Father Mikhail adjusted his cassock and glanced out the window. The glass was covered with a frosty pattern, through which dark silhouettes of fir trees and gray snow could barely be seen—slowly melting under the first rays of spring. In Ledogorsk, this time of year always dragged on, as if nature hesitated to cross the line from winter to life. The church was empty. The silence was broken only by the crackling of wood in the stove and the creak of the old door—this was the draft awakening.
The priest stood by the analogion, flipping through the pages of the service book. Although he knew every word of the service by heart, he still traced the lines with his fingers as if seeking support in the touch. The funeral was to begin in an hour. They would bring a woman—lonely, without relatives, without a cross on her chest. Such cases were called social: people unnoticed in life remained unnoticed after death. But his hands trembled. Not from the cold—he would have felt that. It was something else. He had experienced this only once—when a call came from the morgue at night.
He sat down on a bench by the wall, took a deep breath, and tried to listen to himself. It seemed like everything was as usual—but inside everything felt different. Somewhere deep down there was anxiety, without reason and without a name. As if nearby was not an empty church, but something invisible, watching from the shadows, waiting for him to turn around. His heart beat too often; his thoughts darted between prayers and something distant, forgotten.
When he bent down to cross himself, the world around him suddenly changed—not into darkness, no, but a bright, hospital light. The smell of antiseptic. Tiled floor underfoot. And a voice:
— Mikhail Lvovich, we need your help.
He hadn’t heard that voice in many years. But forgetting it was impossible.
Mikhail stood up, slowly approached the window. Outside, in the gap between trees, a black funeral car appeared—old, almost antique. The coffin had not yet been brought out, but he already felt her presence. The woman to be buried. And for some reason he knew: today’s service would not be just a formality. Something inside tightened, not accepting the inevitable.
The past, which he had tried to bury for so long, was returning.
And with it—himself, different, former. Not Father Mikhail, not a priest, but Doctor Lvov. A surgeon with precise hands and a heavy gaze. A man with a living heart and a son he had lost.
It all began long before he donned the cassock.
The first time he entered the operating room was as a student, during practice. He felt no fear—only confidence: this is my place. Even then, he held instruments steadily, worked skillfully with clamps. The senior doctor said, “This guy has steady hands. He’ll go into trauma.” And so it happened.
He did not just become a surgeon—he became one of the best. At the clinic, even those who valued no one respected him—for his precision, calm, for saving those whom others had long written off.
At home, Irina waited for him. She was his silence after the noise of work. She listened without interrupting, brewed tea while he washed the blood off his hands, and did not ask when he was silent.
Mikhail rarely spoke of love—there was no romance in him, everything was concrete: reliability, a sense of duty, a shoulder to lean on. But when she became pregnant, he cried for the first time—quietly, in the corridor of the duty room, among coats and medical tubes. For a long time, doctors did not believe in him and Irina. Then—a child.
The childbirth was difficult. He had no right to intervene—neither ethically nor legally. But he wanted to. He stood behind the glass and saw that everything was going wrong. The red light. Bleeding. Panic. Friends who became strangers. He did not enter the operating room. He knew—it was already too late.
Irina left. Lev remained.
At first, Mikhail was even afraid to hold his son. He held him like an instrument—precise, but cold. Over time, he got used to it. Began to live for him. From work—straight home. Blood on his hands, Lev in his soul. The boy was bright, kind, with motherly eyes. They slept in the same room, went to the sea, played chess, and read before bed. Mikhail did not teach his son to be good—he simply was there. And that was enough.
When Lev entered the academy, Mikhail said nothing—just nodded. But at home, he could not finish his tea for a long time—his hands trembled.
— I want to be a surgeon, like you. But maybe with children. So they won’t be afraid of me, — his son said one day.
Then Mikhail realized: the most important thing in life, he had done right—he had raised a human being.
Then came autumn. Damp, heavy. A phone call. A policeman’s voice. And—the end.
Lev. A car accident. Instant death. Behind the wheel—his girlfriend, Daria. Drunk.
She was brought to his own department. That night. Unconscious. Doctors bustled. Awaited decisions. Mikhail stood by the door and was silent. Then he took off his coat. And left.
— I will not operate on her. Do it yourselves.
That was the end of his career. The end of everything.
He just disappeared. Not physically—but from life, from the schedule. For a month he sat at home, among photos, empty cups, forgotten things. No one could reach him—because no one tried.
Mikhail did not realize how he was leaving the world. He did not know the boundary where you cease to be a doctor, a father, a human being. He simply walked. Where—to no matter.
He walked a long time. Around the city—pointlessly, slowly, without direction. Then beyond its limits—on foot, without a bag, without a goal. Inside it grew quieter. Memory tore in fragments: Lev on the beach, Irina with an iron, a nurse’s scream in the reception. He did not sleep. Almost did not eat.
