Alice’s universe split into “before” and “after” three years ago. It didn’t happen gradually, but in a single instant — with a phone call that shattered the darkness of the night. The voice on the line was unfamiliar, official, coming from that other side where her former, calm life still remained. The words were pronounced slowly, as if giving her time to grasp every syllable: traffic accident, collision, fire. Her husband had been returning from a business trip, his car lost control on a slippery curve, was thrown into the oncoming lane where a multi-ton truck was driving. There was practically nothing left of the car.
Search operations dragged on for two exhausting weeks. Specialists examined a nearby body of water, volunteers combed the forest area meter by meter, but no clues, no traces were ever found. The official conclusion was merciless and final: given the scale of destruction and the intensity of the fire, the chance of survival was negligible. A few months later the court issued its decision, and her husband was officially declared dead.
Those days blended together for Alice into a single gray blot, devoid of color and meaning. She remembered the farewell ceremony, where there was no coffin — only a solitary photograph and an empty grave with a cold stone plaque. She remembered the looks from her husband’s relatives, in which silent accusation was written. His mother looked at her daughter-in-law with reproach, as if she were to blame for not holding him back, not dissuading him, not warning him. The late husband’s cousin made cutting remarks about how quickly Alice had set about handling the paperwork and dealing with the inheritance. Although, in fact, there was no inheritance to speak of.
It turned out that her husband had managed to take out numerous loans for quite substantial amounts. One after another, credit organizations sent letters demanding immediate repayment. The insurance company, having studied the circumstances, refused to pay compensation, referring to a minor, but insurmountable clause in the contract. To pay off the debts, Alice had to sell the country house they had bought just a year earlier, part with some of the furniture, close all accounts. When the last payment was made, the amount left in her account was barely enough to live on.
The first year became a time of fighting for basic survival. Alice took on any job, even the lowest-paying, rented a small room on the outskirts of the city, saved on every little thing. Every morning she woke up with the feeling of a heavy, invisible slab pressing on her chest, not allowing her to take a full breath. In the evenings she could sit for hours in silence, staring at one point, not finding the strength even to turn on the TV or radio. Her friends called from time to time, suggested meeting up, going out somewhere, but Alice politely refused, finding new and new reasons to remain alone.
The second year brought small but significant changes. She managed to get a job in a small but stable company as a manager. The salary was modest, but it allowed her to rent a small one-room apartment closer to the center, buy new clothes, sign up for a gym. Bit by bit, life began to take on new outlines, arranging itself into a new, if not so bright, picture. The sharp, cutting pain gave way to a quiet, background sadness with which one could exist, breathe, even sometimes smile.
By the beginning of the third year, Alice had almost come to terms with her new role. Being a widow at thirty-two sounded strange and unnatural, but that was her reality. Her colleagues at work treated her with understanding, did not ask unnecessary, tactless questions. Her neighbors greeted her when they met but did not intrude into her personal space. She had learned not to cry at night, not to flinch at a sudden phone call, not to peer at the backs of strange men in the crowd hoping to catch sight of a familiar figure.
That autumn turned out to be surprisingly warm and sunny. Golden and crimson leaves slowly whirled in the air, forming a whimsical carpet underfoot. The air was fresh and transparent, smelling of rain and fallen leaves. Her old friend Irina, whom she had known since school, called one such evening and persistently suggested going out to a restaurant.
“Let’s just spend some time together, have dinner in a quiet place,” Irina coaxed. “You work too much; you need a rest, a change of scenery. My treat, it’s my gift.”
At first Alice wanted to refuse, citing fatigue, but her friend spoke so convincingly and warmly that resistance was pointless. On Saturday evening they met at the entrance to a small but cozy place on the riverfront. Inside it was warm and calm, the dim light created an intimate atmosphere, and soft melodic music flowed like a river, not interfering with conversation.
The waiter, a polite young man, led them to a table right by the window, from where there was a view of the dark, smooth surface of the river and the lights on the opposite bank. Alice automatically glanced around the room — it was about half full. A few couples were sitting in the far corner; some lone visitors had settled at the bar. Nothing out of the ordinary. Irina ordered a light wine and several appetizers and launched into funny stories from work, about her new boss who found reasons to nitpick about the tiniest little things.
