The March wind, sharp and cruel, cut across Sasha’s face as he walked through the streets, clutching the last piece of bread he had gotten that morning. Just a couple of hours ago, he was still considered a resident of the old dormitory — the very one with the sagging mattress and creaky iron bed. But now everything had changed.
The new commandant — a stern man with a red face and a thunderous voice — had kicked out everyone whose names were not on the lists. Sasha, an orphan without documents or a past, simply had no chance to stay. He had become a nobody even within the walls where he had lived for many months.
Aimless and without direction, he wandered through the city streets, getting lost in their labyrinth until his feet led him to the outskirts. There, where no human foot had stepped for a long time, where the wastelands had overgrown with thorny bushes, he noticed a half-ruined house. Its crooked shutters groaned in the wind as if crying out for help. Everything around breathed abandonment — thick vines wrapped around the walls, as if someone had deliberately wrapped the building in a green web.
Inside smelled of dampness, mold, and long-standing loneliness. The floors creaked, plaster peeled from the walls. In a corner lay a worn-out mattress with suspicious stains. Without hesitation, Sasha dropped his backpack and collapsed onto it, covering himself with a torn blanket he found by the entrance. Closing his eyes, he hoped to forget, even for a little while, the hunger and cold — but sleep would not come.
Somewhere deep into the night, a sudden sound ripped him from his half-sleep. At first, he thought it was the wind playing with the cracks. But soon he heard another noise — the rhythmic creaking of floorboards, as if someone was slowly and cautiously stepping through the room. Sasha sat up, tense, listening carefully. The rustling came closer, as if something was moving within the darkness itself. He struck a match — the faint flame illuminated a distant corner, where before there had only been darkness. There stood an old door with peeling paint and cracks, as if locked tight, yet inviting like an unsolved mystery. The match went out, leaving thick darkness and a chill of fear on his skin.
Morning came slowly. Gray light pierced through the cracks in the shutters. Sasha woke up hungry but awake. He decided to explore the house — maybe among the broken furniture and shattered bottles, he could find something useful?
Rummaging through the clutter, he came across a bunch of old keys. They were covered in rust, but each was adorned with a delicate engraving — intricate lines resembling ancient symbols. The metal seemed almost alive. Sasha twirled the keys in his hands, his gaze repeatedly returning to that very door. It seemed to be waiting just for him.
He approached and ran his hand over the wooden surface. The first key didn’t fit. Neither did the second. Only the third slid easily into the keyhole, and in the silence, a click sounded. The door creaked open plaintively.
Behind it was a small room oppressed by darkness. In a corner, among old clothes, lay a girl. Her face was pale, covered with sweat. Her breathing was heavy and strained. Nearby lay a worn-out doll with embroidered eyes that somehow seemed alive.
Sasha froze. The scene struck him to his core. The girl was barely eight years old. She looked so fragile, as if she could crumble at a single touch. He stepped forward to check if she was breathing, but a figure darted from the shadows.
He barely managed to step back. A woman stood before him, holding a stick. Her eyes burned with fear, her clothes were worn and dirty. She raised the stick but stopped when she saw Sasha posed no threat.
“Who are you?” she asked in a trembling yet determined voice.
“I was just looking for a place to spend the night,” Sasha replied, raising his hands. “I don’t want to harm you.”
The woman lowered the stick but did not put it away entirely. Her face showed extreme exhaustion — dark circles, hollow cheeks.
“My name is Marina. This is my daughter Lina. She’s sick. If you came to rob — there’s nothing here.”
“I’m not a thief,” Sasha said quietly, looking at the girl. “I can help.”
Marina looked at him for a long time. Finally, she nodded.
“Just don’t tell anyone we’re here. No one.”
Sasha didn’t know who she feared, but he promised. He sat down beside Lina, pressed his palm to her forehead — her skin was burning. Somewhere in his memory, his grandfather’s words surfaced: “St. John’s wort for fever, chamomile for inflammation.”
“Is there fire here?” he asked.