One day he woke up in the forest. On the ground, in the mud. It was March. He did not remember how he got there. Only understood—he could go no further. The body no longer moved. The soul—had long stopped.
They found him the same day. A tall man in a cassock, with long eyebrows and a wooden staff—Father Vassian, abbot of the local monastery.
— You are not dying, — he said, looking at Mikhail. — You are just lost.
Mikhail did not answer then. Just lowered his gaze.
Father Vassian took him with him. First led him to the refectory, then to the pilgrims’ house, then—to his cell. He did not ask questions, did not ask for confession. Only gave a clean shirt and quietly said: “Stay.”
And Mikhail stayed.
At first, he just lived at the monastery: swept snow, chopped wood, carried water. Then began to attend services. Stood by the wall, silent, looked at the faces of saints, asking for nothing. Six months passed before he took communion for the first time. A year later, he enrolled in theological courses. And after three years, he accepted monastic tonsure.
Now he was Father Mikhail. But he still did not feel redeemed. Only alive.
Life in the monastery flowed measuredly: morning prayers, obediences, evening services. Sometimes he noticed that for the first time in a long time he did not think about anything—he simply existed, like a stream or a burning candle. He remembered Lev less and less, but the pain did not become weaker—it just went deeper, hiding somewhere inside.
Time passed. Silver threads appeared at his temples. Confidence in his voice, calmness in his eyes. The abbot no longer called him “the one who came from the edge.” Now he was “Father Mikhail,” priest at the Pokrov church.
And then one day, seven years later, he was called to the refectory.
— Father Mikhail, there is a funeral at three o’clock. A woman. No relatives. Died in her sleep. Young.
— Name?
— Daria. Just Daria.
He did not move. Did not utter a word. Only slightly bowed his head—as if he heard what he had long been waiting for.
Daria. The name sounded like a stone falling into quiet water. Seven years of silence shattered in an instant. He did not know if it was chance or fate. But he could no longer believe in coincidences.
When the coffin was delivered, he stood at the door. Hands clenched behind his back. The women from the morgue placed her on the table and left. The church plunged into silence. Mikhail took a step. Another.
Lifted the cover. Looked.
It was her.
Daria.
The face had changed a little, became paler, but he recognized her immediately. The very girl. The one who sat behind the wheel. The one for whom he refused to be a doctor. The one because of whom he lost his son.
Mikhail stepped back. Everything inside tightened. The air seemed to disappear. He could neither speak nor begin the prayer.
He went out. Slowly, almost running. Porch, yard, gate. He vomited around the corner of the house. He sat down on the cold stone, trying to catch his breath. His eyes were dry. Only his hands trembled.
Later Father Vassian found him. Sat down beside him. Silently.
— I can’t… Forgive me, Father, I won’t be able to conduct her funeral.
— You can, — the elder replied softly. — Not for her. But for yourself.
Father Mikhail returned to the church. Stood by the head of the coffin. Took the censer. Read the service to the end—in a steady, almost mechanical voice. But when he pronounced: “Rest, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant Daria,” he felt something inside let go.
The service ended. He lowered his hands. And for the first time in many years felt—the pain did not disappear, but no longer stood like a wall. It left.
Mikhail left alone. The day was windless, as if spent after a long storm. He sat on the porch, hands resting on his knees. Did not want to speak or think. Just be. His body refused to move, but his heart beat—slowly, but for real.
He thought this was the end. That Daria was the last meeting with the past. That now he could go further.
But God rarely lets us close doors ourselves.
A couple of days later, Mikhail was helping one of the nuns count candles in the church shop. Tired, he sat behind the counter, hiding behind a curtain. He didn’t notice when two women—local parishioners—entered. Their conversation was simple: weather, prices, news from the church.
And then…
— Poor thing, — one said. — So young. Daria. Did you know she has a child?
— A child? No! When was that?
— They say six years ago. She gave birth to a student’s child. Then… life scattered them. She drank, lived wherever she could. And gave the boy to an orphanage. Somewhere in Verkhniy Kamen.
— From a student?
— Yes. It seems he died. A young guy, good one. They wanted to take him to surgeons. His name was Lev.
Mikhail’s ears rang. His heart stopped, then beat as if wanting to burst out.
Lev. Student. Boy. Orphanage.
He carefully left, not showing his face. Inside was neither pain nor fear—only a sharp, unbearable suspicion. The kind you want to run from. But he understood: there was nowhere to run.
He had to find out the truth.
All evening and night Mikhail didn’t sleep. He sorted facts, remembered dates, compared. Everything matched. Daria gave birth soon after Lev’s death. She gave up the child. A boy. Ivan. Verkhniy Kamen.
What exactly drove him forward—intuition, pain, faith, or despair—he did not know. But at dawn, he was already packing a bag.
