skillful hands. She didn’t rush, didn’t ask unnecessary questions, but she didn’t sit in silence either—she talked about new manicure trends, shared funny stories from her work, gently kept the conversation going. As she carefully shaped the nails, applied polish, and massaged Rita’s hands, Rita, for the first time in a long while, felt she could just relax and think of nothing at all. The warmth of the hand bath, the pleasant smell of the products, the measured movements—all created a strange, almost forgotten sense of peace. She closed her eyes and simply allowed herself to be cared for—and it was unusual and blissful.
The next day a hairdresser knocked at the door. Hearing the bell, Rita froze in bewilderment. Seeing her look, Kirill hurried to explain:
“I thought you might want a change. If you don’t, he’ll go. I just… wanted to give you a choice.”
Rita sat in the chair, slightly hunched, absent-mindedly twisting a lock of hair. It had long since lost its shine—dull, a bit tangled, hanging in unruly strands. She hadn’t tended to it for a month: no styling, barely any combing, just a careless ponytail or a knot at the back. Her gaze slid over her reflection in the mirror—familiar, yet somehow alien, a face veiled by fatigue.
Suddenly something stirred inside. Not resolve—not yet—more like a faint glimmer of interest. She raised her eyes to the hairdresser, who waited patiently, comb and scissors in hand.
“I want it short,” she said suddenly, and the words sounded unexpectedly firm, as if the decision had long been ripening deep within and was just waiting for a chance to break free. It was her decision, her choice—the first in a long time.
The hairdresser nodded with a slight smile—without surprise and without probing. He was used to moments when the desire to change a hairstyle masked a much more important change inside a person.
He began to work. The scissors slid easily through her hair, snipping long strands that fell noiselessly to the floor. His movements were precise and assured—he didn’t rush; from time to time he stepped back to assess the result. Rita watched as her familiar look gradually disappeared in the mirror. First the heavy locks at the back were gone, then the side strands grew shorter, and finally the front became a neat fringe. With every cut she felt as though she were shedding an old, heavy skin—one soaked in pain and longing.
When he finished, the hairdresser removed the cape and turned the chair slightly so Rita could see herself fully. She froze.
In the mirror she saw herself—but different. Lighter, fresher, as if she had shrugged off the weight of the past weeks. A short bob framed her face, accentuating her features and opening her gaze. Rita ran her hand through the new hairstyle—unfamiliar, but pleasant. The lightness was not only in her hair but somewhere inside. She smiled at her reflection—tentatively, but sincerely.
“Well, do you like it?” the hairdresser asked, putting his tools away.
Rita nodded, searching for words.
“Yes. Thank you.”
When the hairdresser left, Kirill came into the room. He stopped in the doorway, looked closely at Rita, and a warm smile appeared on his face.
“It suits you very much,” he said simply.
Rita knew he had always adored her long hair. She remembered how he liked to run his fingers through it, how he admired its shine. But now there was not a trace of regret in his eyes—only genuine support and joy for her.
“Really?” she asked softly, still not quite believing that the woman in the mirror was really her.
“Really,” he confirmed, coming closer. “You look… alive.”
Those words awakened a strange feeling in her—not pain or bitterness, but something like hope. Maybe she really was still alive. Maybe life wasn’t over yet.
Gradually, days turned into weeks. Rita was still sad—the memory of the lost child hadn’t gone anywhere, the pain hadn’t completely left. But now it was not an all-consuming darkness pressing on her chest, but a quiet, gentle sorrow. It didn’t paralyze her; rather, it reminded her that inside she still had the capacity to love, to dream, to feel. That sorrow became part of her—but not the only part.
Sometimes she stood at the window for a long time, watching children play in the yard, neighbors walking their dogs, autumn slowly painting the trees in golden hues. In those moments, Rita felt something new sprouting inside her—slowly, almost imperceptibly, yet steadily—not a replacement for what was lost, but another form of life, one with room for sorrow, hope, and the small joys she had almost forgotten. She was learning to breathe deeply again, learning to see the world’s colors.
One morning Rita woke not to an alarm and not because it was time to get up—but simply because she felt: today she wanted to do something. It was an unusual sensation, almost forgotten: not duty, not necessity, but desire. She lay for a few minutes, listening to herself, and understood—yes, she truly did want to get up and do something simple and ordinary, something that used to be part of her daily life. It was a small miracle, a sign that something inside had shifted off dead center.
She rose slowly and put on a thin turtleneck she hadn’t worn in a long time—soft, embroidered with snowflakes, a gift from her mother last New Year. The fabric’s touch on her skin felt cozy. Rita walked through the apartment, paused at the window to look at the waking courtyard, and then headed to the kitchen.
There she opened the fridge, studying its contents carefully. Her eyes lingered on a bag of mushrooms, on sour cream, on fresh herbs. Something clicked in her head: “Mushroom soup. Kirill loves it.” She took out the ingredients, laid them on the table, turned on the water to rinse the mushrooms. At first her movements were unhurried, as if she were learning to cook all over again, but gradually they found their familiar rhythm. Chopping, sautéing onions, adding spices—it all turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. The aroma began to spread through the apartment, filling it with warmth and homely comfort. She cooked, and it was not a meaningless action but a kind of creativity, a gift she could give the man she loved.
When Kirill came home from work, he froze in the kitchen doorway. The air held that familiar, homely smell that warmed him instantly from within.
