When Artyom was given a new bus, his heart froze with joy — it felt as if they handed him the key not just to a vehicle, but to a new life. One without the grinding of the old gearbox, the smell of diesel in the cabin, and the constant fear that the suspension would break again any minute. The bus was fresh, almost smelling like it just came from the factory: seats with firm upholstery, a steering wheel without wear.
But the joy didn’t last long — by the evening of the same day, he was called to Ivan Konstantinovich, the bus depot director. The man was stocky, with a face carved out of stone.
“Listen, Artyom…” he began, leaning back in a creaky old chair. “Since you got a new vehicle, let’s give you a special route. Number 77. The settlement.”
“Are you kidding?” Artyom’s voice almost cracked. “I’ll wreck this bus in a month! That’s not a road, it’s hell for the vehicle! Just dacha-goers and old folks who only want free rides and to complain that you turned the wrong way!”
“Worried about the bus?” the boss smirked. “Did you buy it yourself?”
Artyom was silent. He wanted to slam the door, but he knew they’d find a replacement for him quickly.
The next morning greeted him with a drizzle and puddles at his feet. He stood by the hood, screwing on the license plate — his hands were freezing, and the wrench kept slipping. At the entrance to the cabin, old people with bags, nets, and flasks were already crowding, their eyes filled with sadness.
He sat behind the wheel, started the engine — the bus shuddered, as if it was sick too. Artyom felt the same — trembling, frozen, as if turned inside out. Everything annoyed him: the clicking of the turn signal, the grandmother grumbling in the front row, the honks of oncoming cars. His fingers clenched the steering wheel so tightly they turned white. Thoughts raced in his head: “Why do I live? For whom? Why do I get up at five a.m. to drive those who don’t even remember to say thank you?”
Stops came and went. Somewhere, they asked to stop earlier; somewhere, they complained it was too late. One old man squeezed a dirty sack of potatoes into the aisle — almost fell. Artyom gritted his teeth. He was counting down the minutes until the shift ended.
But the hardest part was going home.
When the route finished, the rain grew heavier, turning into a long downpour. It drummed on the roof, ran down the windows as if someone was trying to erase this day from the face of the earth.
He handed over the bus, changed in the stuffy locker room smelling of damp jackets and sweat. Decided to walk — didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wanted silence. He wanted home to smell like homemade soup and warmth, like childhood. But that “childhood” was long gone — along with his father’s slippers, the fogged-up windows, and the feeling that someone was waiting for you.
The key clicked in the lock. He entered, carefully placed his boots in the corner. On the stove, a frying pan hissed — the smell of fried potatoes hit his nose, and something inside stirred.
“Mom?” he called, almost smiling.
But there was a stranger at home.
A man stood by the stove.
“Oh, Artyom!” his mother’s voice came from the room. “Meet Boris. He’s with us now.”
Artyom froze.
“Hey, bro,” Boris said, baring his teeth. “I’m the boss now.”
Artyom said nothing. He just turned and left.
Outside, it was growing dark. The asphalt glistened, the streetlights flickered in the puddles. He walked without paying attention to the road, angry at everything: his job, his mother, Boris, himself.
In his pocket, he found a key — to a small room at Vika’s, the dispatcher at the depot. They once dreamed of putting up curtains and a microwave there — their own little island. He headed there. Nowhere else to go.
He arrived at Vika’s soaking wet. His sneakers squelched, jeans stuck to his skin. The rain didn’t stop. From afar, he saw the light in the window — she was home. He took out the key but didn’t dare use it. Knocked.
She opened immediately, as if she knew he would come. In a robe, phone in hand, hair wet.
“Artyom? You’re…” she started, but he interrupted:
“Can I come in?”
She nodded, letting him inside. He took off his jacket, left his shoes by the radiator.
“Mom brought a new man,” he sighed. “Drinks and smiles like an idiot. And she says ‘he’s with us now.’ Like it’s that simple.”
Vika sat next to him, threw a blanket over his shoulders. She knew — it was better to keep silent now.
“I won’t go back there. Even if I end up outside.”
“You have me,” she said softly. “You can stay. Forever.”
He looked at her. His eyes held so much pain that Vika’s heart clenched. She moved closer.
“You’re not alone anymore, are you?” he said unexpectedly.
A pause stretched.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t pretend. I feel it all. Not just today. Different words. Different silence. Even the smell…” He took a deep breath. “Not your perfume. Used to be lily of the valley. Now it’s a man’s cologne with hints of apple.”
She wanted to say something but couldn’t. Just looked away. And he understood everything.
