“Girl, do you even realize what you’ve done?!” Semen barked, brandishing a ladle like a weapon. “Soup on the floor, the customer’s soaked, and you’re just standing there like a statue!”
Alyona’s gaze dropped to the dark stain spreading across the man’s expensive suit. Her stomach knotted. This was it—her job was over. Six months of effort, gone in an instant. He’d make a scene, demand compensation, and she’d be out the door without severance.
“I’m so sorry… I’ll clean it up right away,” she stammered, fumbling for napkins.
The man lifted a hand, stopping her.
“Wait. It was my fault. I turned too quickly—got distracted by a phone call.”
Alyona froze. In two years as a waitress, she’d heard every kind of insult and complaint—but never an apology from a customer.
“No, I was clumsy,” she muttered.
“Don’t worry. The suit can be cleaned. You didn’t get burned, did you?”
She shook her head, still in disbelief. The man was about forty-five, with graying hair and glasses, speaking without the forced politeness most wealthy people used.
“Good. Then I’ll just go change, and you can bring me another soup. Just… be careful this time,” he said with a faint smile.
Igor, the hall administrator, appeared out of nowhere.
“Mr. Sokolov, we’re terribly sorry for the incident. We’ll cover the cost of the suit—”
“Igor Petrovich, there’s no need. It’s fine,” Sokolov cut in.
When Alyona brought the fresh bowl, her hands were still trembling. Sokolov ate slowly, his eyes occasionally flicking to her.
“What’s your name?”
“Alyona.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Six months.”
“Do you like it?”
She shrugged. What was there to say? It was a job. The pay was decent, the team… depended on the day.
“And before this?”
“At another café,” she answered shortly.
Sokolov didn’t press further. He paid the bill, left a generous tip, and walked out.
“You’re lucky,” Semen muttered. “If I’d had a client like that in my youth, I’d be retired by now.”
A week later, Sokolov returned. Same table, and he specifically asked for Alyona.
“How are you?” he asked as she handed him the menu.
“Fine.”
“Where do you live?”
“I rent a room.”
“Alone?”
Alyona set the menu down with a sharper motion than intended.
“And?”
He raised both hands in surrender. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. You just… remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My sister. She was independent at your age too.”
Alyona’s chest tightened at the word “was.”
“Does she work somewhere?”
“No. She’s been gone a long time.”
Before she could ask more, another customer called for the bill. By the time she returned, he was finishing his salad.
“Mind if I start coming here more often? I like it here.”
“It’s a public place,” she replied.
“And if I always ask to be served by you?”
She shrugged. “The customer’s always right.”
From then on, he came twice a week. Same order: soup, salad, main course. Ate slowly, spoke softly on the phone, never caused trouble.
Bit by bit, he told her about himself—owner of a chain of hardware stores, married, no children, living outside the city.
“Where are you from?” he asked one evening.
“Here. In the city.”
“Your parents?”
“No.”
“Gone long?”
“I don’t remember them. I grew up in an orphanage.”
His spoon paused halfway to his mouth.
“Which one?”
“The fourteenth, on Sadovaya.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“When did you leave?”
“At eighteen. They gave me a dorm at first, then I started renting.”
Sokolov studied her for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
“My sister was in an orphanage too,” he said quietly. “I was twenty, at university. I couldn’t take her in—I was living in a dorm myself, barely surviving on my scholarship.”
“And then?”
“Then… it was too late.”
The pain in his voice made her stop asking questions.
The following week, he handed her a small box.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside were gold earrings—simple, elegant.
“I can’t accept these.”
“Why not?”
“We hardly know each other.”
“It’s just a gesture. No strings.”
“For what?”
He hesitated. “Do you have any plans for the future?”
“What plans? I work and save for an apartment.”
“Would you like to change jobs?”
“To what?”
“There’s an opening for a manager at one of my stores. The pay is three times what you make here.”
Alyona leaned back slightly, narrowing her eyes.
“And what exactly would I have to do for that?”
“Work. Receive goods, supervise the sales team, prepare reports. You’ll pick it up quickly.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re responsible. Six months here, not a single complaint. Always polite to customers. And… because I want to help.”
“Why?”
Sokolov removed his glasses and polished them slowly with a napkin.
“My sister was sent to an orphanage when she was twelve—our parents died in a fire. I was in my third year at university. I thought if I just finished my degree, found a good job, I could take her in.”
“What happened?”
“She died of pneumonia. A year before I graduated. I didn’t even hear about the funeral until a month later.”
