Andrey Nikolaevich leaned back in his chair and finally allowed himself a deep, long exhale. The week had dragged on as a heavy chain of endless tasks: reports, inspections, papers that had supposedly needed his signature “yesterday.” He rubbed his temples out of habit, as if trying to erase the fatigue, and with a slight squint glanced around his office: neatly stacked folders, the pen returned to its stand. Everything seemed in order.
He stood up, walked over to the heavy safe, turned the lock with a practiced motion, set the signed documents inside and closed the door with a dull click. At once it felt lighter, as if the heavy stone that had been pressing on his shoulders all day had finally fallen away.
The clock on the wall read half past eight. The workday had long been over. He’d stayed late again, as he almost always did. “Well, that’s all right,” he thought, pulling on his jacket. “Tomorrow’s my day off.”
He had already reached for the door handle, imagining how, in a couple of minutes, he would breathe in the cool evening air, take a few unhurried steps down the empty street and let his thoughts settle, when suddenly a quiet but tense voice sounded behind him—the duty officer:
“Andrey Nikolaevich, could I have a minute of your time?”
He turned. The duty officer, usually imperturbable, now looked alarmed, almost at a loss.
“What is it now?” Andrey Nikolaevich frowned, automatically glancing at the clock again.
The duty officer stepped closer and lowered his voice:
“There’s a woman here… demanding to see the boss. She’s being stubborn, making a fuss because they won’t take her report.”
“What report?” Andrey Nikolaevich asked sternly.
“Well…” The man scratched his head, as if embarrassed to repeat it. “Her daughter and granddaughter left for the dacha this morning. No word from them since. Phones are off. She’s demanding we put them on the missing persons list. Immediately.”
“Missing persons?” Andrey’s eyebrows rose involuntarily.
“Uh… yes.” The duty officer spread his hands. “I tried to explain there might be no service out there. You know how it is in those garden cooperatives—even now the signal can be awful. But she won’t listen. Says if we won’t take her statement then we don’t care that people are disappearing. She’s demanding ‘the most senior person.’ Which means… you.”
Something clenched in Andrey’s chest in disgruntled protest. Every part of him wanted to refuse: he was tired, he wanted to go home, close the door and leave the week behind him. But he also understood this—tomorrow the woman would come back and kick up another scene, and they would be the ones who paid for it anyway.
He sighed heavily, as if trying on yet another burden, and said curtly:
“Fine. Let’s go.”
They moved unhurriedly down the dim corridor, where the ceiling lights flickered weakly and from a corner came the monotonous squeak of the duty fan, working through its final days. The air was laced with a familiar mix: the smell of paper, dust and cheap coffee.
She was waiting for them by the duty desk. The woman stood half turned, leaning on the counter as if her strength were leaving her, with stubbornness the only thing keeping her on her feet. Her coat had been thrown on in a rush: one button fastened in the wrong hole, making the fabric pull crookedly, and the collar stuck up awkwardly. On her head was a colorful kerchief that had probably once been dressy, but was now askew, exposing wisps of disheveled hair.
Her voice rang out loud, breaking into hysterical notes that echoed in the empty corridor:
“You are obliged to take action!” she shouted, slapping her palm nervously against the counter. “It’s your job to save people!”
Andrey Nikolaevich automatically took a step forward. And then something happened he was absolutely unprepared for: the woman whipped around, and it was as if he stumbled—not with his body, but with his soul. His breath caught for an instant.
Seventeen years had passed, but he recognized her at once.
It was that woman. The woman who had once destroyed his own world, ripped out by the roots everything he believed in and lived by.
In a matter of seconds his mind tore away from the gray corridor and carried him far back—into the past, into the life that had ended so abruptly.
…He had been only twenty then. Still practically a boy, even if he had come back from the army with a straight back and a serious gaze. Life was only beginning: in his pocket lay his assignment to the police school, and new prospects loomed ahead. But that wasn’t even the main thing. The main thing was Zoya. His Zoya. The girl he had loved since upper school, who had waited for him through the army despite her friends’ teasing and the attentions of her classmates.
Zoya studied at the teachers’ college. She always spoke about the future with such inspiration and passion that when Andrey listened to her he saw a woman beside him with whom he wanted to spend his whole life. Her eyes shone with a kind, special light when she talked about children, about her future pupils. He believed: with her, everything would work out.