“From the dispatch? Or the one from the ‘Kamaz’?”
Silence.
He stood up. No shouting, no hysteria. Took his jacket, like a foreign thing tucked under his arm. Put on his shoes silently.
“Vika…” she called after him.
“Don’t mention it,” he answered. “It’s my fault. I wanted to stay where I’m not wanted. Now I know.”
The door slammed.
The downpour greeted him outside. He walked somewhere, not knowing where. Water ran down his face — like tears he wouldn’t let himself shed. His chest was empty. After pain, sometimes only emptiness remains.
At the bus stop stood an old woman in a purple cloak. Thin, with a worn umbrella and a checkered bag. He barely noticed her — long used to seeing passengers as background.
He passed by. But turned back. She was looking at him.
“You’re a driver,” she said. “So you carry more than people. Sometimes — fates.”
He snorted.
“And you, grandma, which fairy tale did you run away from?”
She didn’t answer. Just walked on — step by step, dissolving in the rainy haze like a frame from an old movie.
“Strange woman. Or maybe I’m going crazy,” Artyom thought.
He didn’t know that meeting had already changed everything.
The next morning began as usual: with lack of sleep, bitter tea in the canteen, and fatigue that seemed glued to his skin. His throat burned, his body ached. Maybe he had a fever, but there was no time to check. The “77” was already waiting — dirty, cold, full of old ladies with buckets.
He drove the bus like a robot, noticing nothing around. His head was splitting. His eyes burned. Thoughts swirled around Vika: how she smoothed his shirts, frowned, how her voice sounded — now it seemed strange.
At the next stop, she entered — that same old woman in the purple cloak. He recognized her immediately: same posture, same look, as if she knew more about him than he did himself.
“Ticket, please,” he said tiredly.
“I don’t have one,” she calmly replied. “But I need one. Very much.”
“Everyone needs one,” he snapped. “No ticket — out.”
“Pension tomorrow. I’ll pay later. Or deduct it from fate, son, if you know how.”
He smirked.
“Yeah. Fate is a terminal now?”
“Fate is you,” she said quietly. “You are my choice today. Only you don’t know it yet.”
“Screw you…” he muttered and slammed the brakes hard.
The door creaked like a groan. The rain drummed on the steps. The old woman silently climbed aboard, stepped through the wall of water, and disappeared like an autumn leaf carried away by the wind.
The cabin stayed quiet. A few passengers glanced sideways at the driver but stayed silent. Everyone long ago understood: young, irritable — what else to expect?
Artyom slammed the door and moved off. But inside, an unpleasant feeling arose — as if he didn’t just drop off a fare dodger but lost a part of himself. Something barely perceptible trembled inside.
Twenty minutes later, a tire blew out. In the middle of an empty dirt road.
He cursed, climbed out, called for a replacement. Standing in the downpour, jack in hand, his thoughts like the filthiest words. The battery was dead. The engine wouldn’t start. His phone got wet, signal lost.
Finally, Seryoga arrived, took the passengers. Artyom was left alone — waiting for a tow truck. Soaked to the bone. The downpour intensified, seeming to mock him, lashing the back of his head like a reminder of every bad deed.
He went home — wet, trembling, cold under his skin. His mother didn’t open. Behind the door, a lazy male voice could be heard. “He’s with us now.”
Artyom went downstairs, sat on the concrete doorstep. The rain didn’t stop. The wind tore his clothes, under his shirt it was colder than in a damp basement. He sat until his fingers went numb. Then stood up and walked — not knowing where.
He wandered until night: a wet park, railroad tracks, a dimly lit bus stop with a torn awning. No calls, no messages. He didn’t need anyone.
At dawn, he reached the back yard of the bus station, sat on a crate near the garages, and closed his eyes. The ground beneath him swayed, his head split, his body shook with a slight tremor. He wanted to stay there, let the world go on without him…
He was found by chance by the janitor coming on shift. Artyom lay half-dead, in the rain, with blue lips and labored breathing.
The ambulance arrived quickly. Diagnosis — pneumonia, severe hypothermia, onset of fever. For almost a day, they couldn’t identify him — no documents, phone dead.
Only on the third day did he open his eyes and see a woman holding his shoulder and speaking softly:
“Don’t move. You were brought in critical condition. Pneumonia, fever near 40. You were delirious for two days.”
He turned his head. At the foot of the bed stood a woman with hair pinned at the temples. Ordinary, unremarkable, but emanating warmth — like a campfire where you can warm up a little.
“Who are you?” he croaked.