Alyona said nothing. The story was moving, but she didn’t see the connection.
“I’ve spent my whole life thinking—if I’d acted sooner, quit school, got any job at all…”
“So what? You both would’ve survived instead of struggling apart?”
“Maybe. But she’d still be alive.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do. She wasn’t treated well there. If she’d lived with me…”
“Listen, I’m truly sorry about your sister. But I’m not her.”
“I know. But let me at least try to fix something, somewhere.”
Alyona picked up the small box with earrings.
“I’ll think about the job. But take these back.”
“Alyona, come on. Just a gift—no strings.”
“That’s exactly why I won’t take them.”
Later, in her rented room, she told her friend Valentina—who had also grown up in an orphanage.
“I don’t trust rich men who play kind,” Valentina said, crunching into an apple. “They all want something.”
“He acts more like… an older friend. Even a father figure.”
“Worse. That means he’s got some strange ideas.”
“Stop it, Val. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Alyona, remember what they always told us as kids—don’t trust adults who are too kind. Remember Natasha Krylova?”
She did. Natasha had left with a man who promised her the world. She came back bruised and pregnant.
“But the pay really is good…”
“Talk to Igor. He’s smart about these things.”
Igor wasn’t thrilled with the offer either.
“Alyona, rich people don’t give without expecting something. He’s got his reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“No idea. Maybe he’s cheating on his wife. Maybe he’s looking for a replacement daughter. Maybe worse.”
“He says he wants to make peace with his past, with his sister.”
“And you believe that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? It sounds believable.”
“You’re clever, Alyona. But you don’t read people well. You expect too much.”
Still, a week later, she accepted. Not for the money—though it mattered—but because she was tired of trays, spilled soup, and cranky customers.
The store was on the city’s edge, selling building materials. Staff: three salespeople, a loader, an accountant, and her.
Sokolov trained her himself for a week—patient, calm, never irritated when she made mistakes.
“You’ve got a good memory,” he told her. “And you know how to get along with people. You’ll be fine.”
The first month was brutal. The salespeople didn’t like her—too young, too green, and too clearly “the boss’s pick.” But Alyona didn’t quit. She learned the stock, memorized prices, dealt with suppliers, and worked from morning to night.
Slowly, things improved. Sokolov visited once a week, checked the books, spoke with the team. Always kind, never overfamiliar.
“How’s it going?” he’d ask.
“Better. I’m getting the hang of it.”
“If something’s unclear—call me. Anytime.”
“Alright.”
“And housing? Still in that rented room?”
“For now. But I’m looking for my own place.”
“Want me to help? I know some agents.”
“Thanks, but I can handle it.”
He didn’t push.
Two months in, he invited her to dinner.
“A restaurant?” Alyona asked.
“No, my place. My wife’s a great cook—she wants to meet you.”
Alyona hesitated. It felt wrong to say no, but awkward to accept.
“Don’t worry,” Sokolov chuckled. “We’re harmless. Just a quiet evening.”
The house was big, with a pool and a garden. Marina, his wife, opened the door—a beautiful, impeccably groomed woman with a cool gaze.
“Marina,” Alyona said, offering her hand.
“Come in,” she replied. “Boris has told me a lot about you.”
“Hopefully good things.”
“Some good, some… not,” Marina smiled thinly.
Over dinner, Boris asked about work and her plans. Marina barely spoke, except for the occasional sharp remark.
“Ever think about going to university?” she asked.
“I have. Just not right now.”
“Work is more important, I see.”
“Marish,” Boris said warningly.
“What? I’m just curious. It’s rare to see someone independent so young.”
“In an orphanage, you grow up fast,” Alyona said.
“Yes. Boris told me about your… background.”
The word “background” sounded like dirt.
“Marina, we agreed,” Boris said, more firmly.
“I didn’t say anything bad. I admire it, actually. Not everyone survives that.”
Alyona knew it was time to go.
“Thank you for dinner. I should be leaving.”
“So soon?” Boris asked.
“Early morning tomorrow.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No need.”
On the way home, she thought about Marina’s frosty politeness. Of course she was suspicious—her husband was suddenly spending time and money on a young woman from nowhere. Any wife would be.
The next day, Boris called.
“Sorry about last night. Marina was in a bad mood.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. She had no right to act like that.”
“I get it. I’d be wary too, in her place.”
“Of what?”
“That her husband was helping some stranger.”
“You’re not a stranger to me. You’re… special.”
“Because I remind you of your sister?”
