A dense, oppressive silence enveloped the apartment, saturated with the scent of incense and wilted lilies. Marina sat at the edge of the couch, hunched over, as though bearing the weight of an invisible burden. Her black dress clung to her body, stinging, a constant reminder of the reason for that funereal silence: that day, she had buried her grandmother, Eiroïda Anatol’evna, the last loved one she had left in the world.
Across from her, in an armchair, sat her husband, Andrej. His presence felt like a mockery — after all, the next day they were supposed to file for divorce. He hadn’t uttered a word of sympathy, merely watching her in silence, barely hiding his irritation, as if just waiting for this tedious charade to be over.
Marina stared at a fixed point — the faded pattern of the carpet — and felt the last sparks of hope for reconciliation extinguish slowly, leaving behind an icy void.
“Well, my condolences for your loss,” Andrej finally broke the silence, his voice laced with biting sarcasm. “Now you’re a wealthy lady. An heiress! I bet your dear granny left you all sorts of treasures, eh? Ah yes, I almost forgot — the greatest treasure of all, an old, stinking ZIL. Congratulations. A luxury acquisition.”
His words pierced her heart deeper than any blade. Memories of endless fights, screams, tears resurfaced. Her grandmother, the rare-named Eiroïda, had despised her son-in-law from the start.
“He’s a scoundrel, Marinka,” she would say sternly. “As empty as a barrel. Be careful — he’ll strip you bare and throw you away.”
And Andrej would only smirk, calling her “the old witch.”
How many times had Marina been caught in the crossfire, trying to soften their conflicts, how many tears had she shed, believing everything could still be saved?
Now she understood: her grandmother had seen the truth from the very beginning.
“Speaking of your ‘brilliant’ future,” Andrej continued, savoring his cruelty. He stood up, adjusting his expensive jacket.
“You don’t need to show up at work tomorrow. I already fired you. The order was signed this morning. So, my dear, soon even that ‘ZIL’ will feel like a luxury. When you’re digging through dumpsters for food, you’ll think of me with gratitude.”
It was over. Not just the marriage — but the entire life she had built around that man. The last hope that he might show even a sliver of humanity had died. In its place, deep in her soul, a cold, pure hatred began to form — slow, but relentless.
Marina lifted her empty eyes to him, but said nothing. What was the point? Everything had already been said. Without a word, she stood, walked to the bedroom, grabbed her bag, already packed. She didn’t respond to his taunts and laughter. Clutching the key to the long-forgotten old apartment, she walked out without looking back.
The street greeted her with the evening’s cold wind. Marina stopped beneath a dim streetlamp, setting down two heavy suitcases. Before her stood a grey, nine-story building — the home of her childhood and youth, where her parents had once lived.
She hadn’t set foot there in years. After the car accident that took her mother and father, her grandmother had sold her own flat and moved in, to raise her granddaughter. Those walls held too much pain, and after marrying Andrej, Marina had avoided the place, meeting her grandmother anywhere else but there.
Now, it was her only refuge. She thought bitterly of Eiroïda Anatol’evna — her only support, her mother, father, and friend. And she, in these past years, had visited so rarely, consumed by her job in her husband’s company and the futile attempts to salvage a crumbling marriage. A burning guilt stabbed her heart. The tears she’d held in all day came rushing out. She shook with silent sobs, small and lost in a huge, indifferent city.
“Ma’am, do you need help?” came a hoarse little voice nearby.
Marina jumped. Before her stood a boy of about ten, wearing a coat far too big and worn-out shoes. Despite his dirty face, his gaze was clear — almost adult-like. He pointed at the suitcases:
“Heavy, huh?”
Marina quickly wiped away her tears. His bluntness caught her off guard.
“No, I can manage…” she began, but her voice trembled.
The boy looked at her closely.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, not with childish curiosity, but with a calm, adult tone.
“Happy people don’t cry on the street with suitcases.”
Those simple words made Marina look at him differently. In his eyes there was no pity, no mockery — only understanding.
“My name’s Serëža,” he said.
“Marina,” she sighed, feeling the tension begin to ease.
“Alright, Serëža. Help me.”
