Alektina Petrovna consistently appeared at the store right at seven in the morning. The 24-hour “Products 24 Hours” store was usually empty at that time—only the night workers and occasional sleepless passers-by entered. Her worn gray coat and faded scarf had long been familiar to the staff. The old woman came twice a week, exactly on schedule—on Tuesdays and Fridays.
“Here comes our grandma again,” yawned Nina, the cashier with a face frozen in a permanent expression of fatigue. There was an hour left until the end of her night shift, and all she dreamed of was a warm bath and a soft bed.
“So what?” asked Sergey, the new loader, a broad-shouldered guy with freckles, who had worked here for only two weeks. The routine hadn’t yet erased his humanity.
“Nothing,” Nina replied indifferently, snapping her gum. “She’ll stand there for half an hour staring at the price tags, then take half a loaf of bread. Sometimes she also buys tea, if she has enough money left. We have plenty of people like her.”
The February morning was especially cold and foggy. The streetlights barely broke through the thick haze, turning into blurry yellow spots. Alektina Petrovna, wrapped in her old coat, moved slowly between the shelves. Her dry fingers, twisted by arthritis, sifted through the coins in her worn wallet with peeling leather. She counted them three times, moving her lips as if afraid to make a mistake.
At the dairy section, she lingered longer than usual. She looked at the bottles of milk, yogurts, and cottage cheese, but didn’t reach for anything.
“Are you looking for something?” Sergey, who had grown bored of stacking cans, asked as he approached.
Alektina Petrovna flinched, turned around. Her faded but still clear eyes looked with slight anxiety.
“Yes, son, I’m just…,” she hesitated, clutching her old wallet. “The prices… I haven’t bought milk in a while. I was thinking, maybe today…,” she trailed off, waved her hand, and headed to the bread section.
Sergey watched her leave. Something pricked inside him—whether pity or shame for the pity.
At the cash register, the old woman approached with half a loaf of bread. She rummaged in her wallet, counting small change. A guilty smile lingered on her cracked lips.
“Dear,” she addressed Nina, suddenly making up her mind. “Could you buy me some milk… I don’t have enough… They delayed my pension; they promised to transfer it on Monday. I’ll pay you back, I definitely will…”
Nina didn’t even glance at her. She scanned the bread, swept the coins into the register.
“We’re not a charity fund,” she coldly snapped. “We hear these stories every day. The pension was delayed, the card was lost. Just go already.”
The old woman’s shoulders slumped even more. She took the bread and slowly made her way out.
At that moment, a red-haired girl in a bright red jacket approached the counter. Varvara—her name was on her badge—worked at the photo studio across the street. She visited the store every morning for coffee and a snack.
“I’ll pay for the milk,” she said, placing five hundred rubles on the counter. “And add a bun for the grandma. A fresh one, please.”
Nina sighed but didn’t argue. She scanned the items.
“Grandma!” she called out to Alektina Petrovna. “Come back, someone bought you milk.”
The old woman turned around, blinking in confusion. When she understood what was happening, she threw up her hands.
“What are you doing, dear? No need… I just said that, didn’t think… I’ll pay you back when my pension comes!”
“I don’t want to hear anything,” smiled Varvara. “By the way, my name is Varvara. What’s yours?”
“Alektina Petrovna,” the old woman introduced herself, accepting the package with milk and the bun. “Thank you, dear… May God bless you.”
“Thanks again,” Alektina Petrovna said when they stepped out into the cold street. “You know, don’t think I’m some beggar. It’s just… things are really tight right now…”
Varvara shrugged, smiling.
“Come on, it’s nothing. Life is full of surprises.”
“It is,” sighed the old woman. “I’ve lived sixty-five years, but I don’t remember anything like this. Even the ’90s were easier.”
“Where are you going?” asked Varvara, glancing at her watch. There were still thirty minutes before work. “Let me walk you.”
“Oh, no, dear! You need to get to work.”
“I have time. Where to?”
“Zarechnaya 15. The old construction site…”
“That’s on my way!” Varvara smiled. “I live at Zarechnaya 7.”
They walked side by side—the young freckled redhead with a turned-up nose and the hunched old woman, whose steps were so tiny that Varvara had to constantly hold herself back to avoid walking too fast.
Along the way, Alektina Petrovna shared that she lived alone—her husband had died ten years ago, and her son with his family was in Novosibirsk.
“They call me every week, sometimes they send money,” she said. “But they have enough of their own problems. My daughter-in-law lost her job last fall, and my granddaughter is preparing to enter college. I don’t want to be a burden. We managed before, and we’ll manage again.”
But her voice made it clear that “managing” was becoming harder.
