Anna Viktorovna’s life—whom the whole village of Dubrovki knew as Granny Anya—didn’t stop when she retired; it merely changed tempo, turning from a brisk march into a measured but unceasing movement. Her day began with the first rays of sun that gilded the frosty panes of her small but cozy house on the outskirts. That was when her little kingdom awoke: the chickens clucked busily in their roomy pen, the snow-white ducks waddled with self-important sway, and the goat Maruska filled the air with bright bleats, demanding her morning treat.
Anna Viktorovna’s hands, roughened by years of labor yet still deft and strong, managed everything: getting the bread started, doing the laundry, and weeding the cucumber and tomato beds. Her daughter, Lyudochka, lived far away in the big city with Anna’s two grandsons, and all of Granny Anya’s love, all her unspent tenderness, turned into parcels of pickles and jams, into warm wool socks knitted on long winter evenings, and into crisp banknotes that she tucked with touching solemnity into greeting cards for the first day of school and New Year’s. That money, pinched from her meager pension, wasn’t paper to her; it was a bridge connecting her to her dear boys, a way to take part in their lives—if only like this.
But the years, relentless and merciless, did their work—first imperceptibly, then ever more insistently. Her back began to ache treacherously after long weeding, and her legs, once so obedient and sturdy, now answered every bump and slope with a dull pain. The walk to the settlement’s only store turned into a true expedition, and the heavy bag of groceries became an unbearable burden. She had to cut down her livestock as well—and her heart bled when she gave her last ducks to a neighbor. Anna Viktorovna’s world, once so big and full of chores, shrank to the size of her front garden. A quiet sadness and helplessness settled in her eyes.
It was then that her old friend and neighbor, the Afghan war veteran Ignat Zakharovich—a man with a craftsman’s hands and a heart of pure gold—made a proposal that at first seemed sheer folly.
“Anna, you shouldn’t be trudging on foot,” he said one day, watching her shuffle home bent over from the bus stop. “You need a bicycle. On wheels you’ll fly faster, and it’s easier to carry a load.”
She just waved him off. “Oh, come on, Ignat—me, at my age, on a bike? I’d only make people laugh.” But the thought, once sown, took root. And soon, after setting aside money from several pension checks, Granny Anya brought back from the district center a brand-new, inexpensive, yet long-awaited bicycle that gleamed with novelty. It became her personal breakthrough—her wings. The first rides were hard—her knees trembled, her breath came short. But the stubborn old woman didn’t give up. And then a little miracle happened: she felt the wind in her gray hair again, the lightness and freedom of movement. She could once more ride to the post office, to the store, to the riverbank to admire the sunset. She deftly tied bags to the rear rack, and a little wicker basket bobbed cheerfully on the handlebar. The “iron steed,” as she jokingly called it, returned a piece of independence to her, and her eyes lit up with joy again.
One clear September day she, as usual, rolled up to the shop “At Mikhailych’s” on her “friend.” Deciding she’d only be five minutes and it wasn’t worth fiddling with the lock, she simply leaned the bicycle against the steps. She bought fresh, still-warm bread, a pack of butter, and, smiling, stepped outside.
The bicycle was gone.
At first she didn’t believe her eyes. She thought she’d come out the wrong door. She looked around—nothing. A sharp, icy needle of fear pierced her heart.
“Guys?” her voice quavered. “Did any of you see a bicycle here? Blue one, with a basket…”
Passersby only shrugged, hurrying about their business. The thief—slick and shameless—melted into the noon heat as if he’d never been there.
The road back stretched into eternity. The loaf of bread tucked under her arm felt like a dead weight. Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks—not shameful tears, but bitter, scalding ones that washed away the traces of recent joy. She wasn’t crying over metal and wheels; she was mourning the stolen piece of her newfound happiness, her freedom, her right to move. How could someone raise a hand against her modest, so desperately needed joy?
