Chapter One: The Forest and the Cry
The village was vanishing. Out of eighteen houses, only two had life left in them. In one lived old Varvara, stubborn as the wild weeds outside her door. In the other, Stepan and Anastasia — childless, but not alone. They had Mitrich the goat, three does, a scatter of chickens, and a garden they kept more out of rhythm than need. Groceries came once a week on a dusty mail truck from town.
That August morning, Anastasia tied on her old headscarf, grabbed her woven basket, and stepped into the forest — her refuge. Birch mushrooms were ripe, the woods generous, like they remembered her patience. She hummed a lullaby from another life as leaves crunched underfoot.
Then she heard it — soft, broken crying. No, not one voice. Two.
She froze. Listened. And then ran.
In a clearing by an old tree stump lay a jacket, bunched up like a bundle. Inside — two newborns. Naked. Pink. Still attached by their umbilical cords. A boy and a girl.
She dropped to her knees. Tears poured.
“Oh Lord,” she whispered, pressing the baby girl to her chest. “Who could do this to you?”
She wrapped them back in the jacket and carried them home. Not as a savior — just as a woman who still had love left to give.
When she stepped out of the woods, Stepan was smoking on the porch.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Babies,” she said simply. “I found them in the forest.”
He didn’t speak. He got up, opened the door, warmed the goat’s milk.
“Nastya,” he said after a while, “we can’t keep them.”
“I know,” she said, her voice breaking. “But we can’t leave them either.”
She didn’t cry out of fear — she cried because at sixty years old, something wild had happened. Something holy.
Chapter Two: The Miracle Grows
They named them Makar and Darya. The kids grew up in the quiet hum of the countryside. Stepan changed diapers with the same hands that once built fences and hauled hay. Anastasia sang lullabies through cracked lips and kissed away nightmares.
When the twins turned six, a letter came. The boarding school wanted them.
Anastasia packed tiny bundles with hand-sewn shirts and dried apples. At the gate, the children clung to them.
“Grandma,” Makar whispered, “don’t leave us.”
“We’ll be back soon, right?” asked Darya.
Anastasia nodded through tears. But her heart cracked open again.
Chapter Three: The Truth
Eighteen years passed.
On their birthday, Makar and Darya learned the truth.
They had been found. Left. Abandoned.
That night, Makar couldn’t sleep. He sat in the hayloft where he used to hide during storms. Now the storm was inside him.
Darya lay restless, imagining stories where maybe their mother had no choice. Maybe she had been scared. Maybe…
But Makar? He was done imagining.
They went to the district archives. A dusty file confirmed it:
Lilia S. — 18 years old. Pregnant. Unregistered. Vanished two weeks after giving birth.
“L.S.,” Darya whispered. “It’s her.”
“We’ll find her,” Makar said.
They asked the village elder, Varvara. She remembered Lilia well.
“Beautiful. Proud. Wanted the city, fame, a stage. She stayed in the old bathhouse. Then one day — poof. Gone.”
Darya searched online.
She found her.
Lilia was polished, posing next to a well-dressed man. Captions full of gratitude and hashtags.
“She has everything,” Darya said, shaking. “And she left us with nothing.”
Makar went to see her.
Chapter Four: The Café Confrontation
She walked into the café at exactly 10:30. Designer heels. Perfect makeup. Croissant and cappuccino.
Makar waited. Then stood. Approached.
“Excuse me. Are you Lilia Sergeyevna?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Why?”
He pulled out the photo. Her, years ago, wearing the jacket that once cradled two lives.
She paled, just for a moment.
“I don’t know what this is.”
“I’m one of the babies you left to die in the woods.”
He didn’t raise his voice. But it hit like thunder.
She stood. Flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m late.”
And then she walked out.
Makar didn’t follow.
He didn’t need her tears. But he had hoped for a sliver of regret.