Alice listened to her absent-mindedly, more occupied with studying the menu. Soon the waiter returned with the glasses and poured the wine. Irina raised her glass in the traditional toast to their meeting. Alice nodded in response and took a small sip. The drink was tart, with a pleasant fruity note.
“Look at that interesting couple at the next table,” Irina remarked, nodding almost imperceptibly in that direction. “They look so harmonious, like they stepped straight out of a glossy magazine.”
Alice turned her head, following the gesture. Ten or twelve meters away indeed sat a man and a woman. The woman, a striking blonde in an elegant red dress, glittered with large, eye-catching earrings. The man was sitting half-turned toward them, but his profile was clearly visible.
And at that moment time stopped. All the surrounding sounds — laughter, clinking glasses, soft music — merged into a single rising roar, as if coming from under thick water. Alice couldn’t tear her eyes away from the stranger. That particular tilt of the head. That unique way of holding a wineglass, cupping it in his whole hand. The very same, familiar down to the tiniest detail mole at his left temple.
“Alice, are you all right? You don’t look well,” Irina’s voice sounded through cotton, as if from far away. “Are you feeling sick? Should I bring you a glass of water?”
Alice didn’t answer. Her fingers suddenly began to tremble, and the glass nearly slipped from her weakening hand. At that moment the man turned, and his face appeared before her in full. The familiar features engraved in her memory, that same oval of the face, that same smile she had seen a thousand times. It was her husband. Alive. Healthy. Calmly sitting in a restaurant with an unknown smiling woman.
Her heart pounded so hard that a deafening ringing rose in her ears. Alice instinctively gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep her balance, though she was already sitting down. Her breath caught; air wouldn’t enter her lungs. Irina grabbed her hand, trying to catch her lost gaze.
“Alice, what’s happening? Can you hear me? I’ll call for help right now.”
“That’s… that’s my husband,” Alice barely exhaled, without tearing her burning gaze from the neighboring table. “He’s alive. He’s here.”
Irina turned sharply; her eyes swept in the indicated direction, her brows knitting in confusion.
“Are you sure? Maybe it’s just an uncanny resemblance? Someone who looks very much like him?”
Alice only silently shook her head. A resemblance can’t be that absolute. Every feature, every tiniest gesture — everything matched with terrifying precision. Even his habit of slightly tilting his head when he listened attentively. Even that way he had of rubbing the arch of his eyebrow with his index finger when something puzzled him.
The man raised his glass and lightly clinked it against his companion’s. She said something, and he laughed. The sound of his laughter was quiet, but Alice would have recognized it among a million. Low, velvety, with a slight, barely noticeable rasp. The very same voice that wished her good night, that whispered words of love, that promised to come home from every trip.
“I can’t just sit here and watch,” Alice whispered, trying to stand up, but her legs refused to obey, turning cottony and heavy. Irina kept her in place, gently but firmly.
“Wait, don’t rush. Let’s first just listen to what they’re talking about. Maybe there’s some logical explanation. Any situation has more than one side.”
Alice nodded, unable to muster the strength to argue. The distance between the tables allowed them, if they tried, to catch fragments of phrases. The man leaned toward his companion, and his voice sounded a little louder.
“You know, it took me a long time to learn to trust again. To allow myself a new relationship. After everything that happened back then, my world flipped upside down.”
The blonde woman nodded sympathetically, her face radiating keen interest.
“You told me you managed to survive by a real miracle.”
“Yes, it was a true miracle,” the man continued. “I was thrown out of the car straight into the roadside bushes. I came to from wild pain; my head was smashed, there was blood everywhere. I had just enough strength to reach the road, where some passing drivers picked me up and took me to the nearest hospital. I spent several days there between life and death, unconscious.”
“My God, that’s terrible,” the woman covered her mouth with an elegant hand. “But why didn’t you come back home? Why didn’t you let them know you were alive?”
The man paused, thoughtfully taking a sip of wine.
“Because there was nothing waiting for me at home anymore. My wife… she took advantage of the situation. She took everything she could lay her hands on. The money, our things, even our country house was sold. I realized that for her it was simply a chance to get rid of me, to start fresh without me around. And I decided to give her that chance. Just disappear. Start my life over somewhere no one knew me.”