They made simple, but dearly cherished plans. She would get her diploma, he would finish his training, get a job—and then they’d marry straight away. An apartment? Even a tiny one, even in an old building—no matter. The point was, they’d be together.
There was just one problem—one woman categorically did not share their joy and hopes.
Kira Antonovna. Zoya’s mother.
A domineering, forthright woman, with a heavy gaze and a sharp tongue. From the start Andrey felt her coldness, but didn’t give it much weight. Young people always think love will conquer all. And Zoya laughed whenever he brought it up: “Mom can think what she wants. What matters is what we think.”
But Kira Antonovna wasn’t the type to surrender easily. She was like an experienced huntress: she saw her quarry and knew that sooner or later she would get her way. Her words cut to the quick:
“A policeman isn’t a profession. It’s hard labor for pennies. He’ll be gone for days on end, and you’ll be home with the children alone. Why do you need that life?”
Zoya brushed it off and swore to Andrey she loved only him. But Kira Antonovna wouldn’t let up. She waited. She bided her time like a predator, looking for the moment she could strike at the most vulnerable spot.
And one day she found it.
Out of nowhere Venya Parshin appeared on the horizon—Zoya’s former classmate. In school he had been a laughingstock: no brains, no talent, only a dogged persistence in trying to win Zoya’s favor. He would secretly tuck chocolate bars into her bag, leave bouquets of wildflowers on her desk, write clumsy notes. Everyone around thought him pushy and hopeless; even Kira Antonovna would shake her head back then:
“God forbid my daughter gets mixed up with the likes of him!”
And when, after eighth grade, Venya suddenly disappeared from school, everyone sighed in relief. It seemed as if he had been quietly erased from memory, dissolved in the stream of time.
But fate, as so often happens, had other plans.
When Zoya was in her final year of college, Parshin suddenly reappeared. And he was no longer the awkward, timid boy in a stretched-out track jacket. On life’s road he had turned into a solid young man: expensive suit, well-groomed look, neat haircut, confident stride. In the parking lot by the college stood a brand-new car, gleaming in the sun, as if confirming that this was a very different Venya. In his hands he held an enormous bouquet—luxurious, the kind rarely seen back then and affordable to few.
Conversations in Zoya’s home changed abruptly. Kira Antonovna, who had so recently mentioned Parshin’s name with contempt, now spoke it with respect, practically savoring each syllable:
“Veniamin—now that’s a man. He’s made something of himself. With him, daughter, you’ll be safe as behind a stone wall. Not like with a policeman. What does he have? Epaulettes and paperwork. But here—there’s a car, an apartment, some kind of profitable business, by the look of it.”
Zoya didn’t even want to listen. She would raise her eyes, full of resolve:
“Mom,” she would sigh, “what do his money have to do with anything? I love Andrey. That’s it. I don’t need anything else.”
In those days Andrey felt like a victor. Zoya stayed by his side, steady and calm, never looking away, never wavering. It seemed that all of her mother’s nagging was nothing but temporary whims and empty talk.
But Kira Antonovna had no intention of retreating. She began slowly but surely with little jabs, weaving doubt into every sentence: one day she’d say a policeman’s work looked good only in movies, that real life was different; another time she’d casually hint that “today he’s at work, tomorrow he’s in the morgue”; then remind them that money decides many things, and love without a financial foundation withers quickly.
“Happiness is when your husband is at home and the fridge is full,” she declared right in front of Andrey, unembarrassed. “Not when you’re always waiting to see if he’ll come back alive from his shift, and counting pennies to buy milk for the children.”
And Veniamin himself seemed to move in. At first he would drop by “on business”—supposedly passing by, wanting to know how Zoya was. Then he stopped waiting for Zoya entirely, and came when she wasn’t home to talk with Kira Antonovna. He knew how to choose his words, persuasive and gentle, promising that if she convinced her daughter to marry him, she would never regret it.
“I’ll carry her in my arms, Kira Antonovna,” he would say, looking into his future mother-in-law’s eyes. “And I won’t forget you either. You’ll be like my own mother. Anything you want—anything at all. Just help me, and I’ll thank you for the rest of my life.”
