Igor sat in the armchair, staring out the window. Outside, there was an incomparable landscape of gray clouds and wet asphalt. And right next to him, by the windowsill, his grandfather, Viktor Stepanovich, sat wrapped in an old blanket, holding a book.
Bent over, gray-haired, with glasses slipping down the tip of his nose, he slowly turned the pages, running his finger along the lines as if afraid to miss a single word. Igor found this unbearable. He watched him silently, but inside everything was boiling: “When will this old man disappear from my life?”
Everything about this man irritated him. His slowness, his wheezing cough, the perpetual kindness in his eyes, as though he still believed that he was loved. That someone needed something from him. Igor gritted his teeth and looked away. It was unbearable to look at him. How much longer could he pretend to be caring? How much longer could he endure this apartment, these evenings, this smell of old age?
He had never known his father. His mother had died young. After her death, he was left alone — not counting his grandfather. The old man had taken him from the orphanage, given him a roof over his head, food, clothes. He paid for his education, even more — everything needed for life. But Igor didn’t see it as love. To him, it was an obligation. He was supposed to help — and he did. What was so special about that?
Viktor Stepanovich lived decently: an apartment in the center, a dacha, a bank account. Igor had known about this since childhood. He always understood that all of this would one day be his. He didn’t need to do anything. It was all already decided by fate. Just wait.
Years passed, and Igor became irritable, lazy, convinced that the whole world was against him. Work wasn’t going well — it was the boss’s fault. No money — it was the state’s fault. Partners left — all traitors. He wanted to be a businessman — it didn’t work out. He wanted to leave — it didn’t happen. He wanted to start a family — it didn’t happen. Every failure was someone else’s fault. He himself was blameless.
And the grandfather… he saw it all. At first, he hoped, then he believed, then he simply forgave. When Igor was a teenager, he still thought, “Maybe he’ll grow up.” When he finished school — he waited for a change. After the first job loss — he believed again. And then came the bitter thought: it was his own fault. He raised his grandson like a child to pity, not like a person who needed to learn to take responsibility for himself.
“I spoiled him,” Viktor Stepanovich thought as he sat with the book he hadn’t read in a long time. “I let my old age go off track.”
He felt himself aging. He would forget where he put his glasses. He would confuse the days of the week. Sometimes he couldn’t focus on a simple conversation. And sometimes he would cry at night — not from pain, but from the realization of helplessness.
One evening, as Igor sat in front of the TV with a sour expression, his grandfather approached him. His voice was calm, but trembling.
“I’ve thought about it… I’ll rewrite everything, not to you.”
Igor froze.
“What did you say?”
“I can’t do it. You won’t handle it. You’ll waste everything. I don’t want what I’ve built all my life to disappear because of your laziness.”
“Are you crazy?!” Igor exploded. “This is mine! I’m here for you! For heaven’s sake, I’m enduring!”
“No,” his grandfather replied firmly. “You’re here for yourself. And you owe me nothing.”
Igor jumped up, slammed his fist on the table. Everything inside him boiled. What he had waited for all his life was slipping away. And he couldn’t allow that.
The next morning, he remembered Petya — a school friend who had always been quiet, a straight-A student, and now worked as a pharmacist. Not rich, but clever. Igor had even mocked him in his youth. Now Petya could be useful.
They arranged to meet through social media. The café by the metro, Petya — still neat, with glasses, a little shy.
“Listen, Petya,” Igor began, “I need some drops. You know, to calm Grandpa down. He’s old, his memory’s bad. He won’t go to the doctor. I just need to calm him down a bit. So he doesn’t stress me out.”
Petya frowned.
“You want a sedative?”
“Something like that. So he doesn’t fidget. No prescription. Light, safe.”
Petya thought for a moment. Everything was clear: Igor was lying. His eyes were darting, his voice unsure. But the need pressed on him too.
“It’s dangerous,” he finally said. “You can’t just use things like that.”
“Oh, come on,” Igor waved him off. “It’s not poison. Just a little bit. Everything’s under control.”
Petya hesitated but agreed. He had his own problems. Igor got the bottle. And immediately began his plan.
The first drops went into Grandpa’s tea in the evening. As usual, Viktor Stepanovich sat at the table, reading the newspaper, making his comments. Only at the end of dinner did he hesitate, rub his temples, lose his train of thought. But he continued speaking. Just longer than usual.
It began. Every morning — a few drops in the tea. Every evening — in the milk. Viktor Stepanovich became more and more absent-minded. He forgot where he put his book, asked the same questions, lost track of time. At night, he wandered the room, muttering incoherently, as if trying to find his way out of a mind that no longer obeyed.
Igor felt the control slipping into his hands. No more lectures. Not a single word about what was right or wrong. Just a quiet, lost old man, step by step retreating into himself.
“That’s it,” he whispered to himself, watching Grandpa search for his glasses that were not where they should be. “Everything’s going as planned.”