The words drifting to their table hit Alice with the force of a physical blow. Blood rushed to her face and then just as quickly drained away, leaving an icy cold behind. Her fingers clenched into a tight fist of their own accord. Irina gripped her elbow again, holding her in place.
“Easy, breathe deeper. Don’t give in to your first impulse,” she whispered, trying to speak as quietly as possible.
But Alice could barely hear her friend now. Before her eyes, like film frames, flashed the scenes of the last three years. Endless, darkest nights when tears flowed on their own, bringing no relief. Constant, insistent calls from the banks demanding immediate repayment of debts. Exhausting visits to lawyers who only spread their hands, unable to find any legal way to contest the claims. The sale of the country house for a sum far below its real value because the money was needed immediately. Backbreaking work at two jobs at once, just to make ends meet.
And he was sitting here, in a cozy restaurant, sipping expensive wine and casually telling a stranger that his wife had taken everything. The wife who had mourned him for three long years, believed in a miracle, paid off the debts he’d racked up, lived in a rented apartment because she had neither the money nor the strength for her own place.
The blonde woman shook her head with theatrical sympathy.
“How is that even possible… So you can’t even contact her now? Can’t find out why she did that?”
The man only shrugged; the gesture radiated complete indifference.
“And why should I? She got exactly what she wanted — freedom from me and financial independence. And I… I got my chance. I met you, found a good job, set up my life. Life goes on, as you see, and it can be beautiful.”
Alice squeezed her eyes shut, trying to chase away the creeping darkness. Her palms turned clammy and icy. Black dots danced before her eyes. Irina put an arm around her shoulders, trying to lend her at least a bit of her own calm.
“Breathe, Alice. Just focus on your breathing. Inhale and exhale.”
With difficulty, Alice opened her eyes. The man went on talking to his companion, smiling, telling her something about his new job. The woman listened with adoration, not hiding her admiration. A waiter came up to them with dessert. The man picked up a spoon, scooped up some of the airy cream and playfully held it up to the woman’s lips. She laughed, embarrassed and at the same time gladly accepted the treat.
Alice sat frozen, unable to move a single muscle. Her thoughts were tangled; her mind refused to accept and process what was happening. Her husband was alive. He had deliberately hidden. He truly believed that she, Alice, had taken everything and betrayed his memory. While he, in the meantime, had arranged his life, found another woman, and lived it to the fullest as if nothing terrible had happened.
“What am I supposed to do now?” The question came out as a quiet, despairing moan.
Irina squeezed her hand tighter; her voice sounded firm and resolute.
“First, we need to get out of here. You need peace and time to pull yourself together. To gather your thoughts. And then we’ll decide together what steps to take.”
Alice silently nodded. She rose on unsteady, numb legs, holding on to the back of the chair for balance. Irina quickly took her friend by the arm and led her toward the exit. Passing the fateful table, Alice couldn’t help casting one last glance. The man sat with his back to her, fully engrossed in his conversation with his companion. The woman was saying something animatedly, gesturing, laughing. He listened, smiling, and gently stroked her hand with his.
Outside, Alice stopped, leaning against the cool stone wall. The autumn night air burned her lungs but brought long-awaited relief. Irina immediately took out her phone to call a taxi.
“You’re coming to my place. It’ll be quiet there; we’ll discuss everything without prying eyes and ears.”
Alice only nodded silently, unable to utter a word. Inside there was only emptiness, huge and indifferent. For three years she had lived with the brand of a widow, for three years she had fought with the consequences of his supposed death, while he had been all this time alive, breathing, laughing, making new plans. While she buried an empty grave, his ghost had been enjoying perfect freedom.
The car arrived fairly quickly. Irina seated her friend in the back seat and gave the address. Alice looked out the window but didn’t see the flickering lights or the road. She was looking inward, into that emptiness where her life had once been. A heavy, cold stone lay in her chest.
At Irina’s place, Alice sank onto the soft sofa in the living room. Her friend quickly brewed strong, fragrant tea and set a cup right in front of her. Alice wrapped her hands around it automatically, feeling the warmth, but not daring to take a sip.
“Are you absolutely sure it was really him?” Irina asked carefully, as if touching a wound. “Could it still be a mistake? A trick of the imagination?”
