A man was sitting on the steps of the service entrance to a large supermarket, slowly taking drags from a cigarette. He had recently helped unload a truck — the pay was decent, and there was also a rare chance to rest a bit.
He was nowhere near seventy, but also not thirty — his age could be estimated roughly around fifty to fifty-five. He had long forgotten his own name, as well as his date of birth. Among the homeless here, they called him “The Professor” — for his love of books and his ability to speak eloquently. He truly adored reading, picking up discarded newspapers, magazines, and sometimes even whole books.
From his entire past, he only remembered the last seven years. That was when he woke up on the platform of an unfamiliar city, completely lost — he didn’t know who he was, where he came from, or how he got there.
His head was buzzing; on the back of his head he found a dense scar. “Hematoma,” he thought immediately for some reason. A strange word… Where did it come from? Why did he know such terms but not remember his own name?
His clothes were quite decent — neat trousers, a warm sweater. There was some money in his pockets. But no documents — no driver’s license, no passport. The noise in his head gradually subsided, his thoughts became clearer, but his memories never returned. He wandered the city aimlessly, recognizing nothing around him.
Suddenly, his gaze caught a sign over a tall fence — the Police Department. “I need to go there!” flashed through his mind. The police would help sort things out.
He headed to the station. The duty officer pointed him to the right office. A young policeman listened carefully to the story of the man who had lost his memory.
“We’ll take a photo now and send out an alert,” the officer decided. “And you come by regularly — we’ll notify you if any information appears. If someone is looking for you, we’ll find you.”
“Thank you,” the man said gratefully. “Where can I stay overnight? What should I do next?”
The policeman wrote an address on a piece of paper:
“There’s a shelter for the homeless. You can live there until we figure things out.”
With the note in hand and faint hope in his heart, he left the station. Finding that place in an unfamiliar city, especially with a pounding headache, was no easy task. The headache worsened again. He sat down right on the ground in a small park near the station, trying to gather his thoughts. In a minute, he would ask for directions.
Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice a vagabond approach him — scruffy beard, worn clothes, piercing blue eyes.
“Spare some change? Two days without food.”
“What?.. Yes, of course,” the man handed him two hundred-ruble bills. The thought that he might need the money himself didn’t even cross his mind.
The homeless man brightened:
“Wow! Thank you so much!”
And, without ceremony, sat down next to him.
“Why are you sitting on the ground? Dirt, dust… And you look like you just came to your senses after a hard shake-up?”
Unable to hold back, the man told everything: how he woke up in an unfamiliar city, lost his memory, searching for his life.
“That’s how it is,” he finished.
“Well, well,” the homeless man shook his head. “But don’t you set foot in that shelter. I know it. It’s not help, it’s hell. People run from there and disappear. No one looks for them — who needs bums?”
“So, the street is the only option?”
“Then come with us!” the beggar offered. “We have our own circle. Stick to the rules — no one will hurt you.”
Thus, the man became part of the homeless community living in an old unfinished building on the city outskirts. That’s where they nicknamed him The Professor.
There was a system here: everyone lived by rules, violators were expelled. Surviving alone was nearly impossible — so most tried not to break the order.
They mostly lived in a large hall under the roof. Each had a mattress, pillow, blanket. Some begged, some worked as loaders, some sorted garbage at the dump. The earnings were pooled into a communal fund managed by the Elder — an experienced man who had once lost his home due to his ex-wife.
They shared stories, talked about the past. The Professor wanted to join conversations too, but his memory was silent. Only one question spun in his head: Who was he?
He continued visiting the police. At first every day, then less often. After a couple of years — only a few times a year. They already knew him, sometimes gave him tea, money. The polite, educated homeless man earned their trust. They were looking for him. But there were no leads.
Over seven years, The Professor saw a lot: conflicts with other homeless people, sickness, hunger, cold. Winter was especially terrible — they had to huddle in basements full of rats and spiders. Sometimes they were chased out, but at least they didn’t freeze.
He said goodbye to comrades many times. But the community was replenished with new people — each with their own story, each a personal tragedy.
The street hardened The Professor. He learned to distinguish good from evil, could read a person from a single glance. Over time, he almost accepted that he would never know who he really was.
