Artyom sat on a bench in the courtyard of the student dorm, gently bouncing his foot to the rhythm of his own thoughts. Outwardly he seemed relaxed, but his gaze, fixed on a single point ahead, betrayed an inner tension. His hands lay lazily on his knees, and a barely noticeable, cold smirk played on his face. He was studying his new sneakers intently—the symbols of a temporary success achieved without much effort. But behind this mask of indifference was a complete lack of compassion and a readiness to turn away from something that could change someone’s life forever.
Tasya stood in front of him. In her hands she held a test that had just turned her world upside down. Two thin pink lines on the screen had become both a sentence and a hope. Gripping the paper strip so tightly her fingers whitened, she felt the ground slipping from under her feet, as if reality itself had begun to crumble. Her heart pounded fast and painfully; her chest was tight with fear, humiliation, and uncertainty.
“How could you be so naive?” Artyom asked without even bothering to look her in the eyes. His voice was even, almost indifferent, as if he were talking about strangers or some random incident. “I warned you: this wasn’t supposed to become anything serious. It was a game. Nothing more.”
Tasya tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. Her voice betrayed her with a tremble when she finally managed to say:
“But we… we were together… I thought…”
She faltered, because she understood: what for her had been the beginning of something important had turned out for him to be only an episode. Just a fleeting fling that could be tossed out of life like a used cigarette.
“What ‘we’?” Artyom finally raised his eyes to her. There wasn’t a drop of warmth in them, not a hint of regret. Only cold and detachment. “We were just spending time. And now you want to turn all this into obligations? Forget it.”
His words cut like a knife. Each one echoed as pain in her chest, but what hurt most was the certainty with which he spoke, as if it were all her fault. As if she herself had let pain into her life and now didn’t know how to survive it.
Her cheeks burned with shame. She felt the curious glances beginning to gather around them—students passing by slowed their pace, pretending they were just lost in thought, but really trying to catch every word. Some had already started whispering; some simply watched with open interest. To everyone they had been a couple, and now they were a pathetic breakup scene.
“Decide for yourself,” Artyom said, rising from the bench. “Just not with me. I’ve got my thesis ahead of me, a job, plans for the future. And you… this is all your fault.”
With those words he left, without turning back, without so much as a glance, as if there had never been anything between them. Tasya was left standing alone in the courtyard where just recently people laughed, kissed, made plans to meet. Now all of it seemed like farce, an illusion she had stupidly believed.
She walked away slowly, not knowing where her feet were taking her. Inside, everything was collapsing. Not only the relationship, but her very idea of herself. Of the future. Of life. A pregnancy that should have been a joy now felt like a sentence. Her studies had long gone to ruin—she was skipping classes, losing concentration, constantly nauseated from morning sickness. And she didn’t want to go home. Her parents—both struggling with addiction, both sources of constant quarrels, reproaches, and destructive words. There she wouldn’t find help, only a new portion of humiliation.
“What am I supposed to do?” kept spinning through her head over and over. The pain was becoming unbearable. Maybe she should end it all? Put a stop to this? Get rid of the child, the pain, the shame, the hopelessness?
She wandered through the night city, not noticing where she went. The rain began suddenly—at first a few scattered drops, then heavier and heavier. Puddles lit by streetlights reflected a dim glow, as if trying to send her one last signal: “Don’t give up.” The city, usually lively and noisy, now seemed alien, cold, indifferent.
At some point she found herself on a high bridge over the river. It was empty there. Only occasional cars passed, leaving trails of light on the wet asphalt. The water below looked black, bottomless. A darkness it would be so easy to disappear into.
“Maybe it would be better this way,” she whispered, climbing onto the railing. The wind tugged at her hair, rain lashed her face, but Tasya no longer felt the cold or the pain. Only emptiness.
But at that very moment, when she closed her eyes, ready to take the final step, a child’s cry rang out:
“Lady! Lady, help!”