“The last month has been really tough,” the old woman admitted. “There was a pipe burst in the basement, we got flooded. The floor is swollen, the wallpaper is peeling. There’s this smell—it’s impossible to sleep. And the management company just shrugs—they say they have no money, just wait. I call them every day, but it’s useless. And now there’s this pension delay.”
“Does your son know?” Varvara asked.
“What?!” Alektina Petrovna threw up her hands. “Why bother him? They have enough of their own worries. As soon as he finds out, he’ll send money. But they need every penny right now. I’m the mother, I should help, not drain them dry.”
They reached the shabby five-story building with peeling plaster. Near the entrance, Alektina Petrovna unexpectedly suggested:
“Would you like to come in? Have some tea? I have jam, black currant. I made it last summer.”
Varvara glanced at her watch. There were twenty minutes before work; the photo studio was just around the corner.
“Let’s make it five minutes,” she agreed. “I’ll just call to let them know I’ll be a little late.”
The apartment was small but incredibly cozy. Old Soviet furniture, lace doilies, knitted pillows on the couch. In the corner stood buckets, and there were rags on the floor—evidence of the recent flood. It smelled of dampness and, for some reason, apples.
“Sit down,” the hostess fussed. “I’ll put the kettle on. What kind of tea do you like? I have black and green.”
“Black, please,” Varvara smiled.
While Alektina Petrovna was busy with the cups in the kitchen, Varvara carefully looked around the room. Her gaze landed on an open envelope with a bill lying on the table. She inadvertently read the amount.
“Is this for heating?” she exclaimed, surprised when the old woman returned with the tea. “Ten thousand?!”
“It’s a mistake,” Alektina Petrovna waved her hand. “I called the management company, they said something went wrong with the meter. They promised to fix it, but for now, I have to pay, and then they’ll recalculate. So I have to save on everything.”
“Have the plumbers been yet? What about the floor?”
“They promised to come on Monday. But it’s always like this: they promise, then forget. I’ve been calling every day for two weeks.”
“You need to insist,” Varvara advised. “My grandfather always said: if you want results, don’t hang up until you get a concrete answer.”
“I’ve already tried every way,” Alektina Petrovna sighed. “They say there’s a backlog, no materials, not enough workers. And I’ve got a real disaster here: it’s damp, cold, the floor is caving in. And now the electricity’s more expensive—the heater’s been running constantly.”
The more Varvara listened, the clearer it became that the issue wasn’t just about finances. The old woman was lacking support, someone who could listen to her and help navigate the bureaucratic hurdles.
“Alektina Petrovna,” Varvara said firmly, “let me help you. I used to work for a newspaper and know how to influence management companies.”
“Oh no, dear,” the old woman waved her hands. “You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll manage somehow…”
“No,” Varvara said resolutely. “Tonight we’ll go to your management company. If there’s someone on duty, we’ll demand they send a plumber immediately. If not, we’ll leave a statement for the director with a copy to the housing inspectorate.”
Alektina Petrovna looked at the girl with surprise and slight anxiety.
“Is that allowed? Aren’t they important people? Who am I to bother them?”
“You’re someone who pays for utilities,” Varvara answered confidently. “And you have every right to demand proper service. Deal?”
At the management company, they were greeted by a disinterested woman in a strict suit.
“Reception hours are over,” she said without looking up from her computer.
“We’re not here for reception,” Varvara smiled. “We’re here about an emergency situation. A flood at Zarechnaya 15. They’ve been waiting for a plumber for two weeks.”
“Your request is registered,” the woman said indifferently. “The crew will arrive on Monday.”
“Monday?” Varvara asked. “So, a person’s been living in a flooded apartment with a destroyed floor for two weeks, and that’s okay?”
“Listen, miss,” the woman began to get irritated, “we have dozens of requests like this. Everyone wants an urgent response. But there’s only one crew.”
“What if the ceiling collapses?” Varvara didn’t back down. “Have you seen the state of the ceilings? Your company is risking a lawsuit for health damage.”
“Who are you, anyway?” the woman finally looked up from her computer. “A relative? A representative? No? Then what business do you have here?”
“Under the Consumer Protection Law,” Varvara replied. “If you don’t resolve this issue, I’ll go to the housing inspectorate and the prosecutor’s office tomorrow. And I’ll make a post on social media with photos of the apartment. How many likes do you think it will get?”
The employee’s eyes widened in fear.
“Please don’t post anything,” she said quickly. “I’ll call the foreman and find out what we can do.”
She dialed the number and five minutes later turned to them.
“The crew can come today after six. They’ll fix the leak and inspect the floor. But we don’t have any materials right now. You’ll have to buy the linoleum yourself.”
“What about compensation for the damaged property?” Varvara asked immediately.