Marina pointed to a hearth in the corner. Sasha went outside, found chamomile and St. John’s wort, returned, made a fire, brewed the herbs. In the house, he found an old pot with dried honey — he added a little to the brew. When the medicine was ready, he carefully gave it to Lina.
An hour passed. The girl’s breathing became steadier. Opening her eyes, she whispered:
“Mom…”
Marina rushed to her, hugging her so tightly as if afraid to lose her. Tears ran down her cheeks. Sasha looked away, feeling his heart tighten inside. He realized one thing — he could no longer just leave.
Night fell heavily and quietly over the house. Sasha sat by the fire, tossing in kindling. Nearby, Marina held her daughter. Her face softened a little.
“We ran away,” she finally said. “From Petr… my husband.”
Sasha listened attentively.
“He was big, strong… At first, he seemed kind. Then… Lina was born weak, often sick. He blamed me. He drank, shouted. One day, he hit me… I grabbed the child and left. I won’t go back.”
Sasha clenched his fists. He remembered his grandfather — the only person who truly loved him.
“I’ll help,” he said. “I’ll find work, bring food, medicine. You’re not alone anymore.”
Marina looked at him with distrust, but a spark — a spark of hope — flickered in her eyes.
The next morning, Sasha went to the market. He knew they always needed helping hands there. After much persuasion, one merchant agreed to hire him. By evening, he returned with bread, cheese, and a bottle of cough syrup he traded for at the pharmacy.
Lina smiled for the first time — timidly, but wholeheartedly — seeing the food. That childish joy seemed to light up the very house, despite the dampness and cold.
Days turned into others — every day Sasha worked to exhaustion, returning home with something necessary, a drop of warmth. In the evenings, he carved simple wooden toys for Lina. One day, he carved a horse with a long mane. The girl hugged it and whispered:
“I’ll name her Star.”
From that day on, Star hardly ever left Lina’s hands. Marina began trusting Sasha more and more. Between them grew something more than simple gratitude — it was a feeling of shared fate, an invisible bond that connected the three of them into one family.
The morning at the market was noisy and tense. Sasha stood by a wooden stall piled high with potatoes, helping an elderly seller whose strength was no longer enough to manage heavy sacks. His hands, roughened by constant work, ached, but he didn’t complain. He knew who he worked for — for Lina, for her recovery, for Marina’s peace. Every small coin mattered.
The sun barely pierced through the dense gray clouds. The air was saturated with moisture, smelling of wet earth and campfire smoke. The hum of voices, the shouts of vendors, the creak of carts — all of this had become familiar to Sasha. He seemed to have merged with this rhythm of life.
But suddenly, from the general chorus of conversations, he caught a phrase that made him freeze.
“Did you hear?” said a woman with hands red from the cold, sorting tubers and setting rotten ones aside. “Petr, the one who lived by the river, died.”
Her voice was hoarse but held a strange satisfaction, as if telling of something long foretold.
“I heard,” picked up another — a stooped woman in a worn coat and a scarf slipping onto her forehead. “Drunk as always. They say he fell off the bridge at night. The water was icy, and he was shouting something until he went under the ice. Maybe someone pushed him… who knows now. The man wasn’t simple — drank vodka with devils. But here he didn’t make it.”
Sasha stood rooted to the spot. The sack of potatoes fell from his hands; some tubers rolled in the mud. He didn’t even notice the old seller starting to complain about the spilled goods. His heart beat so hard it seemed it might burst out of his chest.
Petr. The very name Marina had uttered with a tremble in her voice, clenching her fists as if afraid the walls would hear it. The same Petr, at the mere memory of whom Lina shuddered at night, and Marina checked the door locks again and again. And now he… was dead?
Sasha swallowed hard, feeling blood rush to his head. Without a word, he dashed away from the market. The wind hit his face, his backpack slapped his back, and fragments of the conversation swirled in his mind: “fell from the bridge,” “or was pushed”… What did it mean? To rejoice? To fear? Petr had always been a shadow — frightening and oppressive. Now that shadow was gone. But what would change?
He ran into the house, gasping. Inside, Marina sat by the fire, tossing kindling. Lina dozed, wrapped in an old blanket, clutching the toy horse.
