Mikhail woke up in horror, with cold sweat streaming down his face. The same cursed dream again. It used to be rare, but now it was a constant companion of his nights.
Getting out of bed, Mikhail, as always, headed to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, trying to calm the trembling in his hands. Over the years, he had tried numerous ways to rid himself of the nightmare—but to no avail. The dream was a reminder of something that happened many years ago.
Back then, Mikhail was just over twenty. Young, hot-headed, confident. After a wild party at a club, he, drunk, along with a couple of girls, headed to a lake to continue the festivities. Everything seemed light, carefree. But in the early morning, when it was time to head back to the city, Mikhail decided to drive.
The car sped along the country road, overtaking the rare cars. The morning rays were just beginning to break through the dense foliage of the trees. The flow of oncoming cars was increasing, and Mikhail’s head began to ache.
To avoid a long drive, he turned onto a narrow road through a village. It was there that he noticed an old Lada, in which a man and a schoolgirl were sitting—judging by the white bows. Mikhail thought the driver hesitated, and he decided to overtake him.
“What’s he dragging for, carrying potatoes?” Mikhail smirked, accelerating.
The Lada sped up, apparently to not let Mikhail pass. The guy smirked:
“Some racer he is!”
Confidently pulling out to overtake, he had almost passed the car when the Lada suddenly swerved, hit the shoulder, and spun around. Mikhail briefly noticed in the mirror how the car crashed into a tree.
The brakes squealed, he stopped. Looking back, Mikhail saw smoke billowing from under the hood. The man behind the wheel was dead, that was obvious. And the girl… She was struggling, screaming, trying to open the jammed door. The fire was getting closer.
Mikhail gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. No one saw him. Inside, fear and reason battled. Another moment—and he sharply turned the wheel, driving away.
This scene haunted him for many years.
At first, the nightmares wouldn’t let him live. He tried to drown them in work, but when that didn’t help, he turned to a doctor. The prescribed pills softened the blows of the subconscious. But the dreams still returned. Especially now, when it seemed he had achieved everything he dreamed of…
The clock on the wall showed five in the morning. Mikhail tiredly rubbed his face and turned on the kettle. The thought flickered in his head: go to the restaurant early. Yesterday he noticed irregularities in the reports.
It seemed someone was trying to steal money. It was irritating. He paid his employees well, and yet people constantly changed. Working at his restaurant was hard, but the place was popular, always fully booked.
Arriving at the restaurant, Mikhail saw an attractive girl at the entrance. She blushed slightly, noticing him.
“Sorry, we’re not open yet,” Mikhail informed her, inadvertently examining her.
The girl smiled, and he noticed a faint dimple on her cheek.
“I know,” she replied. “I work here as a waitress.”
Mikhail laughed.
“Imagine that! What an owner! I don’t even know my employees by face. But no worries, we’ll fix that.”
The girl looked at him in surprise, and Mikhail, pausing for a moment, went inside. Along the way, he caught himself thinking that this waitress had caught his interest. Her gaze, so attentive and serious, seemed to hide some secret. Yet, looking closer, Mikhail realized—she was barely twenty-five. Young. Just what he needed.
He didn’t hide that he liked to court his female employees. Working in the restaurant was tough, but Mikhail did not skimp on beautiful young waitresses. And this girl… She was definitely worth trying to start a romance with.
Mikhail, of course, was not yet an old man, he was only 37 years old. However, he had never had a family. He believed that a family was superfluous. Why burden oneself when life was already good? Young women were plentiful around him, and no one was quick to refuse him. Not only because of the money but also because he was quite an attractive man.
The day was challenging. From the morning, a group of athletes stormed into the restaurant and ordered a mountain of dishes. And the chefs, as they say, were not slacking. Mikhail, passing by the kitchen, irritably threw out:
“If even one dish is late, I’ll fire you all!”
The head chef, previously busy cutting meat, frowned.
“We’re trying our best! We just opened, nothing is properly set up yet,” he grumbled, looking from under his brow.
“Opened? What do you think you’re here for? To work, not to set up!”
The chef, mumbling something, disappeared into the depths of the kitchen, and Mikhail headed to the hall. Barely taking a step, he nearly ran into the young waitress.
“What the hell are you doing standing here?” he angrily asked. “Your place is in the hall!”
The girl, unflustered, replied calmly:
“Mikhail Pavlovich, I haven’t learned to transmit orders telepathically yet.”
He froze, assessing her composure, and unexpectedly smiled:
“Sorry.”
When the girl disappeared behind the door, Mikhail watched her for a long time. Then he called over the manager.
“Sergey, who is that?”