“Alyona. I’m here to help. Not a nurse, just work at the hospital. You were brought in by ambulance at night. They say they found you near the fence. Barely alive.”
He tried to say something but coughed. She came closer, carefully brought a glass to his lips. Held it firmly, as if knowing that if she let go now, he might collapse completely.
“Everything will be fine. You’re young, strong. But you seem very tired?”
He silently nodded. Tired was too mild a word. He was burned out completely.
Alyona didn’t ask questions, didn’t pressure. Changed towels, put fresh pillows, left food he wanted to eat even when his stomach refused.
After a few days, Artyom felt better. He was already sitting, looking out the window. Alyona brought breakfast and sat nearby, a little apart.
“You’re a driver, aren’t you?”
“I was,” he bitterly smiled. “Now unlikely to get back. Broke the bus, almost left people stranded, ended up here myself.”
“Want a job?” she calmly asked. “My ex-employer, Vadim, needs a driver. Must be responsible, no drinking.”
Artyom frowned. Didn’t know if she was joking or serious.
“How do you know I’m not an alcoholic or a psycho?”
She smiled — warm, a bit sad:
“They did tests. Everything’s fine.”
He looked away. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he was starting to breathe again. Not just with his lungs — with his whole soul.
Two weeks later, he was discharged. The doctor shook his hand:
“You’re young, you’ll manage. Just take care of yourself. Pneumonia is serious.”
Artyom nodded and stepped out into the gray morning. The cold wind hit his face — a reminder: you’re alive.
Not yet knowing where to go, he heard:
“Hey! Where are you headed?”
It was Alyona. In her hands — a thermos and a bundle of pies. She smiled simply, warmly, without unnecessary words.
“Here, for your journey. And about the job — I wasn’t joking. Vadim needs a driver. Interested?”
Vadim’s house was in a quiet neighborhood — spacious, neat, without ostentation. A black foreign car in the yard, a small garden behind the house. The owner was about forty, calm, attentive. Greeted firmly, looked him straight in the eyes:
“Alyona says you’re decent. She rarely makes mistakes. Shall we try?”
Thus began a new life. The work — simple: pick up, drive, sometimes run errands. Housing — in an outbuilding, food shared, salary steady. Artyom quickly got into the rhythm. Did everything precisely, without fuss. He was respected; Vadim didn’t complain, even praised him a couple of times.
But most importantly — there was Alyona. She came just like that, brought tea, pie, sat nearby. They didn’t rush, didn’t talk much. He held her hand and felt slowly thawing inside what had long been frozen.
He no longer thought about his mother. Not about Vika. And almost forgot the old woman in the purple cloak he met in the downpour. Almost.
One day Vadim came down from the terrace and said:
“Tomorrow pick up Valentina Sergeyevna from the station. My former nanny is coming back. Alyona treats her like family. You don’t mind?”
Artyom nodded.
He arrived at the station early. People came out — some with children, some with bags. And suddenly — she. Purple cloak, checkered bag, the same posture. The same gaze, as if seeing everything you hide.
The old woman approached, silently got in the car with dignity.
“It’s you…” Artyom finally said as they moved off.
“Yes,” she calmly replied. “And you. Only different now.”
Home welcomed her kindly. Alyona hugged her, Vadim smiled. It would be nothing, but Valentina, taking off her cloak, noticed:
“Your driver’s conscientious now. Used to leave me in the rain, now meets me at the station.”
Silence hung. Thin, like stretched wire. Vadim looked at Artyom for a long time.
“Is it true?” he asked quietly.
Artyom nodded. Valentina went inside. No more explanations were needed.
The next morning, he was fired. Without words. Documents and an envelope were brought from the office. Alyona stood on the porch, pale, fists clenched. She looked as if waiting for him to say: “I’m not the one. It’s a mistake.”
“Is it true?” she asked softly.
He nodded. Didn’t raise his eyes.
She pressed her lips, shook her head.
“I thought you had changed.”
He looked at her. No excuses in his eyes. Only tiredness.
“I changed,” he said. “Only, apparently, too late.”
Alyona stepped back. Her eyes were dry, but in them trembled some invisible pain.
“I can’t live next to you and remember every day how you drove her away. My mother. In the rain.”
He said nothing. Just nodded. He understood everything.
And left.
Again.
He left without scandals, without promises to return, without trying to hold on to a glance or a word. Just packed his things into an old sports bag, called the district hospital and asked:
“Do you need ambulance drivers?”
“Come,” they replied. “Even tomorrow.”
