The village was quiet—bare trees, rain-slick branches, and the soft patter of droplets on her umbrella. Olesya walked in silence, lost in memories of Andrey: his laugh, his rough hands, the way he said her name like a secret.
Life before him had been hard—an orphanage, vocational school, night shifts at the metalworks. Then Andrey appeared, an engineer unafraid to get his hands dirty. He saw her, really saw her. Their bond grew over shared lunches and tired conversations. When she found out she was pregnant, he was ecstatic and proposed under the dim dorm lights. “I want you to meet my family,” he said. But Olesya hesitated, afraid of their judgment. Three months ago, Andrey left to visit them alone. “Just a few days,” he promised. He never came back. Rumors swirled—he’d abandoned her, couldn’t handle it. Olesya refused to believe it. Then she overheard the truth: he had been mugged near a train station. He hadn’t survived.
Now, she walked the cemetery path, chrysanthemums clutched in her hand. At his grave, she collapsed, tears spilling freely.
As the cold crept in, she realized her phone was missing. Searching for shelter, she spotted a nearby mausoleum. She slipped inside, murmuring, “I just need to rest.”
Then—buzzing. A phone, not hers, vibrated on the stone floor.
She answered. A man’s voice: “Hi! That’s my phone—I lost it yesterday.”
“I’m in the cemetery,” she said weakly.
“I was working there. Must’ve dropped it.”
“I wasn’t feeling well…”
Her vision blurred. The phone slipped from her hand.