“That’s the new waitress,” he replied. “Been with us for just three days. Name’s Dasha. Works quickly, manages everything. Seems like she’s got something at home—either a sick mother or something…”
“Understood, thanks. Any problems with her?”
“Seems fine. Just bumped into each other,” clarified Mikhail.
“Uh-huh, nothing serious.”
The manager nodded and left, and Mikhail headed to his office. In truth, he wasn’t so much planning to work as he was thinking about how to quickly win over this Dasha. Judging by her behavior, the girl had a strong character.
After lunch, deciding to get some air, Mikhail saw her again. Dasha was sitting on a bench at the service entrance, facing the sky. The waitstaff had a legitimate break time. He smiled—perfect timing.
“May I sit?” he asked.
The girl looked up at him in surprise but silently scooted over.
“Dasha, I don’t understand what a beauty like you is doing in my worthless establishment,” he started with a smile.
She looked at him again. With a bored and calm tone, she replied:
“And where, in your opinion, should I be?”
“Where? On a runway. Sparkling in outfits and dazzling men.”
“No thank you. That’s not for me.”
“What exactly? The outfits or the men?”
“Both.”
She got up from the bench, but Mikhail cautiously caught her hand.
“Dasha, maybe we can take a walk after work? Sit somewhere, talk?”
The girl gently freed her hand and coldly threw back:
“Thanks, but no need. Better focus on those who are actually interested in you.”
With those words, she left, and Mikhail sat watching her go, confusion rising inside him.
“No way, darling, I won’t let it go like this,” he thought. “You’ll change your mind yet!”
The rest of the day, thoughts of Dasha haunted him. He usually left the restaurant a couple of hours before closing, but today he decided to stay until the end. He had devised a plan to teach the proud girl a lesson.
The manager approached him near midnight and reminded:
“Mikhail Pavlovich, we’re setting the alarm, are you leaving?”
He slowly nodded.
“Yes, just tell everyone not to leave without my permission.”
Mikhail walked out into the hall, stopped in the center, and surveyed the gathered employees. His face was serious.
“I have bad news for everyone,” he began. “We’ve received information that one of our waitresses is taking home expensive products. That is, she’s stealing.”
Silence fell in the hall, immediately broken by a quiet murmur. The staff was bewildered: such accusations had never been heard before. Mish, the manager, frowned and asked in surprise:
“And who is that?”
Mikhail turned to the new waitress.
“Dasha,” he said threateningly.
The girl took a step back, her eyes filled with fear.
“What? I’ve never taken anything that wasn’t mine in my life!”
Mikhail inwardly rejoiced. He was sure he would now finally break her. At last, even this rebellious young woman would submit to him.
“Dasha, you understand everything,” he said, squinting. “Prove you’re not guilty, or you’ll have to look for a new job.”
Dasha desperately retorted:
“But how can I prove it? Tell me what to do!”
“Show all your things,” Mikhail cut her off.
Dasha opened her bag, turned its contents out on the table. There were keys, a wallet, a couple of trinkets. Mikhail crossed his arms over his chest.
“And under such a baggy sweater, you know, you can carry out half the restaurant.”
People around froze. Tears rolled down Dasha’s cheeks. She didn’t even try to say anything. Just opened and closed her mouth as if she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Well, then,” Mikhail continued with malice. “I’m not asking you to strip naked. Just take off that sweater, and I might even apologize.”
Dasha looked into his eyes for a long time. The room went quiet. The staff felt uncomfortable about what was happening. Then the girl made a sudden move, took off the wide sweater, and threw it on the table. Everyone gasped. She was wearing a light tank top on thin straps, and her shoulders, arms, neck—everything was covered in deep scars.
Mikhail froze. Those eyes, that gaze. He had seen them before… In his dream. That same incident—the fire many years ago. Palms sweated, and he felt a wave of shame rising within.
“Sorry. Everyone’s free,” he said in a dull voice and, without looking back, dashed out of the restaurant.
That night, Mikhail didn’t close his eyes. He aimlessly wandered around the apartment, like a cornered beast.
She’s alive. Moreover, she came to work specifically in his restaurant. Was it a coincidence? Or did she know something? But why act as if she was seeing him for the first time?
The next day, Dasha didn’t show up for work. Mikhail headed to the manager.
“Sergey, do you have her address?”
“I do,” the manager stretched out a piece of paper.
Mikhail didn’t know what he would say, but he knew one thing: he had to help her. Now, because he hadn’t done it then.
Half an hour later, he stood in front of the door of a modest apartment. He knocked. The door opened, and he saw Dasha. She was wearing glasses, her nose was red, and a handkerchief peeked out of her pocket.
