Elizaveta Andreevna was walking down a deserted street toward the train station, clutching her bag tightly to her chest. It was early morning — the city was just waking up, but to her, everything around seemed frozen, as if submerged in aquarium water. Rare passersby, rare cars, even the pigeons on the sidewalk — all of it felt like background, unimportant and distant, as if she were looking at the world through cloudy glass. She moved mechanically, barely feeling her feet beneath her.
Two months ago, her life had split in two. Grigory — her husband, her support, her habit, and part of herself — had died in a car accident. Since then, time lost meaning: mornings flowed into evenings, forming an endless day filled only with work and inner emptiness. She woke up, made coffee, looked out the window where a foreign, incomprehensible life flowed beyond the glass, and then sat down at the computer again — to avoid thinking, remembering, feeling.
Her husband’s last words would not leave her mind:
— You leave again before I wake up… I’m tired of living for your goals, for money and brands. I want happiness.
At that time, she said nothing — just pressed her lips and buried herself in the screen. Now those words echoed inside her as a pain. It was true, she had always been rushing, busy, putting career above all else. And now she was heading to the station not because she wanted to go anywhere, but because she could no longer stay at home where every object reminded her of Grigory.
Her heart was empty — not aching, just empty. As if someone had scooped out all her feelings, leaving only a shell. She walked without noticing the road, thinking: “What if I had stayed then? If I had turned off the laptop, gone to him, hugged him, told him I love him… Maybe he would have stayed?”
But the past cannot be undone. This she knew better than anyone.
Sometimes it seemed to her that Grigory was still near — not heard by voice, but somewhere deep inside.
— You knew I would leave, — he whispered. — You let me go yourself.
She argued with him in her mind, making excuses: “I just wanted us to have everything — a house, money, confidence in tomorrow.” But the voice was stubborn, like Grigory himself when he was alive.
The worst thing happened at night. She was awakened by a phone call — sharp, insistent, as if warning of trouble.
— Your husband was in an accident… — the dispatcher’s cold voice reported, as if speaking about a stranger.
She did not scream or cry. She just sat on the bed, stared into the darkness, and waited — for what exactly, she didn’t understand. Then slowly got up, went to the kitchen, brewed tea, and returned. Everything felt like a dream. From that moment, she no longer allowed herself to feel.
Only work helped her to forget. After his death, Elizaveta threw herself into her affairs completely: arriving first, leaving last, making lists, checking reports, setting tasks — as if schedules and numbers could fill the emptiness inside. But the emptiness grew.
In the evenings, she sat in the empty apartment, scrolling through old photos where they were young and happy, and thought: “Why didn’t I notice how we became strangers? Why didn’t I stop him, talk to him, ask for forgiveness?”
There was no answer. Only the voice inside repeating:
— You let me go yourself.
She arrived at the station early — an hour before departure. She did not like being late, but today she came early on purpose: she could no longer remain alone within four walls.
The waiting hall buzzed with usual bustle. Some hurried, some were nervous, some just sat staring into space. Elizaveta chose a spot by the window and began watching the people. For example, an elderly couple — a woman in a headscarf and a man with gray mustache — who good-naturedly argued about the schedule.
— I told you — the train is at eight forty-five! — she grumbled.
— We’ll make it, dear, — he replied softly.
Elizaveta smiled faintly — there was something alive and real in scenes like that.
Suddenly her gaze fixed on a young woman holding a child. The girl looked lost, frightened. She was frantically dialing a phone number, clutching the baby tightly.
— Mom, please don’t throw me out… — her voice trembled. — I’ll fix everything, I swear…
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Elizaveta felt something stir inside — an old pain, a memory of her own youth when she too sat at a station, pregnant, alone in a strange city, dreaming someone would hug her and say: “Everything will be alright.”
She couldn’t hold back and approached the girl.
— May I sit next to you? — she asked gently.
The girl lifted tear-filled eyes and nodded.
— I… — she began, but her voice broke.
— No need to explain, — Elizaveta said quietly. — Let’s just sit together.
For about ten minutes they were silent. The baby softly snored, nestled against his mother’s shoulder. Then the girl wiped her tears and whispered:
— My name is Svetlana. This is my son, Artyom.
— Elizaveta Andreevna.
Svetlana suddenly began to speak as if a dam had burst:
— Artyom’s father… he’s married. When he found out about the pregnancy — he disappeared. I was left alone, living on my last money, but now it’s all over. My mother kicked me out, says I’ve shamed the family. No home, no job… I don’t know what to do.
Elizaveta listened and felt a long-forgotten feeling awaken inside — sympathy, a desire to help. She took keys from her bag.
— I have a dacha outside the city. I hardly go there. Take the keys and some money for the beginning.
Svetlana shook her head fearfully, pulling her hand away from the keys:
— No, I can’t accept that… It’s too much.
— Nobody helped me when I was alone, — Elizaveta interrupted firmly. — I don’t want to stay indifferent.