“Not just that.”
“What else?”
“You’re strong. You didn’t break. You didn’t complain. You kept going.”
“There are plenty like that.”
“More than you think.”
A month later, the gossip started. Alyona arrived to find the staff whispering.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Nothing much,” Svetlana said. “Just that the boss bought an apartment yesterday.”
“What apartment?”
“A studio on Rechnaya. Word is, he’s putting it in your name.”
Alyona’s pulse jumped.
“How do you know?”
“My son-in-law works in real estate. Says the paperwork’s almost done.”
At lunch, Alyona called Sokolov.
“We need to talk.”
“Of course. Come to the office,” he said.
“Better at a café.”
“All right. You know ‘Europa’ on Central? I’ll be there in half an hour.”
When Alyona arrived, Sokolov was already seated, waiting.
“Something wrong at work?” he asked.
“Are you… buying me an apartment?”
He didn’t flinch.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I want to help you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know. But it matters to me to do this.”
“For what reason? What have I done for you?”
He removed his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes.
“Her name was also Alyona. She was a year younger than you when she died. Blonde, gray-eyed, stubborn… just like you.”
A strange, cold pressure gripped her chest.
“And?”
“When I first saw you, for a second I thought—no, I felt—it was her. Grown up, changed… but still her.”
“Boris Viktorovich…”
“Wait. I know it’s absurd. You’re not her. But I’ve always wanted to know that at least one child from the orphanage got a normal life. That I could help someone.”
“You’re not helping me. You’re helping yourself.”
He nodded slowly.
“Maybe so. But that doesn’t make it any less real.”
“It does. Because you’re not seeing me—you’re seeing your dead sister.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. And that’s why I can’t accept the apartment.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t be anyone’s stand-in. No matter how generous the role.”
Sokolov fell silent for a long moment.
“What if I offered the apartment to someone else—not you?”
“Then I’d believe you really wanted to help.”
“So it’s about motives?”
“It’s about me refusing to live as someone’s memory.”
He rose from his chair.
“Understood. Sorry for wasting your time.”
“Don’t be angry. I’m grateful for the job, for believing in me…”
“For what? For using you?”
“For trying.”
He left, placing cash on the table.
The next morning, Alyona handed her resignation to the secretary.
“Please pass this to him.”
“Boris Viktorovich valued you very much.”
“I’ve just decided to change direction.”
That evening, Sokolov called.
“Alyona, don’t make rash decisions—not because of our talk yesterday.”
“It’s not because of that. I’ve realized I want to be a cook.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
Silence on the line.
“Then… good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Igor welcomed her warmly.
“Alyonka! We thought you’d forgotten us.”
“I wouldn’t forget if there was something worth losing,” she laughed.
Semen took her ambitions seriously.
“You’ve got the right hands. Just don’t rush it.”
She enrolled in evening courses at a culinary college. Waitressed by day, studied at night, practiced at home until dawn.
Valentina tasted her dishes one evening.
“Delicious. But why all this?”
“I don’t want to depend on anyone’s mercy.”
“Who did you depend on?”
Alyona told her the whole story.
“You’re a fool,” Valentina sighed. “They were giving you an apartment, and you refused.”
“They weren’t giving it—they wanted me to play the part of a dead sister.”
“So what? An apartment’s an apartment.”
“It matters to me.”
Six months later, Alyona was working as a cook’s assistant. The pay was less than before, but she felt she was exactly where she belonged.
One afternoon, Sokolov walked into the restaurant and took his usual table. Alyona approached with her notepad.
“Good evening. What will you have?”
“Soup of the day. Greek salad. Grilled fish.”
“Right away.”
She brought the food; he thanked her. They didn’t speak until he’d finished.
Before leaving, he stopped her.
“Alyona, can we talk?”
“Of course.”
“I wanted to apologize—for everything.”
“There’s no need.”
“You were right. I was looking for my sister in you.”
“And now?”
“Now my wife and I do charity work. We support orphanages. But we’ve stopped trying to replace anyone.”
Alyona nodded.
“Meeting you changed my life. Made me rethink a lot.”
“Mine too.”
“How so?”
“I started believing in myself. Realized I could choose my own path.”
Sokolov smiled faintly.
“Then I suppose we’re even.”
“Looks like it.”
He placed the tip on the table and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he turned.
“Good luck, Alyona. Real luck.”
“You too.”
When he was gone, she cleared the table. The tip was precise—no more, no less.
And somehow, that felt exactly right.