Marina looked up. Her eyes immediately noticed something had happened.
“What happened?” she asked softly, but there was already anxiety in her voice.
Sasha sat down beside her, trying to catch his breath. His throat was dry; words came with difficulty.
“I… Marina… just heard at the market. They say he’s dead. Petr. Fell off the bridge. He was drunk.”
Silence hung in the room, heavy and dense. Even the flames in the hearth seemed to quiet. Marina stared at him with wide eyes; her face froze. He expected tears, cries, questions — but she just lowered her head and stared at the floor. Her fingers began to tremble, and she clenched them into fists, as if holding back emotions.
“Are you sure?” she finally whispered, barely audible.
“Yes… almost. That’s what two women said. No one denied it.”
Marina was silent for a long time. So long that Sasha began to worry. He looked at her tired face, her pale cheeks, her shoulders slumped under years of burden. He wanted to hug her, say something reassuring, but the words wouldn’t come.
Finally, she raised her head. Tears stood in her eyes, but not from grief or fear — from relief.
“Now I can return,” she said firmly. “We can go home.”
They packed quickly — a few things, an old scarf, some rags, and Lina’s favorite doll. When they were about to leave, the girl woke up, rubbing her eyes.
“Are we leaving?” she asked, clutching Star to her chest.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Marina replied, gently stroking her daughter. “We’re going home.”
The journey took half a day. Sasha carried their humble belongings, Marina held Lina’s hand. Approaching the half-collapsed fence, Sasha noticed faces flickering in the windows. News of Petr’s death had spread through the neighborhood faster than the wind.
But no one condemned or averted their gaze. On the contrary — a neighbor brought a basket of pies, a man from the street brought tools and started fixing window frames. No one asked where they had disappeared to or why. They just helped. Kindly. Neighborly.
Marina stood on the doorstep of her home, looking at the peeling walls, as if for the first time in many years allowing herself a free breath.
When Sasha was about to leave, thinking his task was done, Marina turned.
“Where are you going?” she asked. There was a new note in her voice — warmth, softness, almost a plea.
“I thought… you could manage on your own,” he muttered, lowering his eyes.
She approached, placed her hand on his shoulder. Cold, but steady fingers touched his skin.
“Stay,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “You saved Lina. You gave us a chance. Now you’re part of our family. You’re ours.”
Sasha didn’t know what to say. He only raised his eyes — and saw in hers a light he had never noticed before.
At that moment, Lina ran up to him barefoot, cheerfully slapping the floor with bare feet. She handed him the doll — the very one with embroidered eyes.
“This is for you,” she said simply. “You’re good.”
Sasha gently took the toy. The coarse fabric, the simple stitches — but at that moment it was worth more to him than anything in the world. He looked away to hide his tears — hot, genuine, washing away the pain of loneliness that had sat inside him for years.
He nodded, unable to utter a word. He simply stepped over the threshold — into a new home where he was awaited, where he found a family he had never dreamed of.
A few days after returning, Sasha got a job at a sawmill. It was real men’s work — hard, smelling of freshly cut pines and roaring machines. It wasn’t just a paycheck — it was labor that bent your back to the limit but gave a sense of certainty. Almost like a test of endurance: will you stand or not?
Every morning he got up almost at the first light, when the air was still cold and the grass wet with dew. He walked through the quiet village to the river, over which morning mist swirled. Beyond the river was the sawmill — a place where the day opened with the roar of machines and the creak of wood.
He hauled logs, stripped bark, sawed timber until his muscles burned and his hands were covered with calluses. The work was hard but honest. And most importantly — it gave confidence in tomorrow. For the first time in his life, Sasha knew: tomorrow he would eat, wouldn’t freeze under the open sky, and would bring home something needed. The earned money wasn’t rich but fair.
With his first salary, Sasha bought Lina warm knitted socks — her little feet were always cold on the cold wooden floor. And for Marina, he bought a piece of fabric she had long dreamed of to sew herself a new dress — replacing the old, worn, and torn one from their wandering days. When he brought these simple gifts, Lina joyfully clapped her hands, pressing the socks to her cheek, and Marina smiled so sincerely for the first time in all that time that Sasha felt warmth inside, as if a ray of sunshine had broken through thick clouds and warmed his soul.
