“Again, Kira? You came in without calling. How long is this going to keep happening?” Lera’s voice shook—not from fear, but from pure exhaustion.
“Oh my God, why are you starting this first thing in the morning?” Kira fired back from the entryway as the front door banged. “I’m here for one minute! I just need to grab my lipstick and I’m gone.”
Lera stood barefoot in the bedroom doorway, pulling her robe closed. The clock read 7:20—still dark outside, a bleak November morning. Maksim slept with his face buried in the pillow, hair sticking up in a messy tuft. She looked at him and let out a tired sigh.
From the bathroom came the clink of bottles.
“Kira, at least call before you let yourself in with a key,” Lera said, stepping into the hall. “This is not normal.”
“Oh, come on,” Kira turned around with a smile. “We’re family. Or did you already forget I’m basically your sister now?”
She rolled a mascara tube between her fingers, winked at the mirror, and with practiced confidence swept the brush across her lashes.
Kira was the kind of person who somehow filled more space than she physically occupied. Loud, flashy, always in motion—and yet always empty-handed and perpetually out of money. She was “studying journalism,” supposedly, but no one could remember which year… including Kira herself.
“By the way,” she said, pivoting toward Lera as if nothing was wrong, “is this new mascara? Can I try it?”
“No. And also—give back the one you took last time.”
“I will! Just not right now, okay?”
“Kira,” Lera said, rubbing her forehead, drained. “I’m serious. You have your own makeup.”
“Wow. You’re really cheap,” Kira scoffed. “Max, wake up—tell her something!”
A sleepy voice came from the bedroom:
“Kir… let Lera have a calm morning, will you?”
“I’m literally just here for my lipstick!” Kira called back, already zipping up her jacket. “Fine, fine, I’m leaving.”
When the door slammed behind her, Lera dropped into a chair in the kitchen and stared out the window. Mid-November. Gray sky. Cars below crawled along with headlights on, and a janitor raked wet leaves into dark, soggy piles.
Saturday. It should’ve been quiet—coffee, breakfast, the two of them. But no. Saturday had started with Kira again.
The apartment had belonged to Lera’s grandmother. Three rooms in an old building: ceilings higher than a person, oak parquet floors, heavy old doors, locks that clicked sharply. When Lera inherited it, it felt like she’d been given more than keys—she’d inherited warmth, comfort, memory. Maksim moved in after the wedding, two months ago.
The wedding had been modest, but everyone seemed happy. Maksim’s parents—especially his mother, Galina Petrovna—hugged Lera and whispered:
“Don’t leave little Kira behind now. She’s all we have. You’ll be like an older sister to her, right?”
Back then, Lera hadn’t thought much of it. Now she understood every word.
Kira showed up practically every other day. Sometimes she needed a charger, sometimes food, sometimes to “change before meeting someone,” sometimes to “just sit here because I’m bored.” Her “one minute” stretched into half the day. She brought cheap perfume, loud music, and a feeling of chaos with her.
At first, Maksim joked:
“You know Kira. She’s like a draft—she blows in, swirls around, and blows right back out.”
But the draft turned into a storm.
On Wednesday, while Lera was working from home on a report, the doorbell rang again.
“Hi!” Kira burst in with a friend—a striking brunette in a leather jacket. “This is Marina! We’re just here for an hour, okay? Her boyfriend’s driving her insane—she needs a distraction.”
They settled in at the kitchen table, opened Lera’s coffee, and pulled out the cookies Lera had baked the night before. Laughter, shrieks, endless talk about “toxic men”—it echoed through the apartment, making it impossible to concentrate.
When the girls finally left, Lera walked into the kitchen and froze. Dirty mugs. Coffee spilled. Crumbs everywhere. And… her lipstick was gone. The expensive one—Maksim’s gift. Later she noticed more missing: her perfume, her silk scarf. And her vanity table looked like a tornado had hit it.
“Max,” she said that evening when he got home, “we need to talk about your sister.”
“Again?” Maksim took off his jacket and put the kettle on. “What happened?”
“My things keep disappearing. Lipstick, perfume, scarf.”
“Maybe you put them somewhere and forgot.”
“I don’t forget where I put my things,” Lera said evenly. “She takes them without asking.”
Maksim went quiet.
“Ler… it’s Kira. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“It doesn’t matter whether she means it or not! She has no right!”
“Look, you do let her borrow stuff sometimes. Maybe she figured it was okay.”
“I let her borrow something once a month—not every single week!”
“God…” Maksim rubbed his temples. “Just give her the lipstick. You’ve got a ton.”
Lera looked at her husband and realized he truly didn’t understand. Not because he didn’t care—because he didn’t know how to see boundaries.
She didn’t answer.
Her grandmother’s jewelry box sat on the bedroom dresser: dark wood, mother-of-pearl inlay, a delicate pattern of tiny leaves. Inside were old pieces—not expensive, but priceless to her. Silver earrings, an amber brooch, a ring with a dark stone. Grandma Sofya Markovna used to say, “Protect it, Lerочка. It’s not gold. It’s history.”
And Lera did protect it. Every week she opened it, wiped the velvet lining, and gently sorted through the rings.