“One hundred percent,” Alice replied, and for the first time that evening her voice sounded firm. “It’s him. Even that mole only I knew about. Even the tone of his voice hasn’t changed.”
Irina sat down beside her and took her cold hands into her warm ones.
“Then we’re obliged to do something. What he’s done is a serious offense. Possibly even a crime.”
Alice nodded. The initial shock and numbness were gradually receding, and in their place came a cold, clear, conscious fury. He had staged his own death, left her alone to clear away the rubble of financial problems, and himself calmly built a new life far from trouble. And he’d even dared to tell his new acquaintance that his wife had robbed him. He lied without batting an eye.
“I know a lawyer,” Alice said; her voice had become businesslike and composed. “We worked together when I was handling all the paperwork after the court’s decision. I need to call him. Right now.”
Irina instantly handed her the mobile phone. Alice dialed the well-known number. The call was answered after the third ring.
“Hello, Oleg Viktorovich? This is Alice Krylova. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
“Alice? Has something happened?” The lawyer’s voice showed genuine concern.
“Yes, something has. My husband… he’s alive. I saw him with my own eyes today. In a restaurant. With another woman.”
There was a short but tense pause. Oleg Viktorovich cleared his throat slightly.
“Are you absolutely certain? There can’t be any mistake?”
“Absolutely certain. It’s him. Every detail, every feature, his manner — everything is identical.”
“In that case we must meet as soon as possible. The situation is more than serious. Can you come to my office tomorrow morning?”
“I can,” Alice nodded, though the lawyer couldn’t see the gesture.
“Excellent. I’ll expect you at ten. Please prepare all the documents you still have from when your husband was declared dead. The court decision, all certificates, bank statements. Anything you can find may be important.”
Alice hung up. Irina immediately poured her more tea.
“Stay here tonight. In the morning, with a clear head, you’ll go to see the lawyer.”
Alice agreed. She didn’t feel like sleeping, but her physical strength was almost gone. She lay down on the sofa, and Irina covered her with a soft, cozy blanket. Turning off the light, her friend went to her bedroom. Alice lay in complete darkness, staring at the ceiling where reflections from street lamps danced. Thoughts, each more anxious than the last, circled in her head, not letting her drift into oblivion.
In the morning she got up with the first rays of the sun, got ready and went home to collect the documents. At home she took a special folder from the top shelf of the wardrobe, laid out all the papers and carefully checked them. The court’s decision, certificates from the banks about full repayment of the loans, the purchase-and-sale contract for the country house. Everything was in perfect order, every certificate, every receipt in its proper place.
She arrived at Oleg Viktorovich’s office ten minutes before the appointed time. The lawyer was already waiting for her at the entrance; he led her into his office and invited her to take a seat opposite his desk.
“Tell me everything from the very beginning, without skipping any, even the smallest details. Where, when, under what circumstances.”
Alice told him. Calmly, step by step, without unnecessary emotion, as if presenting a report on a work project. The restaurant on the riverfront, the table by the window, him and the unknown woman, their conversation about the accident and the wife who had supposedly taken everything. Oleg Viktorovich listened very attentively, occasionally making notes in his notebook.
“I see,” he concluded, putting his pen aside. “This is no longer just a personal tragedy or family discord. Here we clearly see the elements of criminal offenses: fraud, staging a death, possibly forging documents. We need to file an official complaint with law enforcement.”
“Right now?” Alice tensed involuntarily.
“Yes, right now. Delay could work against us. We must act before he realizes he’s been exposed and disappears again.”
Oleg Viktorovich took a blank sheet of paper and began dictating the text of the statement. Alice wrote carefully, making sure her handwriting was legible. The text came out dry and formal, made up only of facts, dates, and specific circumstances. Her husband had been declared dead three years earlier by a court decision, issued due to the absence of a body and the conclusions of the investigation. Alice had repaid all his debts, sold their joint property to cover the obligations. And he turned out to be alive, hiding and leading another life.
“Now we need to attach copies of all documents that support your words,” the lawyer explained. “The court’s decision is mandatory. Certificates from the banks on closing the loans — too. If you have the contract for the sale of the house, attach that as well.”
Alice spread all the papers out on the table. Oleg Viktorovich quickly looked them over, selected the necessary ones, and handed them to his assistant to be copied. Ten minutes later, the copies were ready, neatly filed in a separate folder.