Those words fell sweet on the ear, like honey. And Kira Antonovna listened, nodded, rejoicing inwardly. With each day the thought grew firmer in her mind: here it is, the real chance for her daughter. Not some policeman with a pitiful salary and unpredictable shifts, but a man who could provide stability, prestige, a “proper” life.
And so, little by little, Veniamin became for Kira Antonovna the embodiment of an ideal, while Zoya lived her life with Andrey. Their days were filled with quiet joy and a gentle anticipation of the future. They made plans, dreamed, discussed little things, picked dates, laughed over trifles and warmed themselves in each other’s presence. Only recently they had seriously discussed when they would go to the registry office—and it had seemed such a natural, logical step.
Andrey felt like the happiest man in the world. He was studying, and in his spare time performed public order duties. Life was satisfying; Zoya was beside him every weekend, her eyes alight with love and trust—what more could a man need? He couldn’t imagine that in a single moment his entire life would collapse like a house of cards.
But that moment came.
On the day everything changed, Kira Antonovna appeared on the threshold of his tiny apartment.
“Andrey,” she said in an unexpectedly gentle, almost unfamiliar voice, “don’t turn me away. I’ve come to talk.”
He was surprised, but didn’t argue. He swallowed his surprise, invited her in and seated her at the table.
“Tea?” he offered, by habit, following the rules of hospitality.
“Of course, tea,” she agreed, removing her gloves. “Listen, Andrey… I’ve thought it over for a long time and realized I can’t oppose you anymore. If you and Zoya have decided, then so be it.”
Relief flooded Andrey; a smile spread across his face on its own. Maybe the wall he had always felt before him had finally fallen? Maybe now everything would work out?
He put the kettle on, took out mugs, offered cookies. Kira Antonovna spoke evenly, almost affably:
“I worry about Zoya,” she said, as if justifying herself. “She’s young still, life is ahead of her. But it seems I was wrong… If you love each other that much, let it be as you’ve decided.”
Her words sounded like music. Andrey’s soul filled with warmth; it seemed that the road to happiness was open before them. The world regained its colors, and his heart—its lightness.
Then came the void.
After the tea he remembered nothing. Not how Kira Antonovna left, nor how he himself collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep. He came to only in the morning with a heavy head and a strange, syrupy aftertaste in his soul he couldn’t explain.
And when he went to see Zoya, she met him with cold indifference. Not a drop of warmth, none of the familiar smile.
“Andrey,” she said coldly, evenly, with no trace of her former tenderness, “it’s over.”
He didn’t believe it.
“Zoya, what are you saying? You… we…”
“It was all a game,” she cut in, as if speaking with someone else’s voice. “I was always waiting for Venya. I love him. I’m going to marry him.”
Those words struck him like sharp knives. Andrey tried to reach her, asked, begged for an explanation, pleaded to turn back time. But she repeated the same thing: all that time she had lied, it had been nothing but a whim.
That day his world collapsed completely.
He forever remembered how Zoya turned away and left, closing the door in his face. That image haunted him at night, came in dreams after which he woke in a cold sweat. Again and again he relived that day when happiness turned into emptiness.
He never started a family. After that betrayal Andrey decided: women couldn’t be trusted. If the one who swore eternal love could betray so cruelly, then no one deserved trust. His heart shut down, and his mind built an invisible but impenetrable wall around it.
He buried himself in work. He took on more and more cases, stayed late into the night just to avoid going home. The silence in his apartment weighed on him, choked him, reminding him of what no longer existed. Paperwork, reports, interrogations—these allowed him to forget. And so the years passed, one after another, imperceptibly turning into seventeen long years.
And now, after all that time, there she stood before him. Kira Antonovna.
He recognized her immediately—despite the years, the wrinkles and the gray hair, the same cold remained in her eyes, the same inner force that had once kept Zoya from his love. But she didn’t recognize him. She was too shaken, too distraught. Even when the duty officer spoke his name, she couldn’t connect this grown man with the young fellow she had once rejected in favor of a “profitable” son-in-law.
She was pacing, repeating the duty officer’s words in confusion: her daughter and granddaughter had gone to the dacha; no contact; and they refused to take her statement. Andrey Nikolaevich tried to calm her:
“Perhaps there’s simply no signal. That’s common out of town.”
But she sobbed and suddenly burst into tears.