The abbot silently made the sign of the cross over him. Nothing else needed to be said.
Mikhail hitchhiked. Along gray roads, past shabby villages, past half-ruined churches. He visited four orphanages. In each, he gave the name—Daria, the term, the child’s age. He was refused: no data, archive lost, no such record.
Only at the end of the road, in Verkhniy Kamen—on the outskirts, in a building with peeling walls and cracked threshold—he found what he was looking for.
A young caretaker rummaged through papers for a long time, then handed him a yellowed card:
— Daria Alexandrovna Loginova… admitted in February. The boy—Ivan. Ivan Loginov.
Mikhail did not breathe. The surname—not his. But the name. The age. The coincidences were too great to be chance.
— Can I see a photo?
The woman handed over a tablet. She scrolled, stopped.
— Here. He was about five.
On the screen—a boy with dark hair, a broad forehead, and serious eyes. Mikhail looked at him a long time. Very long. Trying to remember every feature, every curve of the eyebrows.
It was him.
His grandson.
Lev’s son.
Mikhail could not say how long he stood so—holding the tablet, not blinking, not breathing. He asked no questions, requested no continuation. He just looked at the screen, afraid that if he looked away even for a second, everything would disappear: the face, the name, hope… And again only emptiness would remain.
But even without his inattention, it disappeared anyway.
— The boy is no longer with us, — said the caretaker, closing the folder. — He was adopted three years ago. A decent family, from another region. According to the documents, everything is clean—the father is an entrepreneur, the mother is a lawyer. They live in a private house; the guardianship approved it. After adoption, we never saw them again.
— And where exactly are they now?
— Sorry, — the woman hesitated a bit, — by law I can’t give out the address. But I understand you… at least a little. If you want, I can show the adoption certificate. But quickly.
Mikhail did not answer. Just nodded. Inside it became empty—as it was after Lev’s death, only deeper, quieter. Not a blow to the chest, but a slow slide into the abyss.
She brought the paper, opened the folder, pointed with her finger: surnames, date, place—“Green Grove village, Istrinsky district.”
Mikhail took out his phone, photographed the page. Barely standing, thanked, and left.
Outside it was spring. Snow was melting. He leaned against the orphanage wall as if on his last support, and for the first time in many years cried. Not from grief. From helplessness.
But one thing he knew for sure—he would not give up.
The old phone navigator showed the way through places once familiar but now alien. Mikhail did not hurry. Took buses, walked, spent nights in cheap hotels. Every step was hard, as if layer by layer, the past was being stripped off him. He was no longer a priest, a doctor, or even a man with pain—just a father who must see his grandson. Even just a glimpse. Even from afar.
Green Grove turned out to be a gated community: wide streets, high fences, surveillance cameras, houses with columns. Mikhail felt like a stranger here—in his cassock, with a worn bag on his shoulder, with a face frozen by years and fatigue.
He stopped at the gate of house number 14.
A minute later, a woman came out. Tall, strict, with a businesslike gaze and a phone in her hand. She looked him over like an unwanted guest.
— Who are you here for?
— Sorry… Are you Elmira Yurievna? I’m not here on business. I… am a relative. No, not to the child. His grandfather.
Pause. He himself understood how it sounded—strange, unexpected, even alarming.
— I don’t understand, — she said coldly. — Who are you and what do you want?
He tried to speak calmly, but his voice shook. He explained everything: about his son, about Daria, about Lev. About the road, the orphanage, the photo.
— Enough! — she interrupted. — Go away. You scare us. My son has never had a grandfather!
— I don’t want to demand anything. I just wanted to know if he is alive. To see him.
— Leave. Right now. Or I will call security.
He stayed standing. She closed the gate. The lock clicked.
Mikhail did not leave for a long time. He looked at the windows behind which the child could be. But no one appeared.
When he finally turned away, his face was calm. He knew: this is not the end. This is the beginning.
The way back was long. He did not hurry—not because there was nowhere to rush, but because inside there was no strength left to resist. No pain, no anger, no even usual longing. Only silence. And a quiet prayer—without words, without requests, without expectations.
Back in Ledogorsk, Mikhail returned to his life: church, services, cell. No one asked where he had been. He told no one.
A year passed. Like all the others. Only now he more often lit a candle during the service “for the health of the youth Ioann.” He did not know the name, but felt—this was Ivan. And that was enough.
Sometimes he went out to the porch after vespers and looked into the distance—waiting, not knowing what or whom. Something had to happen. He felt it.
And then, one early springtime, when the air smelled of damp earth and smoke, a black SUV arrived at the church. The car stopped. A man got out. Behind him—a boy about ten years old. With a serious expression and head held high.
They were coming to him.
His heart fluttered.
The man nodded shortly:
— We have come… at Ivan’s request. He insisted himself.