“Now we’re going to the police station. We’ll file the statement and wait for them to take action.”
They arrived at the station around noon. The duty officer, having listened to them, sent them to an investigator who was in his office. The investigator, a man of about fifty with a tired but perceptive look, carefully read the statement and examined the attached documents; his face grew serious.
“This is a serious matter. If the information is confirmed, a criminal case will be opened under the appropriate article.”
“It will be confirmed,” Alice said confidently. “I have seen him myself. He is alive and well, sitting in a public place and telling his new acquaintance that I robbed him and left him penniless.”
The investigator nodded, making a note in the file.
“Very well. Leave the statement and all attached documents with us. We will begin an official inquiry. If we need additional explanations or papers, we’ll contact you.”
Leaving the police building, Alice felt an unusual lightness, as if that same concrete slab that had been pressing on her for three years had finally fallen from her shoulders. The first, hardest step had been taken. Now the law would speak.
That evening, Alice received a call from Oleg Viktorovich.
“Alice, we have the first news. The investigator handling your statement has requested and reviewed the materials of the original accident case. He’s begun comparing the facts. An interesting detail has come to light: it turns out that two months before the date of his official death, your husband issued a general power of attorney to a certain woman. Under this power of attorney she sold his car and withdrew all the money from his personal accounts.”
“What woman?” Alice instinctively tightened her grip on the phone.
“It hasn’t been established yet, but the work is in progress. However, even now it’s clear that he was preparing the ground for his disappearance in advance. He was moving assets, arranging documents, and then staged his death.”
Alice slowly sank onto the nearest chair. So it had all been planned. Carefully and cold-bloodedly. His disappearance was not an accident or a twist of fate. He had thought everything through in advance, found an accomplice, moved the money.
“What happens now?” she asked, feeling the wave of anger rising in her again.
“Now the investigation goes to work. They will look for him, look for this woman, trace the funds. If they find sufficient grounds, a criminal case will be opened.”
A week passed. Alice tried to live her normal life: she went to work, came home, did chores, but the constant waiting for news never left her for a minute. The phone was silent. There were no calls from Oleg. Irina came by every evening after work, bringing ready-made food and trying to distract her with small talk. Alice was grateful but could think of nothing but what was going on.
On the eighth day, the phone finally rang. The investigator’s number appeared on the screen.
“Alice Sergeevna? Your husband has been detained. This morning, as he was attempting to complete a real estate deal.”
Alice let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding all this time.
“Where exactly?”
“In one of the notary offices. He came with the very woman you saw him with at the restaurant. They were trying to sell her apartment — apparently they were preparing to leave, possibly even abroad. We detained them both on the spot.”
“What happens next?” Her voice sounded even and calm.
“Next come interrogations, forensic examinations, checks of financial operations. If we manage to prove the staged death for fraudulent purposes, a criminal case will be opened with real prison terms.”
Alice hung up. Her hands trembled slightly, but it was not from fear; it was from suppressed emotion. He had been caught. Now he would no longer be able to hide, to lie, to build his well-being on the ruins of her former life.
Irina rushed over that evening as soon as she got Alice’s message.
“So, they caught that man?”
“They did,” Alice nodded. “This morning.”
Her friend hugged her tightly, almost painfully.
“Good. You did absolutely the right thing. By the law and by your conscience.”
A few days later, Alice was summoned to the investigation office to give her formal testimony. The investigator asked a multitude of clarifying questions about their marriage, the debts, the sale of the country house. Alice answered clearly, backing up each word with documents, giving exact sums, dates, and names. The investigator listened carefully, wrote everything down, and periodically asked for more detail.
“Your husband,” the investigator said, putting the file aside, “continues to insist on his own version. He claims that it was you who wanted to get rid of him. That you sold the property without his knowledge and used the proceeds for your personal needs.”
Alice only gave a brief, bitter smile, with no hint of amusement in her eyes.
“I sold that house solely to pay off the loans he had taken. Here are the official bank certificates, here is the purchase-and-sale contract, here are the bank statements showing the transfers. Everything is transparent and documented; every last kopeck has its recipient.”
The investigator leafed through the documents she’d provided and nodded with satisfaction.
“Yes, everything is clear here. Your testimony is fully confirmed by the documentary evidence.”