“What’s this?” he asked, looking in surprise at Rita by the stove. She stood slightly bent over the pot, stirring the soup with a wooden spoon, and in her movements was that same focused poise he hadn’t seen in so long.
“Your favorite mushroom soup,” Rita replied, turning to him. A smile appeared on her face—not forced or for politeness’ sake, but real, warm, with a faint sparkle in her eyes. “I made it.”
Kirill walked up slowly, hugged her from behind, pressed his cheek to her shoulder. He said nothing for several seconds—just breathed in the moment, absorbing it with his whole being. He held her, and that embrace contained so much gratitude and love that no words were necessary.
“Thank you,” he whispered at last, and in that word there was more than simple gratitude for dinner. It was thanks for her return, for her being with him again, for every step she had taken back toward life.
That evening they had dinner together at the table Rita herself had set. The soup turned out just as before: with a rich mushroom aroma, a tender texture, and that very taste Kirill had loved since childhood. He ate slowly, savoring each spoonful, and from time to time glanced at Rita—she, too, ate unhurriedly, with the special expression of someone pleased with her work. They sat in silence, but it was not an empty silence; it was filled with understanding and quiet joy.
When they moved on to tea, Rita set down her cup, looked at Kirill, and said:
“You know, I’ve realized something.”
He raised his eyes, attentive and unhurried, as if giving her time to find the words.
“What?”
“You let me grieve. You didn’t rush me, didn’t say ‘pull yourself together,’ didn’t try to distract me with empty talk. You were just there and did everything to make it easier. And that helped.”
Her voice was even, without strain, but it carried a depth—the kind that comes after long days of silence and pain. She had managed to say it, to put into words the support he had been giving her all this time.
Kirill silently took her hand in his. His fingers trembled slightly, but he did not look away.
“I just wanted you to know you’re not alone. And that I love you—in any state, with any hair, in any mood.”
Rita felt tears welling up. But these were not tears of despair, not the heavy, scalding drops that had flowed for weeks on end. These tears were different—light, warm, full of gratitude. She squeezed his hand in return, and in that touch there were more words than either of them could speak aloud. They sat like that, holding hands, understanding that the worst was behind them and ahead lay a long road they would walk together.
From that day on, Rita began to return to ordinary life. At first everything was difficult—each action took effort, as if she were relearning simple things. But she didn’t rush; she listened to herself and did only what she had the strength to do. And that strength gradually returned, nourished by Kirill’s care and her own desire to live.
It began with cooking. Not just to eat, but to feel the joy of the process again. She chose recipes, bought groceries, turned on her favorite music, and stood by the stove, watching broth come to a boil or a pie crust turn golden. Sometimes the dishes weren’t perfect, but Kirill ate with the kind of pleasure that made it seem like the finest dinner of his life. He never criticized—only praised and thanked, always adding:
“I’ve missed your culinary masterpieces so much.”
Then Rita began to take on a few chores. Not all at once—only what didn’t exhaust her. Washing the dishes after dinner, dusting the shelves, moving the vase of flowers to a different spot. Kirill still tried to relieve her as much as possible: he took out the trash, vacuumed, did the laundry. But now she could say, “Let me mop the floors today,” or “I’ll make breakfast myself”—and it no longer felt like an impossible task. It was getting herself back, piece by piece.
After a couple of weeks Rita started going for walks again. At first—fifteen minutes around the building, then—to the nearby park. She noticed nature changing: the first yellow leaves on the trees, the cool autumn sun, birds flocking before migration. These walks became a kind of meditation for her: steps, breathing, the sounds of the city—everything helped her return to the present moment. She was learning to see the world’s beauty again, learning to feel part of it.
Gradually she resumed talking with friends. First there were short calls, then café meetups. Her friends didn’t press her, didn’t ask too many questions; they were simply there. They talked about trifles—new movies, the weather, funny work stories—and that turned out to matter too. Rita realized she could laugh, could take interest in other people’s lives, could feel part of something larger again. She became Rita once more—not only a wife, not only a woman who had suffered grief, but a friend and an engaging companion.
Most importantly, Rita felt the desire to care for Kirill just as he had cared for her through those hard months. She began to cook his favorite dishes, not out of obligation but because she truly wanted to please him. She greeted him from work with a smile—not a forced one, but a genuine one that warmed her from within. She asked how his day had gone and truly listened—not letting the words pass by, but taking in the details, asking follow-ups, empathizing. Their relationship, having passed through a severe trial, grew deeper and stronger and took on new meaning.
One evening they sat on the couch, embracing. It was raining outside—quiet, autumn rain, drops drumming steadily on the cornice. A warm desk lamp glowed in the room; tea cooled on the table; a sketchbook with an unfinished drawing lay on Rita’s knees. She leaned into Kirill’s shoulder, closed her eyes, and said quietly:
“Thank you. For everything.”
He didn’t answer at once. He just kissed the crown of her head—gently, almost weightlessly—and then held her a little tighter.
“I should be the one thanking you. For being here. For coming back.”
They sat in silence, listening to the clock ticking on the wall, to the rain outside the window, to the beating of their hearts—now in the same rhythm. Life went on, with room for sorrow and joy and a love that had proven stronger than everything. And in that silence, filled with the simple sounds of existence, they both understood—the darkest hour is always before dawn, and even after the longest, coldest winter, spring inevitably comes. Their spring