He was in a hurry. He wanted to finalize the documents before anyone noticed the changes. A signature — and everything would be set. But Grandpa was already almost unaware. He needed another way.
And Igor found it. Through connections, he reached a private nursing home — not the most official, but without unnecessary questions. Money upfront — and the old man disappears from sight. He’ll live there, where he belongs. Where no one asks why he stopped calling.
“The main thing is peace,” said the woman from the administration, looking him in the eye. “Here they don’t live. They just exist.”
“I understand,” Igor nodded. “And I’m fine with that.”
He brought Grandpa there at night — quietly, so no one would notice. Viktor Stepanovich barely understood what was happening: his gaze was cloudy, his hands trembling, incoherent mumbling on his lips. In the car, he either dozed off or lost consciousness, hunched over, tightly clutching his worn jacket.
“We’ve arrived, Grandpa,” Igor said, turning off the ignition.
He didn’t even try to explain where they were. He just took the old man by the arm and led him through the half-dark corridor.
The administrator was waiting at the entrance. He nodded silently, signaling for them to follow him. Inside, it smelled of medicine, and a silence hung in the air, mixed with faint moans from the neighboring rooms. Grandpa didn’t resist. It was as if he didn’t understand where he was.
“Now you’re in a safe place,” Igor whispered, hiding his satisfied smirk. “Rest well.”
As he left, he took a deep breath of the fresh night air. He pulled out his notebook and pen. Tomorrow — to the notary. Everything had to be finalized quickly. He felt like a winner, who could already see the finish line: everything was under control, just one last step to take.
Two days later, he returned. It was time to sign the power of attorney, pick up the documents. He climbed the stairs, entered the reception area — and froze.
“Where is he?” Igor snapped at the nurse.
“Who?”
“My grandfather! Viktor Stepanovich! Where is he?!”
The woman hesitated. Her eyes darted around. The administrator was called. He came out, pale and clearly frightened.
“We… there was an unforeseen situation. He… he’s no longer here.”
“How is he ‘no longer here’?!” Igor exploded. “Are you mocking me?! He was out of his mind! He couldn’t walk, didn’t remember his name! How could he just disappear?!”
The administrator lowered his gaze:
“We don’t understand either… We checked everything, but the cameras are gone, the security saw nothing…”
Igor lost it. He screamed, demanded explanations, threatened a lawsuit, grabbed the director by the collar. But the director remained silent. He had already made arrangements with the right people to cover up the situation. So no one would know.
But it all started differently.
The day before, nurse Nadezhda had found the old man outside — barefoot, in torn clothes, with a lost look in his eyes. She helped him up, washed him, and began asking questions. He mumbled something about the war, about a girl named Lida, about a house that no longer existed.
“Igor… why did you leave me… don’t leave me here…” she heard him say.
Nadezhda froze. Something inside her tightened. This man was someone’s father. Someone’s grandfather. And someone had hurt him. And if she stayed silent — no one would protect him.
That night, she didn’t sleep. Pictures kept coming to her mind: the old man’s scratched cheeks, his trembling hands, his empty gaze.
In the morning, as the light was just breaking, Nadezhda sat in the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket, staring out the window. The phone lay next to her. Her finger hovered over the call button more than once. And at some point, she pressed it.
“Sergey, sorry to call about work… I can’t stay silent anymore.”
“What happened?” came the concerned voice.
“There’s an old man at work. He shouldn’t have been left there. He’s like a child. He’s delirious. I’m sure they did something to him.”
“Nadya, do you understand what you’re saying?”
“I do. But if I leave him — he’ll die. Or lose himself completely. I’ve seen people like him. He’s special. There’s still light in him.”
A pause. And then:
“Alright. I’ll come. As a relative. Can you help pack his things?”
“Of course. I know where everything is. I’ll grab the medical records. Just know — this is risky.”
“Nadya, I married you because you can’t just walk by. So let’s do it.”
By lunchtime, everything was ready. Nadezhda switched shifts, made arrangements with security. Sergey entered with a fake document about the transfer to another clinic. It went almost perfectly.
The old man walked with them without a word, as if he didn’t understand where they were taking him. The car was silent, only interrupted by his heavy breathing.
“Where now…” he mumbled, pressing his face to the window. “And Lida… where is Lida?”
“Lida?” Nadezhda asked softly, glancing at him in the mirror.
“My Lida…” Viktor Stepanovich whispered, lowering his head.
At home, they placed him on the couch. Nadezhda covered him with a blanket, poured tea. Sergey sat next to her, watching tensely.
“He’s trembling… Are you sure he’s okay?”
“He’s just forgotten. They erased him like an unnecessary record. But the pages are still there. He’s alive. And that’s the most important thing.”
The night was restless. The old man didn’t move, didn’t snore — it seemed like he just vanished. In the morning, Nadezhda checked on him, touched his forehead — it was cold. She froze.
“He’s not breathing!”