Leaving the investigator’s office, Alice felt the last stone of anxiety fall from her heart. Her part of the work was done. She’d said all that she needed to say and provided all that was required. From here on, the relentless machinery of justice would move on its own.
About a week later, Oleg called her again.
“Alice, the case is gathering momentum. They’ve found that woman, the one who received the power of attorney three years ago. It’s the same lady from the restaurant, the blonde in the red dress. It turns out they were in a close relationship even before the staged accident. They planned the disappearance together and jointly moved the funds.”
“So he was deceiving me all that time,” Alice said quietly, feeling the old hurt rise up like a lump in her throat.
“Yes, and he did it for a long time and very deliberately. The investigators have found their personal correspondence, where they discussed the entire plan in detail. The staging, the movement of assets, getting new documents. Everything was thought through down to the last detail.”
“And what punishment are they facing?”
“Both are facing real prison terms. The charges are large-scale fraud, document forgery, staging a death. In addition, all those debts to the banks that you repaid will be recovered from him in your favor as financial compensation.”
Alice closed her eyes. A feeling of deep, almost physical relief washed over her. Justice, though late, was being done. Now he would no longer be able to tell fairy tales about a treacherous wife. He would no longer be able to build his future on lies and someone else’s pain.
She paid her last visit to Oleg about a month later. The lawyer solemnly handed her a thick folder of documents.
“All formalities have been settled. The court, taking all the circumstances into account, has recognized your marriage as invalid from the moment it was registered. Your husband has been formally charged under several articles of the criminal code. The investigation continues, but the outcome is practically predetermined. You are free. Absolutely and unconditionally.”
Alice took the folder and leafed through the pages with official seals and signatures. Everything was clear and legally precise, leaving no room for doubt. She signed the last necessary document and neatly wrote the date.
“Thank you, Oleg Viktorovich. For everything. For your support and your professionalism.”
The lawyer gave a restrained smile and shrugged.
“I simply did my job conscientiously. But you — you did wonderfully. You didn’t lose your head, you didn’t get scared, you didn’t let your emotions overpower your reason. Many in your place would have just walked out of that restaurant and swallowed the insult in silence, too afraid to face the truth.”
Alice shook her head, and in her eyes a spark flared up that hadn’t been there in a very long time.
“Swallow it in silence? After the three years of hell I had to go through? No. He had to answer for what he’d done. To the fullest extent of the law.”
She stepped out of the law firm onto the street. Autumn had taken full possession of the city. A cutting wind tore the last brown leaves from the branches; the sky was covered with a continuous gray sheet of low clouds. Alice buttoned her jacket all the way up and walked confidently toward the metro station.
Back home, the first thing she did was make herself a cup of hot, fragrant tea and sit down in her favorite armchair by the window. Outside, the big city’s life was in full swing. Streams of cars, people hurrying about their business, lights turning on one after another — all of it merged into a single, ever-moving picture. Alice looked at this evening scene and suddenly realized with absolute clarity that her life was not over. It was going on. And now this life would belong only to her. Without lies, without ghosts of the past, without the heavy burden she had been dragging behind her all these years.
He was gone. This time for real and forever. Not in the flames of a fake accident, not in a pile of forged papers. He had disappeared behind concrete walls and bars, in the place where he belonged. Alice was no longer a widow. No longer the victim of someone else’s vile and calculated plan. Now she was simply a woman who had passed through the inferno of despair and betrayal and still found the strength not to break, to stand firm, and to come out of this ordeal with her head held high and her dignity intact.
Her phone vibrated softly in her jacket pocket. She took it out and saw a message from Irina: “How are you feeling? Come over if you want, I’ve baked that apple pie you told me about.”
Alice smiled. Truly smiled — easily and freely. Her fingers flew over the screen, typing a reply: “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
She finished her tea, gathered her bag, and left the apartment, locking the door behind her. Life was waiting for her. Real, honest, hard-won and deserved. And she alone would decide what to do with that life. She walked down the street, the wind tugging at her hair, but she no longer felt cold. She felt free. She was like a river that, having passed through all the obstacles and rapids, had finally come out into its own calm and majestic channel. And ahead lay only the sea. A sea of new opportunities, new hopes, and a new, genuine happiness