“No, you don’t understand!” her voice broke into a desperate cry. “I can feel it… something terrible has happened! I only learned today: my son-in-law escaped from prison! He’s surely gone to them! What he might do—only God knows!”
Andrey’s heart involuntarily tightened. There could be truth to her words. If a fugitive with a connection to Zoya was involved, everything became much more serious. He drew a deep breath, pulled himself together and said briefly:
“Let’s go to my office. We’ll talk calmly there.”
He opened the door and let her pass. The woman walked in without looking back. Only then did he notice how much she had changed. There was no longer any confident firmness in her step—only anxiety and helplessness, a faint trembling in her shoulders and hands. Every movement betrayed the fear that had once been foreign to Kira Antonovna.
Andrey closed the door. The office greeted them with its usual quiet: only the steady ticking of the clock broke the silence. He indicated the chair opposite and sat down at the desk, fingers interlaced. His voice was businesslike, even:
“Please, sit. Tell me everything in detail. About your daughter, about your son-in-law.”
At first Kira Antonovna only blinked, as if trying to get a better look at him. She squinted, looked away, peered again, as though trying to remember where she had seen him before. And suddenly her face contorted. Her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled, and her voice broke:
“God… Andrey?… Is that you?”
And then the words poured out of her. At first quiet, restrained, and then—unchecked, like a broken, jagged waterfall. She covered her face with her hands; her shoulders shook, as if her body could no longer bear the weight it had carried for so many years.
“Forgive me, son…” she said in a trembling voice. “God, how guilty I am before you… I didn’t know… Or rather, I didn’t want to know! Venka… that Venka… he got his money through crime! And I, the fool, thought: respectable, has a car, courts her nicely… I gave my daughter to him with my own hands!”
She sniffled, raising reddened eyes full of fear and repentance.
“What happened back then… I slipped a sleeping pill into your tea. Venya gave it to me. Said it had to be quick and clean. I… I believed I was doing the best for my daughter. Then I called him; he was already waiting at the entrance. He came in, dragged you onto the bed… And then brought in some floozy… a hired girl. She lay down next to you, wrapped her arm around you. I left. Went home.”
Her words sounded like a sentence.
“So that Zoya would see…” he guessed.
Kira Antonovna closed her eyes and nodded.
“That morning she told me she was pregnant. Said she would marry you even if I was against it. She was going to run to you and share the joy.” She was gasping through her tears, but went on, “But I… I got there first, then came back and told her I’d thought it over and wouldn’t stand in the way. Go, daughter, rejoice with Andrey.”
“And she came…” Andrey said in a hollow voice.
“She came…” Kira Antonovna’s voice quivered. “Opened the door… and saw you two. You asleep, that girl next to you, in each other’s arms…”
Andrey clenched his jaw; his cheekbones ached from the effort to hold back rage and pain.
“She ran home hysterical, sobbed on my shoulder,” the woman gulped. “And I… I told her then: make the most of it, marry Venya. Don’t tell him about the baby yet, he’ll accept it as his own, he’ll never know. You’ll live happily with him, and that… traitor… let him gnash his teeth!”
Her voice failed; she coughed, but wouldn’t stop:
“And she believed me, the poor thing! She agreed. The next day she and Venya filed the application. Then they moved to another city; I personally saw them off at the station.”
Andrey closed his eyes. His chest burned as if he were reliving it all—the pain, the betrayal, the helplessness.
“I thought…” he said quietly, barely audibly, “that she was happy. All these years I thought…”
“No,” Kira Antonovna shook her head. “No! She lasted two years. Then she came back to me, battered and in tears. He abused her, tyrannized her. Learned the child wasn’t his… Dear God, what he did to her then! She barely escaped. Then he tried to take her back several times; he even kidnapped my granddaughter once. The police found her, thank God… But he kept coming back! He’d be in prison, then out again, and turn my girl’s life into hell, and then end up behind bars again.”
The woman broke into even more violent sobs:
“Forgive me, Andrey! Forgive me for ruining your life, and hers too… I didn’t know Venya was like that! I was a fool, a stupid old fool! But now help us! For God’s sake, help!”
At that moment Andrey Nikolaevich felt the weight of seventeen years—all the disappointments, betrayals and past pain—crash down on him at once like an avalanche sweeping everything from its path. His heart tightened, his breath caught, and his eyes filled with the tears he had held back for so long.