“Is that you?” she asked in surprise, sneezing. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to warn you. Just came back from the clinic. You can come in.”
Mikhail nodded and entered. The apartment was small, one-room. On the sofa lay an elderly woman.
“This is my mom,” Dasha explained. “She can’t walk after a stroke, but she can talk and think. Mom, this is Mikhail, my… boss.”
The woman waved her hand slightly.
“Hello. Dasha, at least offer the guest some tea.”
“No need, thank you,” Mikhail quickly replied. “I won’t stay long.”
They went into the tiny kitchen. Mikhail lowered his gaze and quietly said:
“Dasha, I want to help.”
Mikhail placed an envelope with money in front of Dasha.
“This is for you,” he said firmly. “No objections. Stay home, get treated, as long as you need.”
Dasha looked at him bewilderedly, as if not believing her ears.
“But…”
Mikhail waved his hand, interrupting her:
“No ‘buts.’ That’s it. Period.”
He almost ran to the door, but stopped on the threshold and turned around.
“And the glasses… Have you worn them for a long time?” he asked.
Dasha smiled, shrugging slightly.
“I’ve had poor vision since childhood. I wear lenses at work to make it more convenient.”
Mikhail silently nodded and dashed out, running down the stairs. One thought spun in his head: she doesn’t remember him. Didn’t recognize him. This was comforting, but at the same time troubling. Can he just forget about her now?
A week passed, but Mikhail still couldn’t forget Dasha. He constantly tried to think about something else, but thoughts of her returned again and again. He remembered her face, her smile, her voice. More and more, he found himself wanting to see her again, to talk. Each time he scolded himself, but it was in vain.
Mikhail didn’t understand what was happening to him. Usually, he just wanted to drag a girl to bed and forget, but now he dreamed of being with her as long as possible.
One evening, Mikhail mustered up the courage and invited Dasha to a cafe. To his surprise, she agreed. They sat and talked for a long time. Then they went to his place. That evening, Dasha finally told her story.
“Uncle Vasya was my stepfather,” she began, lowering her gaze. “A good man, he never hurt me, but he loved to drink… That day he started in the morning. My mom and I didn’t notice how drunk he was. I realized it only when we were already on the highway. I asked him to turn back, but he laughed, told me not to worry. Then a car overtook us, he lost control… The car caught fire. I managed to get out, but…”
She paused, covering her face with her hands.
“Now I’m a freak,” she quietly added.
Mikhail gently ran his fingers over her scars, which stretched from her shoulder to her neck.
“Don’t say that. You’re not a freak at all. All this can be fixed, if you want,” he said softly.
Dasha bitterly smiled.
“I couldn’t see well then. My glasses disappeared immediately. No one stopped right away, and then…”
She didn’t finish, but Mikhail understood that this memory caused her pain. He squeezed her hand, trying to let her know that she was not alone now.
Mikhail realized that she hadn’t seen him at that moment. The look he took for directed right at him might have been accidental. The girl, turning toward him, hadn’t recognized him then.
Two months later, Dasha was admitted to a clinic for surgery. While the girl was in the hospital, Mikhail took care of her mother. He found an experienced doctor, and by the time Dasha was discharged, her mother could meet her daughter on her own feet. Though with a cane, she walked. This was a small miracle that Mikhail organized for her.
Now only one question tormented him: should he tell Dasha the truth? Confess that he was that driver because of whom the tragedy occurred, or keep it a secret?
Mikhail understood well that the truth would destroy their relationship. Dasha, learning that he was to blame for her misfortune, would never have married him. But he couldn’t live with this burden, hiding the truth. The lie seemed unbearable.
His worries were wearing him down. Mikhail lost weight, didn’t sleep at night, turning over possible scenarios in his head. But on the wedding day, he made a decision. Approaching Dasha, who looked happy and serene, he began in a quiet, barely audible voice:
“Dasha, I need to tell you something. It’s very important. You might change your mind about marrying me after this…”
Dasha looked at him attentively and sighed.
“Mikhail, don’t,” she said. “I recognized you back then, in the restaurant, when we bumped into each other. At first, I wanted to hate you, and honestly, you gave me plenty of reasons. But… I couldn’t. Let’s just try to forget. If that’s possible. I no longer hold any grudge against you. You were young, foolish. We all make mistakes.”
Mikhail froze, realizing that she had known the truth all this time. His gaze warmed, he silently pulled Dasha to himself and hugged her.
“Thank you… If you had left me, I probably couldn’t have gone on living. You took my heart, soul, mind… You became everything to me.”
Dasha smiled, pressing against him.
“Well then,” she jokingly remarked, “we just have to try not to disappoint each other.”