On Friday afternoon, Kira texted:
Ler, I’ll pop in to take that blouse—the white one. Hope you don’t mind?
Lera was at the office and didn’t get a chance to reply. She came home late—everything seemed fine.
But Monday evening, when she walked into the bedroom, her heart dropped.
The box was gone.
“Max!” she shouted. “Max, come here!”
He stepped out of the bathroom in a towel, looking confused.
“What happened?”
“The box! It’s gone!”
“What box?”
“My grandmother’s. It was on the dresser.”
“Maybe you moved it.”
“No. I didn’t touch it!”
They tore the room apart. Under the bed, in the closets, on the shelves—nothing.
Lera felt goosebumps race across her skin.
“Who else has keys to this apartment?” she asked quietly.
Maksim hesitated.
“Kira.”
“Kira,” Lera repeated. “So that’s who’s been coming in.”
“Wait, Lera, you’re jumping to—she wouldn’t. It’s just…”
“Just what? Stealing?”
“She’s not a thief!”
“Then call her.”
With a heavy sigh, Maksim pulled out his phone. The call was short.
“Kir, hey. You didn’t happen to take a wooden jewelry box from us—Lera’s? No? Okay.”
He hung up and looked at his wife.
“She says she didn’t take it.”
“Of course she says that,” Lera smirked bitterly. “Do you even believe her yourself?”
“She’s my sister, Ler.”
“And I’m your wife. And I’m telling you—she took it.”
He said nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face.
“Tomorrow I’ll go to her. I’ll figure it out.”
The next day, Kira didn’t answer. Nobody at her dorm had seen her for days. Maksim grew dark and silent, smoking by the window—something he never used to do. Lera sat at her laptop, unable to work.
That evening, on a gut feeling, she opened a classifieds site. In the search bar she typed: “wooden box mother-of-pearl inlay.”
On the second page—photos. Blurry, but painfully familiar.
Lera clapped a hand over her mouth. It was hers. Her grandmother’s.
The ad was dated three days ago. A phone number. A name: “Marina.”
Her hands shook as she hit Call.
“Hello?” A woman answered—older, tired.
“Hi, I’m calling about the jewelry box. Is it still for sale?”
“Yes, it’s still available. It’s a beautiful piece. Want to see it?”
“Yes. Can we meet today?”
“Sure. Six o’clock. Pushkinskaya, by the café called ‘Brooch.’”
Lera agreed, then immediately texted Maksim:
I found the box. It’s listed for sale. I’m meeting the seller tonight.
The reply came fast:
Wait. I’m coming with you.
They arrived early, around 5:30. A light drizzle fell, the sky heavy and low. The café on the corner glowed warmly; the air smelled like coffee and wet asphalt.
Right at six, a woman about fifty walked up in a gray coat, carrying a large bag.
“Hello, you’re here about the box?” she asked.
“Yes,” Lera nodded.
The woman opened her bag and pulled it out. Lera almost cried out.
It was the box.
Every scratch. Every curve of the pattern.
“My daughter gave it to me,” the woman said. “Said she didn’t need it—told me to sell it.”
“Your daughter?” Lera asked. “What’s her name?”
“Marina.”
Maksim exchanged a look with Lera.
“Does she have a friend named Kira, by any chance?” he asked.
“Uh… yes, I think that’s her name,” the woman frowned. “They study together. Why?”
“This item was stolen,” Maksim said, steady and firm.
The woman went pale. “What? No! My daughter brought it—she said her friend gave it to her!”
“Her friend is Kira,” Lera said quietly. “My husband’s sister.”
Silence.
Then the woman exhaled, pulled off a glove, and held the box out.
“Take it. I didn’t know. I swear.”
Lera pressed it to her chest. Tears surged, but she forced them back.
They said goodbye, got into the car, and sat in silence.
Maksim started the engine, then didn’t drive.
“Ler… I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say you understand now.”
He nodded.
“I do.”
The next morning, the lock clicked again.
“Well? Did you find it?” Kira’s voice rang out from the hallway. “I heard you’ve been looking for me.”
Kira stood in the doorway, chewing gum, phone in hand.
The jewelry box lay on the table. Maksim stood near the window. Lera sat across from him—tired, but calm.
“Kira, sit down,” Maksim said.
Her eyes flicked to the table, and for a split second something like panic crossed her face.
“So what?” she said.
“You stole the box,” Lera said.
“I didn’t steal it—I took it. Big difference.”
“Without asking. To sell it.”
Kira shrugged. “I needed money. I would’ve brought it back later.”
“Brought it back?” Lera repeated. “The box you listed for sale through your friend?”
“Oh my God, stop being so dramatic!”
Maksim turned sharply.
“Kira, do you even understand what you did?”
“What did I do?” Kira snapped. “I took an old box to make a little cash! Lera has everything—she wouldn’t miss it!”
Lera stood, stepping closer. Her voice trembled, but her words were razor-clear.
“It’s not a box. It’s memory. And you stole it without even realizing you weren’t stealing an object—you were stealing a piece of someone’s life.”
