An elderly woman, stooped and exhausted, was slowly trudging along a deserted street on this quiet evening. The wind played with her light brown strands of hair, in which early, sneaky gray had crept in, as if time had decided to mock her and quicken its pace. Her hair escaped from under an old beret, once probably elegant, but now long out of fashion—just like her drab coat, worn, patched in places with thread of a different color, but apparently the only thing that had remained faithful to her. In her hands, she repeatedly shifted a heavy bag—the leather was worn, the handles rubbed to holes, much like her life, lived with hardship.
Each step was taken with effort. Signs of fatigue were etched on her face—wrinkles like cracks on glass, leading deep inside, to a weary soul. But the woman walked on, without raising her eyes, ignoring the sneers and whispers. By the entrance of one of the five-story buildings, teenagers gathered—they glanced at each other, giggled, pointed fingers, discussing her appearance as if she were some rare artifact from a museum.
This was her daily evening route—a short walk across the street to shorten the way home. But her home was special—lonely, old, wooden, standing at the end of the street as if forgotten by time. Once there had been an entire private neighborhood on the outskirts, but it had been demolished and replaced with high-rises. The neighbors got new apartments, but her little house remained—alone, with a crooked fence, a garden long neglected, with windows behind which no light shone. No one knew what was inside. And this gave rise to rumors.
Gossip followed her down the street like poisonous fog.
“Beggar! How can you let yourself go like that?” women snorted as they watched her go by. “At least she could change that coat! Wears rags, yet they say she works…”
“Probably drinks it all away,” another chimed in, “those types always skimp on food and clothes.”
“She cleans the entrances in the housing services!” a third joined in. “Morning and evening—she manages several buildings.”
“So what? Not paid enough? She could at least dress properly! Disgusting to look at—some ragamuffin!”
“Maybe the coat has sentimental value?” someone guessed cautiously.
“Yeah, memories usually hang in the closet, not dragged around on the streets,” the first snapped back sarcastically.
Children playing in the yard looked at her with awe and fear. They were convinced that behind the tall fence surrounding her house was not just a garden but a whole magical world. And the woman was none other than Baba Yaga, only in a drab coat. They spent hours trying to spot even a crack in the fence, but it was futile—the boards were tightly nailed, and not even a cat could be seen behind it.
Teenagers looked at her with irony, as if she were some living relic from the past. Each made up their own theories: some thought she was a runaway aristocrat, some believed she was a former spy, and others just a loser who lost at life. But no one considered that behind this stooped silhouette was an everyday struggle where every day was a feat.
One day, the older kids, seeing the younger ones sneaking around her fence, asked:
“What are you kids doing running around that beggar? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“We…” answered the nimblest boy shyly, “we’re curious who she is…”
“We think she’s Baba Yaga,” whispered a girl, eyes sparkling, “and behind her fence is a magic house, a talking cat, and… and…”
“Yeah, what a bunch of fantasists!” laughed a boy. “Want to know the truth? Set up a stakeout! Play Sherlock Holmes!”
The idea was met with enthusiasm. The very next day, the little detectives laid an ambush. They waited for the woman to leave the house, trying to peek into the yard as soon as the gate opened. But they saw nothing. Then they followed her. Like shadows, they trailed her to the neighboring block.
She went down into the basement, came out with a bucket of water and a mop. Entered the building entrance. About thirty minutes later, she dumped out dirty water, threw out the trash, went back down for clean water, and went to another building. The boys sat around the corner, waiting patiently, but everything turned out dull and ordinary.
When they returned, the older kids teased:
“So, Sherlocks? Learned anything interesting?”
“She cleans floors in the entrances,” muttered one. “That’s all.”
“Well, that’s something. Baba Yaga wouldn’t be mopping floors,” smirked the oldest.
The next day, the boys decided to continue the investigation. They followed her again at lunchtime—she left the house, and they set off in pursuit. Hiding behind trees and corners, they barely kept up. They even had to ride the trolleybus without paying, trying not to give themselves away. Sometimes it seemed the woman noticed them but pretended nothing was happening.
At one point, she entered the clinical hospital. This unsettled the boys—they were scared. But they gathered their courage and ran after her. However, when they ran into the lobby, the elevator door was already closing. They only learned that she went up to the fifth floor. They followed, but were not allowed beyond a narrow corridor.
“Probably cleans floors here too,” one said disappointedly.
“Yeah,” whispered another, “look!”
The woman came out of a ward wearing a sanitary gown, holding a bedpan. Everything was clear—she was clearing the dishes.
“Worse than entrances,” sighed a third. “Here she doesn’t mop floors but… pots.”
Disappointed and tired, they dragged themselves home.
“Nothing interesting,” they grumbled, “and we thought…”
One day, when the boys were idly wandering the yard, they were drawn again to the tall, old fence behind which the mysterious woman lived. Suddenly—oh miracle!—a man came out of the gate. Slim, fit, in a neat coat, carrying a leather bag with confident gait, he didn’t look like an ordinary local. Rather, he seemed a man from a completely different world—one where everything was clean, orderly, and prosperous.