It wasn’t just earnings. It was something more — proof that he had a chance to start a new life. That he was no longer just a homeless person sleeping wherever, but a person who had a place, a family.
Marina insisted he move in with them. She offered him a small attic under the roof. There was a low ceiling, a narrow window through which the starry sky opened at night, and very little space — but it was his own room. Sasha brought an old chest found in the yard, placed his few belongings inside. From scraps of wood, he made a shelf — where he put books borrowed from neighbors. He covered the cold walls with an old blanket to hold some warmth. And every night, going to sleep under the creaking beams and howling wind outside, he felt: this was his corner, his home.
In the evenings, when everything quieted down — the sawmill, the yard noise, even the birds went silent — Sasha sat with Lina by the hearth. He taught the girl to recognize herbs, telling her how he once learned from his grandfather. He showed what St. John’s wort looked like, explained how to distinguish chamomile from similar flowers. Lina listened attentively, looking at him with her gray eyes and carefully touching the leaves with her fingers.
“Here’s chamomile,” he said, handing her a flower. “If your throat hurts or a cough starts — brew it.”
“And what is this?” Lina asked, holding a plantain leaf.
“If you cut yourself or have a scrape — put it on the wound. It will heal.”
Lina sometimes got confused but tried her best. Sasha patiently corrected her, remembering how he as a child ran through the forest with his grandfather, who knew every plant — its name and properties.
Then Lina ran into the yard, searched for herbs, and returned with a handful, proudly showing her finds. Her face was dirty, her hair messy, but her eyes shone with happiness. And Sasha looked at her with a new feeling, previously unknown. It was like the love he remembered for his grandfather, but deeper, stronger. As if he had become not just a friend, but something more.
Sometimes he told her stories — the very ones he heard in childhood. They sat by the fire, the flames cast flickering shadows on the walls, and Sasha spoke softly and measuredly, afraid to break the magic.
He told about forest spirits guarding the trees and whispering in the leaves. About stars watching from the sky and caring for every person, like kind guardians.
“And do stars… really see us?” Lina whispered, clutching Star — her wooden horse.
“Of course,” Sasha replied, looking into her eyes. “They know everything. And if you’re good, they will surely give you something.”
Lina smiled, and that smile was more important than any reward.
Meanwhile, Marina sat in the corner, sewing. Sometimes she glanced up, looked at them — and in her eyes read gratitude, tenderness, and that indescribable feeling words cannot convey.
Life flowed in its course — calm, measured. Morning began with work, evening — with family warmth by the fire, night — with peace in one’s attic. Sasha became part of that family. His days filled with meaning he never even thought about before — because he didn’t know such was possible.
Marina trusted him with Lina more and more — she went on errands without worry. And he, staying with the girl, felt like a protector, an older brother she never had. He fixed the roof when it started to leak, chopped wood to keep the house warm, and even made a small bench for Lina to sit by the window and watch what was happening in the yard.
One rainy night, Sasha couldn’t sleep. He got up, went to the window, and opened it despite the cold. The sky was clear, studded with stars, like thousands of glowing eyes watching from above.
He stood there a long time, looking at this starry dome, feeling the cool wind touch his face. In his mind appeared the image of his grandfather — with his rough hands, gentle voice, eternal patience.
Sasha gripped the windowsill edge, and tears rolled down his cheeks — not from pain, not from fear. From something deep and warm.
“Thank you, grandfather,” he whispered.
His voice trembled. But not from cold. He didn’t close the window — he wanted the stars to hear his words.
And that old, abandoned house on the city’s edge, where it all began, was left behind. Cold, lonely, with rotting floors and creaky doors. But it was there Sasha found not just a secret — he opened an entire world. Found Lina, fragile and scared, and Marina — worn but strong. And he understood: moments like these make life worth living.
For the first time, he didn’t just exist. He lived. Truly. And it seemed the stars above knew it too — they shone on him quietly and steadily, lighting the path where loneliness no longer existed.