The cold autumn wind chased colorful leaves along the asphalt, and little Artyom felt just as lonely and abandoned as one of them. The orphanage was not a home to him, but a state institution where life flowed by in dull, joyless gray. And once again he ran away, unable to bear the weight of loneliness behind the high fence.
On his way he met an elderly woman, struggling to carry two heavy bags. She seemed like a lonely little island in the raging stream of the city.
“Let me help you,” the boy offered timidly, running up to her.
“Oh, thank you, dear. Yes, please help,” she sighed with relief, handing him one of the bags.
They walked slowly along the sidewalk.
“Do you have far to go?” Artyom asked.
“No, I live very close, on the first floor,” the woman replied.
When they reached the entrance, the boy handed her the bags.
“Here you go.”
The woman rummaged in her pocket and took out a few coins.
“I’m sorry, little one, this is all I have,” she said sadly, and disappeared into the dark doorway.
Artyom squeezed the cool coins in his fist. He didn’t care about them. He just wanted to talk to someone who would see in him not a “problem child of the system,” but simply a kid.
Fate had it so that a few days later he saw that same grandma again. This time she had only one bag in her hands. Artyom ran up to her without hesitation.
“Hello! Let me carry that for you.”
“Hello, hello,” she smiled. “Let’s go together.”
“Tell me, why are you always alone?” Artyom dared to ask.
“Well, that’s just how life turned out,” she sighed. “And you are my only helper. And it seems, a selfless one at that.”
They walked like this for almost a week. And then Artyom finally gathered his courage.
“Let’s go to a café? I’ll treat you!” he said, his eyes shining.
“Oh now, dear boy, what café… I have things to do at home,” she waved it off, and moisture glimmered in the corners of her eyes.
“Come on, just for a little while!” the boy insisted, taking her by the arm. “I saved up especially for this.”
“All right, you’ve convinced me,” she gave in. “I know exactly how you must have saved.”
In a cozy café, Artyom ordered two ice creams. He ate his with such delight as if it were the finest dessert in the world. The grandma, whom he now knew as Anna Viktorovna, watched him fondly.
“You finish mine, I can’t eat any more,” she offered.
Artyom gladly agreed. When he was full, he stretched with satisfaction.
“Now I can go back home.”
“And what… institution are you from?” Anna Viktorovna asked carefully.
“It’s not far from here,” he nodded toward the window.
“I see,” she said quietly.
As they said goodbye, Artyom turned back.
“Come visit me sometime.”
“I definitely will,” the woman promised, and genuine warmth shone in her eyes.
When he returned to the orphanage, the boy was in for a harsh talk with the director.
“Where have you been? Wandering the streets again?” the woman asked sternly.
“I was with Grandma. I helped her, and then we went to a café. I treated her,” Artyom mumbled, staring at the floor.
“You made up a grandma to cover your tracks?” the director smirked.
“No! She’s real!” the boy flared up. “She’s kind and lonely, just like me!”
As punishment, they locked him in the isolation room. Artyom pressed himself against the cold wall, and his heart shrank with pain. He imagined Anna Viktorovna waiting for him the next day by her entrance with a little bag of milk, and him not coming.
When they let him out a day later, the caregivers watched him closely. But Artyom, patiently waiting for his chance, once again found a gap in the fence and broke free. He ran without really watching where he was going, and a lucky coincidence brought him to her yet again.
“Artyomushka! Where have you been? I was starting to worry!” she exclaimed when she saw him.
“I was punished,” he said simply. “But now I’m here.”
They went into a store to buy groceries, and the boy’s gaze fell on a simple spirit level. He froze, staring at the coveted tool.
“Did you see something you like?” Anna Viktorovna came up to him.
“It’s a level. For straight walls,” he explained shyly.
“Oh, what complicated things you’re interested in! Let’s buy it.”
“No, we shouldn’t!” Artyom protested. “It’s expensive.”
“You’ve helped me so much, and I can’t give you just a small present?” she insisted.