“Write a statement, we’ll review it,” the woman sighed. “But keep in mind, the building is old, the accident was due to wear and tear on the pipes…”
“I don’t need compensation,” Alektina Petrovna interjected. “I just want the floor fixed and for it to be dry.”
On the way home, the old woman was silent for a long time, and then quietly said:
“Thank you, dear. I would never have had the courage to do this myself… We’ve learned to endure. My son is the same—he never complains about anything.”
“There’s a difference between whining and defending your rights,” Varvara remarked. “And we’ll also sort out the bill. They can’t make you pay for mistaken charges.”
They did manage to get the bill corrected—it was indeed a mistake, and they promised to fix it within a week. But what bothered Varvara more was why pensioners were forced to pay first and wait for a refund later. It was against the law.
“Many pensioners simply don’t know their rights,” she explained to Alektina Petrovna. “Anyone can check the accuracy of charges. And a pension delay is no excuse to make you go hungry.”
“I’m used to it,” the old woman sighed. “When you live alone, there’s no energy for fighting. I have an education, but when it comes to dealing with things, I get lost.”
The plumbers arrived exactly at six in the evening. Varvara had already come home early from work to help Alektina Petrovna sort through the water-damaged items.
“And who are you to her?” the foreman, a stocky man in his fifties with a gruff face, asked skeptically.
“Just a person,” Varvara shrugged.
The foreman grunted but didn’t ask any more questions. As they worked, they got talking. It turned out that the man had known Alektina Petrovna since the Soviet days.
“My mom worked with her at the bakery,” he said, fixing the pipes. “Ah, Petrovna, if I had known this was your apartment, I would have fixed everything long ago. Why didn’t you call?”
“It’s so awkward,” the old woman mumbled. “Everyone has their own business.”
“That’s the generation,” the foreman shook his head, addressing Varvara. “They’d rather sit in a flooded apartment than ask for help. My father knew her husband Ivan well. They fought together.”
“In the war?” Varvara asked, surprised.
“In Afghanistan,” the foreman replied shortly. “Petrovna, where’s your son now?”
“In Novosibirsk,” the old woman sighed. “He works as an engineer. It’s tough for him, but he’s holding on. My granddaughter’s entering college…”
By 9 p.m., they had dealt with the pipes. The leak was fixed, and the most damaged areas of the floor had been temporarily reinforced. But the issue with the linoleum remained.
“I’ll come on Saturday,” the foreman offered. “I’ll bring leftovers from another job—they’re going to throw it away. Maybe my son will come by, he’s good at laying floors.”
“How can I thank you?” Alektina Petrovna asked, touched. “I don’t have money…”
“No need for that!” the foreman waved his hand. “What’s the use of paying among friends? Your Ivan did so much for my father…”
When the plumbers left, Alektina Petrovna sat silently for a long time.
“You know,” she finally said to Varvara, “I thought everyone had forgotten. But it turns out, they remember. They remember Ivan, and they remember me…”
“Sometimes the shared history is more important than family ties,” Varvara remarked.
“Thank you, dear,” Alektina Petrovna said quietly. “If it weren’t for you…” She didn’t finish, but her eyes were filled with tears.
On Saturday, Varvara came to help with the repairs. She brought leftover wallpaper from the renovation in her own apartment. And she didn’t come alone—she brought Sergey from the store, who had volunteered to help.
“I know how to lay floors,” he said, inspecting the work. “My father was a carpenter, he taught me.”
Sergey was not talkative, but hardworking. While Mikhailich and his son Kostya finished up the work on the pipes, Varvara and Sergey tackled the floor and walls. By evening, the room had transformed: there was no trace of dampness or mold, the floor had new linoleum (albeit made from several pieces), and the walls were decorated with fresh wallpaper.
“It’s beautiful!” Alektina Petrovna marveled as she looked at the renovated apartment. “It looks like new! Even better than it was! How can I thank you?”
“With tea and jam,” Sergey smiled. “Nothing else is needed.”
While they were having tea, Sergey unexpectedly suggested:
“Alektina Petrovna, would you like to work part-time at our store? We’re looking for someone to receive deliveries and check invoices. Just a couple of hours a day, and it will add to your pension.”
“Really?” the old woman exclaimed. “I’ve worked with documents all my life! I can handle invoices and paperwork…”
“Great,” Sergey nodded. “Come in on Monday, we’ll discuss it with the manager. He’s been looking for someone with experience for a while, but the younger folks are unreliable—they show up one day and quit the next.”
Varvara looked at Sergey, surprised—she hadn’t suspected that behind his quiet demeanor, there was such a kind heart.
When everyone left, Alektina Petrovna took a scuffed wooden box from her old cabinet and pulled out an antique silver brooch with a blue stone.