So he started again: behind the wheel, but now not a bus, but a white car with a red cross on the side. Sometimes bringing an old lady with high blood pressure, sometimes driving a guy with a stab wound, sometimes going to a woman who cried not from pain, but loneliness. No applause, no thanks. Only anxiety on the radio, sleepless nights, and the squeak of stretchers on wet asphalt.
He didn’t complain. Didn’t drink. Didn’t swear. Doctors called him “quiet” — because he understood everything without extra words. Lifted, carried, waited at the doors, washed the car — never asking whose turn.
He lived in a room at the station — with a peeling nightstand, a stove, and a kettle. Sometimes read books from the hospital library, sometimes just sat and looked out the window. The rain no longer annoyed him. He listened to it like a confession of the world.
He didn’t look for Alyona. Didn’t write to Valentina Sergeyevna. He knew: everything he wanted to say would sound like “sorry, I want to go back.” And he didn’t want back. He wanted to move forward — but only if he deserved it.
A year passed.
Sometimes it seemed everything was forgotten.
Until one day.
He was sent on vacation — at the insistence of the head nurse, a strict woman like a chief of staff.
He returned to his hometown. Visited his mother. She sat alone — bent, aged. They barely spoke. At the table, he drank tea, and she suddenly said:
“Forgive me, son. I drove you away then. And now no one’s left. And he… also disappeared somewhere.”
He nodded. Forgave long ago. Just didn’t know how to say it out loud.
When leaving, he stopped on the threshold:
“I stayed, Mom.”
And left. Without pomp. Just left, leaving behind the smell of rain.
He walked, not noticing how he turned. Into a yard painfully familiar: pines, brick fence, a dog in a kennel. Vadim’s house. Or not anymore?
He approached closer. The gate was rusted. No car in the yard. Windows — empty.
A neighbor in a robe said Vadim had left long ago — some say to the Czech Republic, others to Israel. And now two women lived in the outbuilding. Silent, calm. Mother and daughter.
He was about to leave when he suddenly noticed two men near the door. Ordinary clothes, but their manner — alien. Standing too confidently, looking around too carefully, as if waiting for something. Artyom froze. Something inside went on alert — intuition or ambulance experience.
Then the door flew open. Alyona and Valentina Sergeyevna came out onto the porch.
And at that very moment, one of the men stepped forward. Something in Artyom snapped.
He ran.
Without thinking. Empty-headed. Only one image: Alyona on the porch, Valentina Sergeyevna behind her, men stepping forward. One reached for his pocket. The other looked around. Not the right people. Not the right intentions.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t call for help. Just hit first — sharply, running, like a school fight. The first he knocked down immediately. The second tried to get something — but didn’t make it. Screamed, spun, but Artyom was already standing over him, fists clenched.
“Artyom!” Alyona shouted. “Stop! The police are already on their way!”
He turned. Saw her — pale, disheveled, eyes full of fear and tears.
He stepped back. Hands trembled. His ears were ringing. His whole body tense, like before a jump. Looked at her like it was the last time. Then glanced at Valentina Sergeyevna. She stood straight, unafraid, calm, like that day in the rain.
“You’re… alive?” he whispered. “Are you okay?”
“Now — yes,” she replied. And for the first time in all this time, she smiled — truly. Not with contempt, not with regret — with humanity.
The police arrived quickly. Neighbors poured into the yard. The attackers were taken away. The danger was gone. But the silence remained.
Artyom stood in that very yard where he once got a second chance. And lost trust.
“Why did you come back?” Alyona asked later, quietly, nearby but not approaching.
He looked her in the eyes.
“I didn’t come back. Just passed by. Saw. And understood: if I leave now — all I’ve become will be a lie. And if I stay — not for forgiveness. But so I won’t be the one who once turned away.”
Alyona was silent. Then stepped toward him. Then another step. And suddenly hugged him.
“You’re not who you were. Not just different. You became yourself.”
Valentina Sergeyevna watched from the side like a resurrection. Nodded — barely noticeable. But in that nod was more meaning than in a whole sermon.
Several months passed.
Artyom stayed. Without conditions, without demands. Just helped. Fixed the roof, took Valentina Sergeyevna to the doctor, painted the fence. Didn’t pry into souls. Didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t repeat old words.
At first, Alyona kept her distance, cold. But over time the ice melted. They again sat on the bench by the gate — not as man and woman, but as people who survived a shared darkness. Without rush. Without expectations.
One day, when he handed her a bucket of water, she suddenly said:
“I’m not afraid anymore. Neither of rain. Nor the past. Nor you.”
He said nothing. Just took her hand…