Tasya jerked around, lost her balance, and clumsily jumped down from the railing. Her knee slammed painfully against the asphalt, but that pain was nothing compared to what she had almost done. In front of her stood a little girl of about ten. She was soaked, disheveled, terrified. She grabbed Tasya by the hand and pulled her toward a bench where an elderly man was lying. Pale, struggling to breathe, his hand pressed to his chest.
“Grandpa, I found help!” the girl exclaimed, crouching beside the old man.
“What’s your name?” Tasya asked, kneeling.
“Marisha,” the girl replied. “And grandpa is Saveliy Petrovich. He’s kind, he fed me recently when I was hungry. And now he got sick.”
Tasya quickly examined the man. His face was ashen, his lips bluish. His condition was clearly dangerous.
“Do you have medicine?” she asked.
The old man gave a weak nod and pointed to the pocket of his jacket. Tasya pulled out a small bottle of pills, placed one under his tongue, and gently lifted his head. After a few minutes his breathing steadied a little.
“It’ll ease up,” he whispered. “I thought that was the end.”
“Don’t say that,” Tasya answered softly. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” Saveliy Petrovich smiled faintly. “Good thing Marisha found you. Smart girl.”
They sheltered under the canopy of a bus stop until the rain stopped raging. When the downpour shifted to a gentle drizzle, the moon broke through the clouds, gilding the wet asphalt.
“Strange evening,” the old man muttered. “Three lonely people on a bridge in the middle of the night. Probably not by chance.”
Marisha pressed against him as if he were her real grandfather. Tasya looked at them and, for the first time in a long while, felt something warm awaken inside. Maybe not everything was lost?
After they had caught their breath from the ordeal, they sat on the steps of the stop. Saveliy Petrovich said he lived in a village, alone, no children, only a cat named Vaska and memories of his wife. Marisha admitted that she was afraid at home—her mother drank, strange men came over, there was noise and fights. She often hid outside. Then Tasya told them about her pregnancy, about how the man she loved had left her, how her studies were falling apart, how she had nowhere to go.
“You little fool,” the old man shook his head. “Life’s a tough thing, but for the baby’s sake you have to hold on. They aren’t to blame for anything.”
Marisha took Tasya’s hand:
“You’re going to have a baby? That’s wonderful! I always wanted a little sister or brother.”
The old man looked thoughtfully at the girls, then unexpectedly suggested:
“Come with me. I have a big house, plenty of room, and I’m alone. We’ll put things in order together.”
“Really?” Marisha brightened. “And no one will miss me if I disappear?”
“I’ll give you a roof over your heads,” Saveliy Petrovich nodded. “And you?” he turned to Tasya.
She hesitated. It was madness—to trust a stranger, to go into the unknown. But what awaited her here? The dorm with its judgmental stares? Her parents’ home with alcohol and shouting?
“All right,” she decided. “Thank you.”
The next morning, Tasya packed her things at the dorm. Her roommates watched her in puzzlement:
“Where are you going?”
“To relatives,” she lied.
Marisha quickly gathered her few belongings as well. Her mother didn’t even notice she was gone—she lay senseless on the couch.
In the morning, before dawn, the three of them met at the station. Saveliy Petrovich bought tickets, and the commuter train carried them away from the city, from the past, toward a new life.
The village of Lesniki greeted them with morning mist, the smell of fresh earth, and silence. Saveliy Petrovich led them along the edge of the woods to his house—a large wooden log home surrounded by a garden and a tall fence.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Marisha exclaimed. “Like in a fairy tale!”
“It really is beautiful,” Tasya agreed, looking over the property. “Maybe this is my new home.”
“Come in, come in!” the old man urged cheerfully, adjusting his worn cap and swinging the gate open. “I’ll fix breakfast. Guests should be properly treated!”
Inside, the house was spacious and cozy, as if it held the warmth of many generations. A big kitchen with a Russian stove, a warm living room with soft armchairs and a cracked coffee table, several bedrooms upstairs—everything spoke of a place where people had once lived, loved, laughed, made plans.
“Choose a room,” the host offered, spreading his arms proudly. “There’s room for everyone.”