When they left the store, Artyom was clutching the precious level in his hands. He was glowing with happiness.
“Well, are you pleased?” the grandma asked gently.
“Very! Thank you so much!”
That day he didn’t go back to the orphanage, afraid they would take his gift away. He spent the night at the train station, and in the morning he came again to Anna Viktorovna’s building. When she found him on the bench under her window, she didn’t scold him; after a deep sigh, she made a decision.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to someone,” she said mysteriously and led him upstairs.
The apartment smelled of medicine and freshly made pancakes. While Anna Viktorovna bustled in the kitchen, Artyom noticed pill bottles and bandages on a shelf.
“Are you ill?” he asked anxiously.
“No, dear, they’re not for me,” her voice trembled. “They’re for… for a woman. She’s very unwell.”
Later, as they sat over tea with those very pancakes, Anna Viktorovna confessed:
“Artyom, I’m a retired nurse. And I took a woman home from the hospital to care for her. She… she was considered incurable. She’s lying in that room.”
The boy looked at the closed door, and his heart began to pound. Something inexplicable was drawing him there.
“May I see her? Just a little peek?” he asked.
Anna Viktorovna looked at him for a long time and then nodded.
“Only quietly, and don’t be frightened.”
She opened the door a crack. A thin woman lay on the bed with her eyes closed. And in that moment, Artyom’s heart stopped. He recognized her. It was a vague, deeply buried memory flashing like lightning. He had seen that face in the only old photograph someone had once shown him.
“Mom…” he breathed.
Anna Viktorovna quickly closed the door.
“What are you saying, Artyom! You must be mistaken!”
“She’s my mom,” he insisted, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I recognized her.”
The old woman sank onto a chair, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Forgive me, child… Yes, she is your mother. They were supposed to move her to a hospice, but I couldn’t allow that. I once promised her… I secretly took her home. Everyone thought she wouldn’t survive. But she fought. All these years she’s been fighting.”
From that day on, Artyom’s life gained a new meaning. He came every day, sat down next to his mother, took her hand, and told her about everything in the world: school, the books he’d read, his dreams. Anna Viktorovna obtained permission for his frequent visits, and the caregivers, seeing how he had changed, did not interfere.
Time passed. For New Year’s, Artyom made his most cherished wish — that his mother would get better. And a miracle began to happen. First she moved her fingers slightly, hugging his hand. Then she opened her eyes. And one day she quietly whispered, “Son…”
She slowly began to recover. Anna Viktorovna, who had become like a real grandmother to them, helped with all her strength. But the years took their toll, and her own health began to fade. Before she passed away, she managed to arrange the papers so that the apartment would go to Artyom and his mother.
They were left just the two of them. His mother, though stronger, still couldn’t walk long distances. And one day Artyom, now a seventh-grader, came home with a large package.
“Mom, close your eyes!” he asked.
When she opened them, there was a new folding wheelchair in front of her.
“It’s for our walks,” he said, beaming. “Now we’ll go out every day. I’ll wheel you along all our streets, and we’ll look at the clouds together.”
She hugged him, and in her eyes shone tears of boundless love and gratitude.
“Thank you, my son. You found me. You saved me.”
A beautiful ending:
Years passed. Artyom grew up and became a construction worker. That very spirit level, once given to him by Anna Viktorovna, always held a place of honor in his workshop. He became a solid support for his mother, who, thanks to his care and love, had learned to enjoy life again.
They often went to the quiet cemetery to visit Anna Viktorovna. Artyom would place simple flowers on her grave and whisper:
“Thank you for everything. You reached out to me when I was alone and led me to the greatest treasure of all — my mother.”
Their story was like a fragile sprout that had pushed its way through thick asphalt. It told of how the most important things in life are not loud words and grand gestures, but quiet, daily care — the kind that can melt the ice of loneliness and give the world one more grain of warmth and hope. And this hope, like a relay baton, was passed on — from the kind hand of an old woman to the heart of a lonely boy, and from his heart — to a mother found in her darkest hour