“If someone was looking for me, they would have found me in seven years,” he thought, feeling the last hope fading.
Sometimes another thought tormented him: what if he had done something terrible? But the Elder, who became close to him, always dismissed it:
“You’re the kindest and most honest person I know!”
And it was true — The Professor never harmed anyone, helped when he could, and in return gained respect and support. He was one of them.
The Professor was in a great mood. He had money from unloading the truck, so he could relax a bit before the hardest time of year — winter. For the homeless, it wasn’t just cold: it was a test of survival. Supplies had to be stocked in advance.
They still stayed in the old unfinished building on the outskirts. It was late November — the cold was already making itself felt, but the fire in the makeshift hearth still saved them from night frost. However, everyone knew they would soon have to move to the basements. Conditions there were worse, but at least warm. There was no alternative — otherwise, one could freeze to death.
At the morning task assignment, The Professor was sent to the dump. Unlike others, he often managed to find something truly valuable. He had a knack — seeing potential where others only saw trash. Once he even found an old cracked vase, but clearly precious. It turned out to be an antique from roughly the eighteenth century. Where did he get such knowledge? He didn’t understand himself. But his intuition was right: an antique shop gave a high appraisal, and he earned a good sum. The Elder was pleased, though noted the price could have been higher.
The whole day The Professor spent at the dump, and he was truly lucky. His backpack grew pleasantly heavier: radio parts accepted by one of the shops, a couple of useful metal pieces, and… a real gift of fate — a worn but intact volume of Dostoevsky.
The day was drawing to an end. November gets dark early, and the air grew sharper. He wanted to return “home” — to the fire, hot soup, the warmth of friends. But The Professor couldn’t stop — luck seemed to walk beside him, throwing one valuable item after another.
When it was completely dark and a piercing wind began to blow, the man decided to finish. He had no flashlight, and his eyes could barely make out shapes in the dark. And then…
He heard crying. Quiet, plaintive, childish.
“Help! Please!” came from somewhere nearby. “Someone, kind people! Take me home! I won’t be bad anymore! I promise!”
The Professor tensed. It was a child. Small, crying, lost. He could not delay.
Through the darkness and cold, he moved toward the voice. No, he could not remain indifferent. Though he understood his appearance might scare the kid. But there was no choice — someone had to help.
After a few minutes, he found the boy. About five years old, in bright, fashionable clothes. A hat, a scarf with cartoon characters, a warm jacket. It was clear the child came from a well-off family. Only now these things didn’t protect him from the cold. His lips were blue, his body trembled. Without help, he wouldn’t survive until morning.
“How did you end up here?” The Professor gently asked, approaching.
“I got lost… At the market… I ran away from my mom,” the child sobbed.
“Why did you run away?”
“She scolded me… Didn’t buy me a dump truck. I called her names. She got angry, I got upset… And I left.”
“You’re quite the rascal,” the man shook his head.
The boy explained that he thought he’d find his way home. But he got lost, wandered the city for a long time, and ended up at the dump. He stopped hiding and only wanted one thing — to be found.
The Professor took off his jacket and wrapped the boy in it. He picked him up and carried him to his temporary home.
On the way, the boy introduced himself — Petya. The name somehow struck something distant, almost forgotten in his memory.
In the shelter, they were met by the Elder — at first angrily:
“Why did you bring a kid here?!”
“What else could I do? He was shivering from the cold, crying. Couldn’t just leave him on the street!” The Professor replied.
The Elder frowned:
“It’s dangerous. The whole police is looking for him. If they find him here, they’ll blame us for everything. No one will bother to investigate. Take him away. Now.”
The Professor sighed. Petya was already dozing by the fire, warmed after the long cold. He didn’t want to wake him. But there was no choice.
“Take me to my mom,” the boy asked upon waking.
“Okay. What’s the name of the street where you live?”
Petya named the address without hesitation. A few minutes later, they were already walking familiar streets. The Professor held the boy close, trying to shield him from the wind.
They quickly reached the right house. The entrance door was broken — they easily got inside. On the seventh floor, Petya joyfully knocked on the door. It opened literally in a second.
A woman with red eyes stood in the doorway. Seeing her son, she sobbed, grabbing him into her arms:
“Petya! God, where have you been?!”