At her gate she ran into Ignat Zakharovich. He understood everything at once from her tear-swollen face and her empty, helpless hands.
“Annushka… God, don’t tell me they stole it?” Genuine pain sounded in his voice. “How could this be… In broad daylight! Ah, you shouldn’t have left it unattended—there are plenty of bad sorts about. Silly you, old girl…”
She only nodded weakly, wiping her face with the corner of her kerchief.
“I thought… just for a minute…” she sobbed. “Nothing ever went missing before… I can’t buy a new one now—no money. And I won’t tell Lyudochka—so ashamed. I didn’t keep it safe.”
Ignat Zakharovich looked at her closely, father-like, and something firm and resolute flashed in his eyes.
“Don’t cry, all right? Tears won’t help the trouble. Hold on, old girl—we’ll fight back yet. We’ll think of something.”
A week passed. A gray, dreary week in which there was no room again for longer trips. Anna Viktorovna resigned herself to the loss, sinking into her usual routine. Suddenly there came an insistent tap on the windowpane. She drew back the curtain and saw Ignat Zakharovich smiling in the front garden.
She went out onto the porch—and gasped, freezing in place.
A bicycle stood by her gate. But not that one—shiny and soulless. This one was different. An old Ural, with a sturdy, slightly angular frame someone had carefully, lovingly painted a dark, “army” green. A new, comfortable saddle had been fitted to the handlebars, and over the front wheel was not a basket but a neat cargo rack welded from strong wire. The whole thing breathed history, reliability, and a special, indestructible soundness.
Beaming from ear to ear, Ignat Zakharovich winked at her.
“Well, Annushka, ready to transfer to some new equipment? Or is it too much for you?”
“Ignat… dear… what is this?” she whispered, not trusting her eyes. “Where did it come from? Is it yours?”
“No,” the neighbor answered with feigned sternness. “I mugged an old lady in the next village, specially for you.” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Of course it’s mine! Been gathering dust in the garage—an heirloom. I… well, gave it a little life. Tightened the chain, greased the hubs, pumped the tires. And see, I welded you a rack—haul a whole sack of potatoes if you like! So? Will you take it?”
Anna Viktorovna walked up to the bicycle in silence, touched the cool, smooth paint on the frame, and ran her hand over the springy rubber of the tire. And she began to cry again. But these were entirely different tears—quiet, warm, grateful tears that raised goosebumps and tightened her throat.
“How am I going to thank you, Ignat? I… I’ll pay you back little by little from my pension… Honest, I will!”
“Oh, stop it,” he cut her off, his voice suddenly turning velvety and shy. “Should it rot in the garage? It ought to ride, to do a job. I don’t need it. I’m used to buzzing around in my Moskvich like a bumblebee. So don’t argue—take it. We’re neighbors. It’s simply the human thing to do.”
He showed her how to use a heavy but handy cable lock so no scoundrel would dare lay a hand on her transport again. He adjusted the saddle height to her stature himself. And when Granny Anya, a little timid, sat at the handlebars again and slowly set off down the street, tears flowed down her face once more—but now they were tears of cleansing, tears of renewed faith in people.
From then on, in the village of Dubrovki one often saw a touching sight: a tiny, slender old woman confidently pedaling a sturdy green Ural, while from the open window of his house a gray-haired man with rows of service ribbons on his old quilted jacket watched her go. And every time she rode past, she braked and shouted:
“Ignat Zakharich! I’m off to the store! Need me to bring you anything?”
And he, pretending to think it over, would wave from the window and answer:
“Looks like I’ve got everything—go on, granny! Just don’t go flying downhill, you maniac! This isn’t a racetrack!”
He followed her with a gaze full of quiet, gentle satisfaction until she disappeared around the bend. And she rode on, feeling beneath her not only the reliable support of the old wheels but also something far more important—the selfless, genuine human kindness that, as it turns out, is still capable of working true wonders.