“This was passed down from my grandmother,” she said, handing the jewelry to Varvara. “It’s a family heirloom, very old. I want you to have it.”
“What are you doing, Alektina Petrovna!” Varvara exclaimed, shocked. “I can’t accept something so valuable! It’s a memory, a family relic…”
“That’s exactly why I’m giving it to you,” the old woman smiled softly. “In these days, you’ve become dearer to me than many. You know, I once had a daughter… She died from scarlet fever when she was little. You remind me of her—same red hair, freckles, and the same stubborn, fair-minded character.”
She placed the brooch in Varvara’s palm.
“Take it. I’ll feel better knowing it’s with you. Maybe one day you’ll pass it on to your daughter.”
Varvara clenched the cool metal in her hand and, unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes—not from pity, but from a bright feeling, as if something important and meaningful had happened. As if the circle had closed.
Six months passed. Alektina Petrovna’s life had changed beyond recognition. She now worked at the store three days a week, checking invoices and helping with inventory. Her colleagues appreciated her attentiveness and experience, and the manager often praised Sergey for the idea of hiring the pensioner.
Varvara visited every Sunday—sometimes alone, sometimes with Sergey, with whom she had started a romance by then. Sergey turned out to be not only pleasant but surprisingly caring and reliable.
“I never would have thought I’d meet someone like him at the store,” Varvara once confessed to Alektina Petrovna. “He’s not only handsome but reliable. Like they say in old books: ‘Behind him, like behind a stone wall.’”
“I knew it right away,” the old woman nodded. “He has kind eyes. There are few people like him nowadays.”
Over time, Alektina Petrovna’s apartment became a gathering place for a whole group: Mikhailich with his wife Tamara, Kostya with his girlfriend, Dima from the photo studio where Varvara worked, the neighbor from the fifth floor with her student grandson. Even Nina from the store occasionally stopped by for tea.
“Where did you come from?” joked Mikhailich, addressing Varvara. “It used to be a quiet bay, now it’s a rushing stream.”
But everyone knew: thanks to that “rushing stream,” their lives had become brighter and richer.
In April, Alektina Petrovna’s son flew in from Novosibirsk on a business trip and was amazed by the changes in his mother’s life.
“She seems to glow from the inside,” he told Varvara. “I haven’t seen her like this in a long time. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” the girl blushed. “I was just there.”
“That’s the whole secret,” he smiled. “Sometimes just being there is more important than anything else.”
Before he left, he left money for a new refrigerator and promised that in the summer, the whole family would visit.
And in May, a little miracle happened—Alektina Petrovna received a letter from an old friend she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Valentina, who had worked with her in accounting, had moved to the Moscow region but suddenly decided to search for old friends.
“Well, well,” the old woman shook her head as she reread the letter. “I thought everyone had forgotten, but she remembers. She asks about Ivan and my son… I should write back.”
The correspondence with her friend added another layer to Alektina Petrovna’s new life. Now, in the evenings, she sat down to write about her days, her new friends, and her work. She also helped the neighbor’s boy with his math homework—it turned out her memory for numbers was just as sharp as ever.
One Sunday, when everyone had gathered for tea as usual, Alektina Petrovna suddenly said:
“Who would have thought,” she looked around at her guests, “that it would all turn out like this. And yet, how ashamed I was back then, in the store, asking: ‘Dear, could you buy me some milk? I don’t have enough for anything else…’”
“I think those were the most important words,” Varvara smiled, adjusting the silver brooch with the blue stone on her blouse. “Sometimes, you just have to be brave enough to ask for help.”
“And be brave enough to offer it,” Sergey added, hugging Varvara around the shoulders.
The warm spring breeze poured in through the open window, bringing the scent of lilacs and the sounds of children playing outside. Varvara looked around the room, where so much had changed in the last six months: new linoleum and wallpaper, fresh curtains, lamps gifted by Mikhailich, photographs on the walls—many of which she had taken herself.
But the most important change had happened in Alektina Petrovna herself. There was no longer that loneliness in her eyes, and the wrinkles around her eyes now gathered not from worry, but from a smile.
“You know,” Varvara said to Sergey one day, “I used to think that kindness meant giving a part of yourself to others. But now I understand: real kindness comes back to you many times over.”
That day, as they set the table for guests, Alektina Petrovna thought about how one random encounter had changed her life. But it wasn’t about the fixed pipes or the new linoleum. Her world had filled with people—alive, real, ready to help and simply be there.
And most importantly, the deep sorrow that had gripped her heart for years was gone. Every time she saw the red-haired girl entering her apartment, the old woman silently thanked fate for that February morning and for finding the strength to say those simple, yet difficult words: “Dear, buy me some milk… I don’t have enough for anything else…