Kira backed up and twisted her mouth in a scowl.
“Whatever. This is all about the apartment anyway. You got married, Max, and that’s it—now I’m nobody to you, right?”
“Kira,” Maksim said quietly, “leave the keys. And go.”
“What?”
“The keys. To the apartment.”
“Max, are you serious? I’m your sister!”
“Exactly why I’m asking you calmly,” he said. “Leave the keys.”
She threw the keyring onto the floor.
“Fine! Live in your stupid museum then.”
The door slammed.
Lera sank into the armchair and closed her eyes. Maksim picked up the keys and placed them on the shelf.
“I should’ve listened to you sooner,” he said softly.
She didn’t answer. She just sat there, feeling the tension drain out of the room.
Outside, slow flakes began to fall—first snow of the year.
That was the end of one home that had held three people for far too long.
And ahead was the conversation that would have to happen that evening—with Maksim’s mother.
Lera’s phone vibrated, cutting through the quiet. She already knew who it was.
Galina Petrovna.
“What on earth did you do to Kira?!” the woman shrieked, as if yelling straight into Lera’s ear. “How could you throw out your own sister?! I told you—she’s just a child!”
Lera gripped the jewelry box in her lap until her fingers hurt. Maksim stood nearby, hands in his pockets, silent. He didn’t want to interrupt, but he heard every word.
“Mom,” he said calmly, without his usual irritation, “listen to me. Kira stole Lera’s family heirloom. She tried to sell it. That isn’t childish mischief—it’s theft.”
“But she’s my daughter!” Galina’s voice cracked, rising higher. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” Maksim cut in, still not raising his voice. “Because Lera is my wife, and this is her home. Kira crossed every line there is. Until she understands that and apologizes, she isn’t coming back here.”
“But…” his mother tried again, but Maksim stayed silent, jaw clenched.
“Stop,” Lera said quietly. “We’re talking about boundaries. Trust. Respect. And memory.”
“Memory?” Galina nearly screamed. “Don’t be ridiculous! She’s your husband’s sister!”
“Yes,” Lera replied evenly. “She is. But this is my home. And until she admits what she did, she doesn’t come back.”
“I…” Galina’s voice faltered. The line went quiet—only silence.
Lera sat down on the couch, opened the jewelry box, pulled out the brooch, and pinned it carefully to her blouse. Maksim walked over and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
“You look… calm,” he murmured.
“I am,” Lera smiled. “But it’s a long road. I don’t want Kira breaking our boundaries again.”
“I get it,” Maksim nodded. “And I want us to do this together.”
The next day the apartment returned to ordinary life. Maksim went to work. Lera cleaned the kitchen, folded things away, poured coffee into cups. But the tension didn’t vanish completely. It sat inside her like a tight knot you couldn’t cut with scissors—only loosen with time and real decisions.
A week later, Maksim learned from his father that Kira had moved out of the dorm and in with some guy. Their parents exhaled in relief. Maksim didn’t soften.
“When she finally understands she was wrong,” he said, “we’ll talk. But right now I can’t even look at her.”
Lera opened the box again and took out the brooch. In her hands it felt alive—not just an object, but a memory no words could replace. Pinning it to her blouse, she looked into the mirror. For a second, it felt as if her grandmother stood beside her, nodding with approval.
“Beautiful,” a quiet voice said behind her.
Maksim hugged her and kissed her temple.
“Yes,” Lera smiled. “It really is.”
They stood at the window, looking out at the city: rooftops of old buildings, golden church domes in the distance. The apartment held them in warmth and silence—her grandmother’s warmth, now belonging only to them.
The November morning faded into first snowflakes outside. Lera made breakfast. Maksim read the paper. And the apartment had no more intrusions—no loud drop-ins, no чужие smells, no chaos.
“We made it,” Lera said as they set the table together.
“We did,” Maksim agreed. “And it’s not the end. We just set boundaries.”
They sat down. Coffee cups warmed their hands. The smell of fresh bread mixed with cinnamon drifting from the oven.
“You know,” Lera said, “I don’t want to be afraid anymore—of my things, my memories, what matters to me.”
“Me neither,” Maksim said, taking her hand. “And I hear you. I’ll always hear you.”
“The main thing,” Lera added, “is that now it’s the two of us. And nobody else gets to decide what’s important in our home.”
Maksim nodded. A beam of sunlight slid across the patterns on the box, now displayed on the dresser. Lera walked over and lifted the lid—the jewelry inside shimmered softly.
“Grandma was right,” Lera said, smiling. “This is our home. Our rules.”
Maksim placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close.
“Ours,” he repeated. “And no one’s getting in again.”
Lera closed her eyes and listened to the apartment: the quiet hum of the radiator, raindrops tapping the glass, a distant car horn. The silence was full of meaning—because they had finally earned it.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” Maksim asked.
“For being here. And for finally hearing me.”
He smiled. Their fingers intertwined. Outside, the city kept its noisy rhythm, but inside this home there was only their life now—their memory, their choices.
The jewelry box stood on the dresser, and no one but Lera touched it again.
And for the first time in weeks, Lera could breathe freely.