The girls chose a bright, roomy shared bedroom with windows facing the garden. Outside, the apple trees were in bloom and bees droned lazily over the flowers. Marisha immediately began arranging her few things, as if she wanted to settle in quickly, to make this place her home. Tasya stood by the window, resting her forehead against the cool glass, and felt the tension of recent weeks slowly begin to release her.
Over breakfast, Saveliy Petrovich told funny village stories, set fresh homemade cheese in front of the girls, and poured milk from his own cow, which he milked every morning. His voice was full of warmth and a particular rural certainty—the confidence of a man who knows the value of life and knows how to rejoice in small things.
“It’s nice here,” Marisha admitted, taking a big gulp of fresh milk. “You’d never find this kind of quiet and peace in the city.”
“And the air!” added Tasya, breathing deeply. “It’s like every breath gives you strength.”
In the evening they went for a walk in the field behind the house. Marisha ran through the grass picking wildflowers, twirling and laughing as if trying to make up for lost time. Tasya walked slowly beside Saveliy Petrovich, feeling for the first time in many months that her soul was beginning to calm.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “You didn’t just take us in. You saved us.”
The old man was silent for a moment, then answered gently:
“Oh, come now, girl. You saved me. I was all alone. I spent more time with my memories than with living people. And now the house is alive again. Hear it? Voices, laughter, footsteps. That’s the best gift imaginable.”
The first month in Lesniki flew by unnoticed. Tasya and Marisha eagerly took to the household chores. They washed windows, cleaned corners, decorated the house with wildflowers and currant branches. Each day became new and meaningful. Saveliy Petrovich visibly blossomed: color returned to his cheeks, his gaze grew clearer; he even began to smile more often, telling stories from his youth, remembering the wife he had mourned for so long.
Marisha adapted quickly. She gained weight, moved with more confidence, and grew surer in conversation. She made friends with the local kids, went swimming in the river, helped Tasya tend the garden, picked berries, and learned to cook simple dishes.
“I never thought village life could be this interesting,” Tasya admitted one day, watering the cucumber beds in the evening sun.
“I like that no one screams or fights here,” Marisha added, lying down in the grass with a book.
Rumors in the village began to spread quickly. Everyone was sure that relatives from the city were living with Saveliy Petrovich—either nieces or distant kin. The old man was in no hurry to dispel the myth, because he knew it was better to have a “respectable” legend than the truth, which could provoke judgment or too much attention.
For the first time, Tasya began to allow herself to dream about the baby’s future. Here, in the quiet and peace, the pregnancy was going much easier. There was no city noise, no pressure, no constant reminders of the past. She imagined walking with her child through these fields, teaching them to love nature, picking apples together in autumn, skiing in winter.
In August a new gamekeeper knocked on the door—Aleksei Sergeyevich. A man of about thirty with kind eyes and a mild weariness in his face. Beside him circled his faithful dog, Zhorik—a shaggy mutt with intelligent, attentive eyes, as if he, too, wanted to settle in this house as soon as possible.
“Saveliy Petrovich, could I stay for a while?” Aleksei asked. “They promised to fix up the gamekeeper’s lodge by fall, but for now I’ve nowhere to live.”
“Of course, of course!” the old man rejoiced. “We’ve got plenty of room. Meet my girls, Tasya and Marisha.”
Over dinner, Aleksei talked about his work, joked, and teased Tasya about her city habits. She felt herself blush at his attention, but it was pleasant. He was different—not like Artyom. Calm, attentive, understanding of her fears and worries.
“So, in the city cucumbers grow in the store?” he laughed, watching Tasya carefully pick the vegetables from the vine.
“Don’t laugh,” she protested. “I’m learning.”
“Learn away,” Aleksei nodded. “Village skills are useful too.”
When Tasya needed to go to the district clinic, Aleksei offered to drive her without hesitation. He helped her with paperwork, waited for her at the clinic, and brought her coffee to make the wait easier.
“Thank you,” Tasya said, getting into the car. “You’re very kind.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, embarrassed. “Just doing what anyone would.”
That evening, while Marisha and Saveliy Petrovich watched TV, Tasya and Aleksei took a walk in the garden. It was quiet, scented with apples and late-blooming flowers. The moon hung high, silvering the paths.