The Professor wanted to leave, but the woman hugged him tightly, gratefully and sincerely. The boy beamed a smile, happy to be home again.
His mother invited the man into the apartment, offered tea, asked about everything. Then she ran to call her husband and the police — to report that her son was found. You could see from her face how much fear and pain she had endured during that time.
And The Professor sat looking around the cozy apartment. Clean walls, soft furniture, the smell of coffee… And books. A whole bookshelf. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.
At that moment, something unexpected sparked in his mind — as if a forgotten feeling awakened. Something familiar, deeply hidden inside. He didn’t understand what it was. But for the first time in many years, it seemed to him that he was standing on the threshold of something important.
A name. The word he once bore.
But in the next second, the thought vanished. Only the warm cup in his hands, the happy smile of the child, and the feeling that he had done something real today remained. Something good.
And suddenly… The Professor’s gaze fell on a thick volume in a blue cover lying on the coffee table. It unexpectedly caught his attention. The man took the book and read the complicated title: “Mathematical Methods in Cardiology.” Below was the author’s name — “Zolotaryov P.F., Professor of Physical and Mathematical Sciences.”
“Petr Fedorovich Zolotaryov!” he blurted, his voice betraying a tremor. “That’s my name!”
This moment became the beginning of something greater. As if after years of oblivion, his memory finally stirred. He really was a professor! He had devoted his whole life to the medical academy, written dozens of scientific papers and books. How could he have forgotten all this?
Petr Fedorovich opened the book. On the first page — his autograph and photo. Yes, it was him. Memories started returning swiftly: the face of his wife, faces of his children, the university department, lectures, conferences… He was the father of two grown children — a son and a daughter. His family remained in Moscow, while he ended up in a city almost five thousand kilometers from the capital. No wonder he hadn’t been found for so long.
The woman whose son he returned home entered the room and immediately felt that something was happening with the man. The one who just a minute ago seemed like a vagabond now looked at the world completely differently — his eyes were shining, his speech confident.
The Professor, stumbling over excitement, told her his story. The young woman sat down, eyes fixed on him. Suddenly she froze:
“You seemed familiar to me from the start… I studied using your textbooks! I work at the mathematics department at the medical university… It’s definitely you! How didn’t I realize it before? Probably because of all this stress… Because of Petya…”
She grabbed her phone again and dialed the police. Now the story sounded completely different.
Within minutes of a swift search, the police confirmed: “Yes, Zolotaryov P.F. has been listed as missing for seven years.”
The man himself couldn’t recall phone numbers or family addresses, but the officers quickly found the necessary contacts. The woman handed him her phone. And then — the long-awaited moment: his wife’s voice came through the receiver. She was crying, unable to believe her husband was alive. All these years, the family waited for news, preparing to hear that he was no more. And now… such incredible happiness!
Several years passed. Petr Fedorovich returned to his previous life. The department welcomed him back, and he quickly made up for lost time — knowledge, skills, connections — nothing had vanished without a trace. He had family, beloved work, a home, comfort. It seemed everything had fallen into place.
The story of his disappearance and return caused a wide public outcry. It turned out that seven years ago, while heading to another conference, he became a victim of robbers. They wanted to take his briefcase with phone, cards, and money, but Petr refused — important documents were inside. During the struggle, one of the attackers hit him on the head with a bottle. After that, they left him in a train compartment and fled at the next station.
Later they were found by tracing the belongings. They claimed they didn’t want to harm him, just went too far. But the consequences were terrible — lost years, the streets, homelessness.
When the conductor found Petr Fedorovich in a semi-conscious state, she decided he was just drunk. He had no tickets, so without hesitation, he was put off at the first stop. That’s how he ended up at the station — alone, lost, without memories or a future.
But even this tragedy brought something good. Society started talking about the problem of homelessness. Petr Fedorovich did not remain indifferent — part of his funds he directed to creating a help center for people in difficult life situations.
He built the center in the very city where he had lived seven years among the homeless. The first people he invited were those who had been with him all those years — comrades in misfortune. Most of them managed to start a new life.
Thus, the man who once lost everything returned to himself… and helped others do the same.