Mikhail looked at the boy. He stood confidently, but something familiar flickered in his eyes. And suddenly quietly, almost shyly, but with determination said:
— May I see the church?
Mikhail stepped aside, letting him in, and nodded. His hands trembled.
The boy entered.
Mikhail did not follow. He stayed by the door, giving time—just as once time was given to him. In the empty church, light fell on the floor, on the walls, on the icons. Ivan moved cautiously but not as a stranger—as if something in this place responded to him.
After a few minutes, he came out. Approached closer.
— It’s… quiet here.
— Yes, — Mikhail nodded. — Here you can hear yourself.
They said nothing more. But between them arose something inexpressible—quiet, warm, native.
Since then, Ivan began to come more often. At first with his stepfather, then alone—with a driver. He sat in the services, read books in the shop, helped monks with chores. He was reserved, respectful, but always sincere.
— I want to study at the church school, — he said once after the liturgy. — I can’t explain why. I just feel: this is mine.
Mikhail nodded. He did not approve or forbid—just accepted. Like once he accepted Lev—without pressure, without instructions, without expectations.
Month by month they grew closer. The boy began to ask questions—about faith, about prayer, about death. Mikhail answered simply, without imposing his thoughts. He shared not truth, but silence, in which one can hear it oneself.
He still did not tell Ivan who he really was. He did not dare. Did not want to destroy the fragile thing that had arisen between them. But in every glance, every intonation, every gait he saw Lev—his face, his look, his heart.
And every evening he prayed.
Quietly, before the icon, asking God for only one thing—time and strength.
Mikhail knew: secrets do not live forever. Even if silent, the soul still speaks. Especially if nearby is one who looks not with eyes, but with the heart.
Ivan was just such a one. He felt.
One day, after the service, standing by the church doors, he said calmly:
— I’ve decided. I want to become a priest.
This news shook not Mikhail, but the adoptive parents. The father, a successful businessman, was beside himself. The mother cried. They begged, persuaded, even threatened. But Ivan did not give up.
— It’s inside me. I feel it myself.
When he declared he would enter the seminary, Mikhail did not discourage him. Only asked:
— Do everything honestly. Don’t rush. Listen not to me—but to yourself.
In spring, when Ivan turned sixteen, he was blessed for the path. The service passed, the rite of ordination, the candles lit. He stood in a white shirt, with a straight back and a serious look—just like Lev once before his first operation.
Mikhail watched from the bench. At one moment the world froze. Hands became alien, the heart pounded as if trying to break out. He stood up—and collapsed.
A stroke. Sharp, cruel, sudden. He lost control of his body before Ivan’s eyes.
Doctors arrived. The monks supported as they could. Mikhail was conscious but barely breathing. They laid him on a stretcher. Almost losing contact with reality, he turned his head and whispered:
— I… am your grandfather. Forgive me…
Ivan turned pale but did not step back. Nodded once—slowly, firmly.
He did not cry. Did not scream. Just took Mikhail’s hand—firmly, as a support in the storm—and did not let go until the ambulance arrived.
Despite his age, worn heart, weakness—Mikhail survived. The monks helped, an experienced neurologist, prayers of Father Vassian… and that child’s palm he did not release.
In the hospital, he lay silently. Did not complain, did not suffer. Looked at the ceiling, counted pulse, listened to time ticking. The body refused to obey, speech became slow, like thick syrup. But he was alive—and knew: it was not in vain.
Ivan came every day. Brought books, sat nearby, not disturbing the silence. Asked no questions. Only once, when Mikhail could again hold a cup of tea, quietly said:
— I understood everything long ago, grandfather. Just waited for you to tell me yourself.
Mikhail closed his eyes. Not from pain—but from relief.
He no longer needed to justify or explain. Nothing needed to be hidden.
They were simply together—day after day. Not as priest and novice. Not as elder and disciple. But as grandfather and grandson. As two people who had lost too much to not now cherish what they found.
In spring, Mikhail returned to the church. He could no longer serve—his hand did not obey, his voice failed. But he was there. Physically and spiritually. Sat by the wall, listened to singing, prayed in a whisper, watched the light playing on the walls through the windows.
Children came to him, brought candles, helped put on his scarf. He smiled at them—for the first time in many years—not bitterly, but truly.
Ivan studied in the seminary diligently, quietly, focused. Came often. Read aloud, wrote memoirs, brought letters and prosphora. Sometimes just sat nearby in the church and was silent.
One day he suddenly said:
— I’m not afraid now. Do you know why?
Mikhail looked at him attentively.
— Because I know whose blood I have. And whose prayer stands behind me.
Mikhail did not answer. Only for the first time in many years felt—not emptiness, not pain, not cold… but warmth.
Small. Alive. Bright.
Like life.
Like God.
Like hope that cannot be destroyed.