They both cried — no sobbing, no words, just tears like those who have held their emotions inside for years.
— Thank you, — Svetlana whispered, clutching the keys to her chest.
That night Elizaveta couldn’t sleep for a long time. Lying in the hotel room, she stared at the ceiling and remembered a distant past — her youth full of fear and loneliness.
She was twenty-one when she gave birth to a daughter. There was no one around: her parents turned away, friends disappeared. She didn’t know how to live on, where to find strength and money for the child. Afraid of responsibility, she left the baby in the maternity hospital. Later she learned the girl had died six months later — her heart couldn’t bear it.
Since then, Elizaveta closed herself off. Work became meaning and refuge. Career grew, business developed, but inside the emptiness grew deeper. She proved to the world she was strong, needed, successful. But the higher the achievements, the deeper the loneliness.
Now, having met Svetlana and Artyom, she understood: it was time to change. To stop running from herself, to stop hiding behind schedules and deals. For the first time in many years, she wanted simply to be — to feel, live in the present, care for others and let others care for her.
A couple of weeks after the station meeting, Elizaveta decided to visit the dacha. She rarely went there before — there was always something more important — but now she felt an inner impulse: to be near Svetlana and the baby.
At the store, she bought toys, groceries, sweets for Artyom. The journey took several hours, and all the while one thought spun in her mind: perhaps her life was beginning anew. Not as a businesswoman, but as a person who could be close, supportive, a pillar.
When Elizaveta arrived, she was greeted by silence filled with calm. The dacha looked well kept, flowers bloomed, the air smelled of pine and freshness. Taking a deep breath, she felt the tension that had lived inside her for years begin to slowly release.
In the yard, she saw Svetlana rocking a cradle with the sleeping child. The young mother looked exhausted, but her eyes shone with warmth and happiness.
— My little hero fell asleep, — she smiled, noticing Elizaveta. — Artyom Grigorievich is resting.
Elizaveta flinched involuntarily at the coincidence of the name and patronymic. She decided to stay for a few days — to help, support, just be near.
The house was filled with the smell of baking and light music. Svetlana was not only a loving mother but also a caring hostess. And in this cozy space, Elizaveta for the first time in a long time felt that she mattered, that she was awaited here.
They spent the whole day together: cooking, walking, talking about everything — life, hopes, losses. Elizaveta felt needed again.
In the evening they sat on the veranda, enjoying the cool evening and the sounds of the night garden. Elizaveta held Artyom in her arms, feeling his breath and warmth. Svetlana bustled around the kettle, setting out cups and snacks.
At the door appeared Alexey — the neighbor farmer who brought a jar of fresh milk.
— Good evening! — he greeted politely, slightly embarrassed.
Elizaveta noticed how Svetlana brightened at his appearance. Between them hung some warm, almost imperceptible connection.
At dinner, Alexey told stories about village life — about hardships, joys, and how important it is to cherish every moment. Svetlana laughed, Artyom reached out his little hands to him. Elizaveta watched them and thought: here it is — true happiness. Simple, homely, free of pretense.
And at that moment, she felt a new hope awaken inside. As if she had been given a second chance to start over.
In the morning, the sound of a lawnmower woke her — Alexey was already working in the yard, carefully trimming the grass. She smiled, looking at this simple, sincere scene.
At breakfast, it became clear how care and warmth unite people. Alexey helped Svetlana with the baby, and she, in turn, shone with gratitude. Elizaveta suggested inviting the guest to the table, and they all gathered together — like a family.
Outside, the sun shone; inside, there was the smell of fresh bread and laughter. Elizaveta felt for the first time in many years part of something bigger — something alive, warm, real.
She helped Svetlana with the child, poured tea, listened to Alexey’s stories. Life seemed completely different — not like she had known before. Simple, but infinitely precious.
In the evening, Svetlana shared her news with Elizaveta:
— Alexey proposed to me… I thought love was passion, but it turned out happiness is in care and calm.
She showed a photo of the man — Artyom’s father. Elizaveta’s heart stopped: it was Grigory. Her deceased husband.
She gently returned the photo, trying to keep calm:
— I don’t know this man, — she said softly, though inside she clenched.
But she understood — she had no right to destroy Svetlana and Artyom’s new life. Let the past remain in the shadows. Now the main thing was to support them, be near, give warmth.
— You are like a second mother to me, — Svetlana said. — Come to our wedding.
In the evening, sitting by the fireplace, Elizaveta thought about how much her life had changed. She realized she had found her place — where she was valued, awaited, needed.
— Maybe this is true happiness? — she whispered.
Before leaving, Elizaveta promised to visit them every week — not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
Her soul felt light. She had finally found what she had long sought — her “place in the sun.” She had plans now, not connected to work, but to people she loved with all her heart.
Leaving, she knew: now she had somewhere to return to, people who would miss her and wait.
On the last evening at the dacha, they watched the stars together, sharing dreams and hopes. Elizaveta felt her life rewriting itself — and this new chapter was beautiful.