The boys exchanged looks and without a word rushed after him. The man calmly sat on a bench at the bus stop, and the boys, trying not to reveal themselves, sat nearby, watching him with curiosity. Noticing their interest, he smiled faintly but said nothing. Soon the trolleybus arrived, and the man quickly left, leaving behind a mysterious cloud of unanswered questions.
The children ran back to the yard and eagerly began telling everyone what they had seen. Their eyes shone, their voices trembled with excitement: “She’s not alone! A man came to see her! Not a bum, but a real person!”
Several days passed, and the stranger appeared again. He confidently walked toward the old house, and the kids whispered among themselves once more. When he approached the entrance, a little girl, unable to hold back, loudly asked:
“Sir, are you going to Baba Yaga? Aren’t you scared?”
The man froze, smiled, and crouched down next to the girl, softly asking:
“Who are you talking about? That lady in the old coat?”
“Yes!” the girl pointed to the house. “Baba Yaga lives there, right?”
The man laughed, but his laughter held no mockery—it was warm, almost familiar. The other children gathered around, hearts pounding, awaiting his answer.
Noticing their sincere curiosity, the man sat on the bench and, looking kindly at everyone, began to speak as if telling a story:
“Yes, I am going to that old house. But there are no fairy tale characters living there… There live very good people.”
“People?” snorted the oldest boy. “Only one beggar lives there!”
The man smiled, but sadness flickered in his eyes. He paused a little before answering:
“You just called her a beggar… But do you know how rich she is?”
His words hung in the air. Two women approached the crowd, and curious neighbors peeked from apartment windows. Everyone stood still, listening.
“Does she keep treasure?” asked one of the boldest boys.
“Yes,” the man nodded, “she has a real treasure in her soul. Not gold or jewels… but love. Selfless, deep, devoted.”
He paused again, then, realizing they wouldn’t let him go without a story, continued:
“My name is Kirill. I have known this woman, Maryushka, since childhood. She, her husband Pavel, and I grew up on the same street. Right here,” he pointed to an old tree, “we used to gather after school. And there,” he nodded toward a high-rise, “stood the house of our friend Pashka. We were inseparable—the three of us: Maryushka, Pashka, and me. We both loved her, but she chose him. I accepted her choice, and our friendship has never ended. I live in another city now but often come here to visit them.”
“And where is her husband?” asked an elderly woman from the crowd.
“Her husband…” Kirill’s voice trembled, “seven years ago, there was a terrible accident. The whole family was driving out of town in their new car when a truck came head-on. Pavel did everything possible to soften the blow, but they couldn’t be saved. Maryushka suffered serious injuries and was in the hospital for several months. Pavel survived but injured his spine and is now bedridden. And their son… their son suffered the most.”
The man fell silent, letting the words settle in the quiet. Then he continued:
“As soon as Maryushka was discharged from the hospital, she quit her beloved job—she was a workshop manager at a doll factory. She got a cleaning job because the schedule was flexible and allowed her to be home. She brought her husband home and has been caring for him ever since.”
“And the son… she had to sell everything she had. Antique jewelry passed down from her great-grandmother. Jewelry given by her husband. Everything went to operations, treatment, trips to Moscow and Germany. And just recently, the doctors said: the boy is getting back on his feet. He even studies in the hospital—Maryushka bought him a laptop and internet.”
The listeners stood frozen. Some lowered their eyes, some sobbed, some blushed with shame. Kirill continued:
“A couple of years after the accident, I suggested she put Pavel in a care home where he could be looked after. I told her she was young and had her whole life ahead. She looked at me in a way I still remember with pain. She said, ‘If my loved ones are suffering, I cannot live for myself.'”
He stood up, adjusted his coat, and headed toward the old house. People stood silently, looking at the ground. Since then, no one called her a beggar anymore. Now, when they met her on the street, everyone bowed their heads and quietly greeted: “Hello, Maryushka.”
A few months later, an event shook the entire neighborhood. Maryushka invited everyone to her home. Her son returned—not just returned, but on his own feet. She threw a celebration in the yard. A big table was set, smelling of pies, jam, and tea from an old samovar—the only thing left from her great-grandmother.
Everyone came with gifts, kind words, warmth in their hearts. In the corner, in a wheelchair, sat Pavel, hugging his wife around the waist. He could already sit up, and there was faith shining in his eyes—he knew he would stand someday, for her.
Kirill brought flowers for Maryushka and a new computer for her son. People drank tea, laughed, talked, sang songs. And suddenly it became clear—no matter how old her coat was, how forgotten the street seemed, or how strange she looked—she was not a beggar, not Baba Yaga, not a mystery. She was a woman worthy of the deepest respect. A woman who did not give up. A woman who saved her family.
From that day on, relations among neighbors changed. Everyone drew their own conclusion: you cannot judge a person by their clothes. You cannot laugh at another’s misfortune. You cannot remain indifferent to those who need support. And most importantly—you cannot see a person as an enemy or a mystery until you know their story.
Thus began a new chapter of life on that street. A chapter filled with respect, understanding, and humanity.