Soon Andrey Nikolaevich’s car was racing down the highway out of town. His headlights cut from the darkness only a narrow strip of asphalt, the occasional signpost, and peeling billboards with barely legible words.
Twenty minutes later the car eased to a halt by the right plot. The wooden fence sagged, the gate was ajar, creaking on its hinges. In the dim glow of the headlights, far off, the house’s windows flickered—empty, unlit, with no sign of life inside.
But Zoya’s car stood by the gate. A chill ran down his spine: that meant they had been here very recently.
Andrey carefully pushed the gate and stepped onto the property. The night air was thick and damp, heavy with an anxious stillness. He listened: only the wind rustled the leaves, and somewhere far away a solitary dog barked.
He moved slowly, almost stealthily, around the grounds. He watched his step, let his gaze glide over every bush, every path, every flower bed. And then… something glinted in the grass by the vegetable patch. Andrey crouched and carefully picked up the object. A smartphone. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks, but when he pressed the button the display still lit up.
Andrey found a map with a tiny geolocation dot blinking, moving in real time.
He froze. His heart thudded once, twice… The name above the dot blazed before his eyes: “Ksyusha.”
Something seemed to snap in his chest. He remembered Kira Antonovna’s breathless voice: “My granddaughter… Zoya’s daughter…”
Ksyusha—their daughter. His daughter!
The whole past, the chill of those seventeen years, and the truth suddenly revealed fused into one certainty: he had to find them. He had no right to lose them.
He peered at the map. The dot was blinking nearby. And the place… Andrey recognized it at once. His heart clenched painfully. The abandoned factory. Old workshops, ruins people kept clear of. Homeless people lived there, fugitives hid there, it was the kind of place where things happened that people preferred not to say out loud.
Andrey ground his teeth and swore under his breath. His hands shook as he grabbed the radio.
“This is Colonel Krylov. Send backup to the abandoned plant, the old machine-building works. Urgent.”
He didn’t wait. In the next second he was already behind the wheel, pressing the gas so hard the tires squealed.
By the time he arrived, the sky ahead was already lit with a red glare. One of the workshops was on fire, as if hell itself had broken loose. The flames devoured old boards and beams with greedy crackling; rafters collapsed, and each time a fountain of sparks flew upward, mixed with thick, choking black smoke. It twisted in the air, coiling like a living thing.
Andrey braked hard and jumped out. Hot air struck his face, scorching his skin in an instant. The smoke stung his eyes; his throat clenched so that he coughed. But he didn’t stop. He had no right to.
He could feel—they were in there. Zoya. Ksyusha. Somewhere inside that blazing inferno. And he would go in, even if it cost him his life.
“Zoya!” he cried, shouting over the crackle of the fire and the groan of falling beams. “Ksyusha!”
A second of silence felt like an eternity. And then he heard a faint, rasping cough.
He lunged toward the sound, thinking nothing of the collapsing ceiling around him, of the flames licking at the beams and ready to cut off his way at any moment. He leapt over debris, stumbled over chunks of charred boards, shouldered aside broken bricks, skin tearing from his palms, and kept going until he saw them.
In a corner behind a half-collapsed partition, in a cloud of smoke, sat Zoya—hunched, desperate, her face blackened with soot and her hands shaking. She held a girl to her, shielding her from the acrid smoke. The woman’s eyes—once so clear, so beloved—were wide with terror, but a small spark of hope still glowed in them.
“Andrey?” Her lips trembled; his name slipped out in an almost voiceless whisper.
He didn’t answer. Too much seethed in his chest—pain, fury, relief. Instead he rushed to them, bent down and pulled them both into his arms, pressing them to him as if by sheer force he could hide them from the fire and danger. Then he guided them toward the exit.
Every step was hard-won: the air burned his lungs, his eyes streamed from the smoke. The path seemed endless. Tongues of flame snatched at their clothes, as if trying to hold them back, refusing to let them out of this hell. At one point a flaming piece of ceiling crashed down nearby, spraying sparks—and by sheer miracle didn’t hit them.
But they broke through. A sharp rush of air hit their faces. The cold night freshness crashed into their lungs, burning no less than the fire.
Zoya doubled over, coughing, her shoulders shaking. Ksyusha, still not believing they were saved, burst into sobs, burying her face in his chest. And to Andrey, everything around sounded like music: they were alive. He’d made it.