Sergey jumped up, pressed his ear to his chest. There was a weak, but rhythmic heartbeat.
“Alive. Just sleeping. Maybe for the first time in a long while, he feels safe.”
They went to the kitchen, leaving the door slightly open. An hour later, a quiet voice came from the living room:
“Lidotchka… has the kettle boiled?”
Nadezhda rushed to him. Viktor Stepanovich sat on the couch, leaning on the armrest, staring out the window.
“Where am I?”
“With us. Safe,” she sat next to him, holding his hand. “They call you Viktor. Do you remember?”
He nodded, but there was anxiety in his eyes.
“Igor… he wanted… to get rid of me.”
His voice trembled. Each word was difficult. But he was remembering. Slowly, painfully, but he was getting himself back.
“He betrayed me… I won’t give him anything… He wanted me to disappear.”
“But you’re here,” Nadezhda said softly. “And you remember everything. That means not everything is lost.”
Viktor looked up. And suddenly he stopped. His gaze fell on the dresser. There, in the frames, was an old photograph.
In the picture, a woman in a scarf, with kind eyes and a smile that warmed the heart.
“Where did you get this photograph?”
“This is my grandmother. Lydia Artemyevna. She raised me.”
“Lydia… Artemyevna…” Viktor Stepanovich repeated the name slowly, as if tasting it. “It’s her… It’s my Lida…”
He didn’t take his eyes off the picture for a long time. Then he started speaking — softly, with pauses, as if returning to a distant past, when he was young, full of hopes and love.
“We were together… Young, foolish, in love. She went to her sister’s. I went to study. And then the war started… The letters came for years, and some never arrived at all. I searched for her. Couldn’t find her. When I found out she had married… I was left alone. That’s how I lived to the end.”
Tears ran down his cheeks. He didn’t hide them.
“She was special. Better than everyone. And now she’s gone.”
“But you didn’t forget her,” Nadezhda said softly.
“No. Not once in my life. Even in my thoughts — I never forgot.”
He looked at the photo again, then turned his gaze to the woman.
“And Sergey? Is he her grandson?”
“Yes. Her upbringing — everything he had. It’s because of her that he became the person he is.”
“Then I understand,” the old man said, running his hand over his face. “Then I know who to pass my inheritance to.”
Igor found out everything quickly. Someone from the staff had blabbed — the old man was living with strangers. He came in a rage. Without Grandpa’s signature — there’s nothing for him. And the old man was still alive, still thinking. And could say too much.
He burst into the apartment, nearly knocking down the door. In the hallway, Nadezhda came out to meet him.
“Where is he?!” Igor screamed. “Where is my grandfather?!”
“He’s resting. You can’t come in.”
“And who are you to decide who can come and who can’t?!” He tried to push past her.
But Sergey was already emerging from the room. Calm, confident, with a steady gaze.
“Calm down. You’re not welcome here.”
“You crooks! You took him, scared him, turned him against me!” Igor’s voice cracked.
“He just showed you who you really are,” Sergey answered evenly.
And then Viktor Stepanovich appeared in the doorway. He stepped into the hallway, leaning on his cane. His eyes — clear, thoughtful.
“I remember everything, Igor. Everything you did.”
“Grandpa, listen… they confused you… they twisted everything…” Igor’s voice trembled, but he was a bad liar.
“No. You confused me. You chose your path. And I — I’m not blind. You wanted me to disappear. So you could get everything without any trouble. But I’m here. And I remember everything.”
“Do you really think these people are better than me? Do you think they deserve it?”
“They’re family, Igor. Because they did what you didn’t do: they reached out. They gave me a home. And you… you just betrayed me.”
Igor fell silent. He was trembling. He turned abruptly and left, slamming the door behind him.
Months passed unnoticed.
Sergey and Nadezhda helped Viktor Stepanovich restore his documents, draft a will. Everything that remained of his life — the apartment, the dacha, the money — went to Sergey. As Lydia Artemyevna’s heir. As a real man.
Igor never called again. At first, he waited. Then he drank. Then he started working — for the first time, for real. In a warehouse. Unloading trucks, counting stock, cleaning the premises. Without complaints. Without claims. Just living.
One day, he stopped by the window. Watched the sunset and thought. About how everything could have been. And how it turned out.
“I ruined everything, didn’t I?” he whispered to himself.
He wanted to call? He did. But didn’t know what to say. Shame weighed heavier than before.
And in another part of the city, Viktor Stepanovich sat by the window, holding the photograph of Lydia Artemyevna in his hands. In his eyes — peace. And a little sadness.
“Forgive me, Lida… I couldn’t raise him. But you left me one good person. Through you, he came back to me.”
He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. But he was leaving not with emptiness, but with the feeling that, somehow, he had fixed something. That goodness had not vanished without a trace.
And in his last dream, with his lips trembling, he whispered:
“Igor… I forgive you.”
And so, with warmth in his heart, he left this life. Not rich in money, but rich in meaning.