“You know,” Aleksei said, stopping by the fence, “I recently got divorced. My wife couldn’t handle village life and moved to the city. Took the kids with her.”
“I’m sorry,” Tasya replied softly.
“And I’m afraid to start over. What if it doesn’t work out again?”
Tasya was silent for a moment, then took a breath:
“Aleksei, I have to tell you the truth. I’m not related to Saveliy Petrovich. Marisha and I are just… runaways. I’m going to have a baby, and the father abandoned us.”
Aleksei stopped and looked at her carefully:
“So what? Does that change anything?”
“I don’t know,” she said, flustered. “I thought you should know.”
“Tasya,” he took her hands, “I don’t care what your past story is. What matters is who you are now. And you’re a good person. Marisha’s a good kid. And Saveliy Petrovich is happy with you here.”
Inside the house, Saveliy Petrovich pushed the curtain aside and smiled as he watched the young people in the garden. At last there would be a real family in his home again. One where people love, care, and support each other.
Autumn brought new concerns. Marisha started at the village school. Together they got her ready for September 1st—buying notebooks, pens, a new dress. Saveliy Petrovich sewed a bag himself, and Aleksei found an old briefcase, polished it, and gave it to the girl.
“I’m a little scared,” Marisha confessed on the eve of the school year. “What if the kids don’t accept me?”
“They will,” Aleksei said confidently. “You’re smart and kind.”
“And if they ask about my parents?”
“Tell them you live with your grandpa and your sister,” Tasya suggested. “That’s the truth.”
In October, Tasya went into labor. Aleksei rushed back from work, Saveliy Petrovich bustled about packing a hospital bag. Marisha cried from worry, running around not knowing what to do with herself.
“Everything will be fine,” Aleksei reassured them all. “Tasya’s strong.”
A healthy, robust little girl was born. When Tasya first took her in her arms, she understood that Saveliy Petrovich had been right—for the sake of this tiny miracle, it was worth living. For this warmth, this love, this life that begins with a first cry.
Marisha was delighted with the baby. She helped bathe her, feed her, take her for walks in the pram. To her, this child became dear, close, wanted.
“She’s just like my little sister!” the girl rejoiced. “Tasya, can I call you my sister?”
“Of course you can,” Tasya said, moved, hugging her.
Aleksei spent all his free time with them. He made toys for the baby, helped Tasya, and read bedtime stories to Marisha. Together they became a family—not a formal one, but a real one, created not by papers but by love, care, and shared hardships.
One evening, when the baby was asleep and Marisha was doing her homework, Aleksei said:
“Tasya, I want to make you an offer. Marry me. I’ll adopt Marisha, I’ll adopt your daughter. We’ll be a real family.”
Tasya looked at him through tears:
“Aleksei, are you sure? We come with baggage…”
“What baggage?” he embraced her. “We have love, we have children, we have a home. What else do we need to be happy?”
Hearing the news, Saveliy Petrovich was moved to tears:
“At last! I thought you’d keep circling around each other forever.”
A summer evening. A fire burns in the yard, and the whole family is gathered around it. Aleksei makes plans to expand the household, Tasya rocks her year-old daughter, Marisha sketches their house on a little board, and Saveliy Petrovich tells funny stories from his youth.
“Remember how we met?” Marisha laughs. “On the bridge, in the rain!”
“I remember,” Tasya nods. “Who would have thought that such trouble would lead to such happiness.”
“It’s fate,” Saveliy Petrovich says wisely. “Sometimes the scariest moments lead to the very best things.”
Aleksei adds logs to the fire, sparks rising into the stars. The house behind them glows with warm windows, and homely sounds drift through the open doors.
“Sometimes meeting strangers becomes the beginning of a big family,” Tasya thinks, looking at the fire. “And the most important thing is never to lose hope. Even on a bridge, in the rain, on the darkest night, someone may be nearby ready to extend a helping hand.”
Zhorik barks at something in the bushes, Marisha laughs, the baby sleeps sweetly in her mother’s arms. This is happiness—simple, warm, real.