At that moment a car drove into the factory yard. The headlights flared, slicing the night with blinding light. Another followed, and another. Doors slammed; commanders’ shouts rang out, rapid footsteps crunched on the gravel. Uniformed men spread out: some ran hoses to the blaze, others fanned out to sweep the grounds.
“He’s here!” someone shouted. “Making for the north exit!”
Andrey turned. In the distance, silhouetted against the fiery glow, a shadow flickered. A figure he would have recognized among a thousand. Venya. The very man who had shattered his life, who had put Zoya through hell, whose presence meant their child had grown up in fear, not knowing her real father. He was running, ducking, trying to disappear into the dark.
But Andrey didn’t move. His place was here, beside Zoya and their daughter. He held them tighter, feeling their bodies tremble, breathing in the smell of smoke that had soaked into their hair and clothes, and understanding that this was the end of a nightmare that had lasted far too long.
The response team worked flawlessly. In a few minutes it was over: Veniamin was seized, forced to the ground, handcuffed. He struggled, howled, spat curses, but none of it mattered anymore. They shoved him into the vehicle, and the slam of the door sounded like a final period.
Later Andrey learned his sentence had been extended considerably. Prison break, arson, attempted murder, endangering lives, including that of a minor. Now the years behind barbed wire would likely stretch into a lifetime for Veniamin. He would return from there only as an old man—if he returned at all.
Doctors gave Zoya and Ksyusha the necessary care. All the while Andrey never left their side, kept close as if afraid that if he let go for even a moment—they would vanish. When the danger had passed, he personally drove them home.
Kira Antonovna was already waiting by the entrance. Her face was worn, her eyes red, her eyelids swollen from tears. When, in the light of the streetlamp, she saw her daughter and granddaughter—alive, though exhausted—she sprang forward.
“Daughter!..” she cried, and forgetting everything, ran to them. She hugged them both at once, squeezing so tightly Zoya could barely breathe. “My God… my darlings… I thought I would never…”
Her words broke off, jumbled, punctuated by sobbing breaths.
“Forgive me, daughter…” her voice trembled. “It’s my fault. All of it is my fault. Back then… I set everything up. I thought I was doing what was best for you… And it turned out… My God, what it turned into!”
And again, as if a dam had burst. She spoke in a rush, feverish, sparing herself nothing. She told her daughter everything without concealment: how she had pushed her toward Veniamin, how she had closed her eyes to his actions, how she had once destroyed her love. She spoke and cried, begging for forgiveness.
Zoya listened in silence. Tears stood in her eyes, and in her chest rose a pain mixed with pity.
“Mom… why?” was all she could manage. “Why did you do that?”
Kira Antonovna flinched, covered her face with her hands, but still answered:
“I was foolish… I wanted what was best. I thought about comfort, about the appearance of prosperity… And I hated Andrey. I was afraid he’d drag you into poverty. I didn’t want to know he was a real man, reliable. I deceived both him and you,” her voice broke, and she cried like a child, helplessly.
Zoya pulled her mother close, stroked her head, and quietly, wearily but firmly said:
“That’s all in the past now. What matters is—we’re alive. And Andrey is here…”
She raised her eyes to Andrey. In her gaze there was only a warm, gentle weariness and that same trust he had lost through someone else’s malice seventeen years ago.
…They sat in the room, the three of them: Andrey, Zoya and Ksyusha. Andrey spoke about himself—unhurriedly, with pauses, as if learning anew how to talk about his life. About how he had thrown himself into work to avoid the emptiness, how for years he had believed he no longer had a past or a future. Zoya shared what she had endured with Veniamin, how often she had thought of Andrey, how she had dreamed of meeting again, learning about his life; long ago she had let go of the resentment. Ksyusha listened and sighed softly.
They sat like that until morning. Dawn glimmered beyond the windows; the room filled with the smell of coffee—Zoya, without a word, had gone to the kitchen and soon returned with steaming mugs. Ksyusha brought sandwiches.
Andrey looked at both of them and suddenly understood: the loneliness was over. Life—harsh and merciless—had given him a second chance.
And that day—the very one when he pulled them from the fire, when the truth finally came out and the past stopped tormenting them—became the happiest day for all three.