The squeak was sharp, almost painful—like the door didn’t open but groaned, revealing age and resentment. Agrafena Tikhonovna flinched, although she had long been ready: she turned the key twice, stood for a moment by the gap, as though waiting for an answer. Not from the door—but from her very heart, where something heavy suddenly tightened, as though a memory had gathered into a fist.
Inside the shed, there was the smell of rust, wet wood, and something undefined, as though time itself had settled here long ago and had no intention of leaving.
She stepped inside—and froze. Dust rose, swirled in a beam of light that pierced through a crack in the boards. And there, among the clutter, she saw it—the shovel. Not just any shovel, but this one. With a darkened handle, covered in dried earth. Why this object? Why now? She didn’t know. But suddenly, she understood—she had to start digging.
It all began with it—the shovel. Not with thoughts, not with knee pain, not with loneliness, which had long been her companion. With this simple, rough tool, which had suddenly become more important than anything else in the world.
Agrafena went out into the yard and sat by the fence—where gladioluses had once bloomed. Once… before everything that happened after.
She didn’t look for a place to dig. She simply walked along the fence—the right side of the yard. Her father always said: “Start from the edge, daughter. That way, the earth will tell you what’s hidden in it.” And she began. But she wasn’t plowing the earth—she was plowing memories.
The shovel easily entered the soft, loose soil, as if someone had been waiting for this touch. She didn’t rush. Each swing was measured, almost cautious—as if she wasn’t digging, but talking to herself. With each motion, it seemed as though some layer of her soul was being blown away. Here, underfoot, lay the past—a dense lump, ready to come to the surface, just waiting to be dug a little deeper.
Half an hour passed, or more—it didn’t matter anymore. The sun crept behind the bathhouse roof. Agrafena straightened up, looked at the shovel’s mark in the ground, and suddenly thought: “What if I find something?”—and immediately got scared of this thought. Because she didn’t even know what she was looking for.
The next day, Semyon dropped by. Young, broad-shouldered, with lively eyes and hands accustomed to work. As usual, he brought milk in a tin flask. Seeing Agrafena, he stopped. His gaze lingered on the flowerbed, her boots, the dark furrow in the ground.
“Hello, Agrafena Tikhonovna. You’re… making garden beds?”
She looked away, took the flask, and set it on the bench.
“I want to plant flowers,” she answered calmly. “Spring is coming.”
Her voice was too even—like someone who had practiced the same phrase for a long time. He nodded, smiled, but distrust lingered in his eyes.
When the woman left, Semyon stood by the gate a little longer. He looked at the ground. No seeds, no seedlings. Just neat little holes—as if someone had been searching, but didn’t know exactly where.
At home, at dinner, he told his wife everything.
“Something strange. She’s not planting anything, just digging. Shadows under her eyes, hands up to her elbows in dirt… Like she’s been at it all night…”
“Do you think she’s losing her mind?” asked Zoya, stirring the soup. “Since Tikhon, she’s been like this. Doesn’t say anything, always alone. They say he suffered a lot before he died…”
Semyon shrugged but remembered: “She’s digging, but not planting.” Especially how her eyes darted when he said “garden beds.” As if he had called them graves.
Since that evening, he began looking out the window more often. And one night, he noticed: there was light flickering in the garden. Faint, trembling—not from the window, not from a lamp, but straight from the earth. And again, he heard the familiar sound—the clang of metal.
Semyon stood by the glass, motionless. The light was weak, but it was enough to see: in the old woman’s hands was the shovel again. She was digging slowly, carefully, as though she knew—each swing could reveal something more than just earth. Something she feared.
In the morning, he decided to approach. Without a reason, without the milk. Just—passing by.
Agrafena was carrying water. Her scarf slipped off to the side, her eyes red, dirt under her nails—engraved like a shadow.
“Good morning,” he said as naturally as he could. “I see you’re working. New holes, one after another. But why aren’t you planting anything?”
She froze. Then quickly set the bucket down, looked away.
“Can I help?” he gently offered. “I have a sharp, light shovel. I could dig up the whole edge for you in an hour…”
She suddenly turned around. In her eyes—murky pain, in her voice—a tremor. But not madness, more like exhaustion.
“No, son,” she whispered. “It’s not about flowers. I’m looking for… He told me before he died. About the son…”
Semyon said nothing. He just stood there, like rooted to the spot.
“He told me everything,” Agrafena Tikhonovna continued. “Our boy… he didn’t run away. He didn’t get lost. It was Tikhon… out of anger. Over some childish mischief. He hit him. And then he got scared. He buried him. Here. Somewhere here.”
Her voice was calm, almost indifferent—as though she had already lived through the pain to the end and was left alone within herself. But her eyes gave everything away: there was something in them that made Semyon look away.
“I have to find him. I need to do this. He’s just a child… He’s there, you understand?”
He didn’t know what to say. Because he understood. And because he felt: if he didn’t help her, she would simply stop living—even if she kept breathing.
He left in silence. No words of comfort, no advice, no talks of help. He just went home, sat on the porch for a long time, staring at his hands. And at night, he couldn’t close his eyes. Those words—“hit,” “buried”—seemed to pierce his skin. He believed her. He couldn’t explain why—he just did.
The next day, he brought people. Without lengthy explanations—just told neighbor Pasha, then another one, and soon three men stood by the fence with shovels. Among them was Yarik—loud, restless, always ready to laugh for no reason. Like singing at a funeral. But his hands were strong, and he had the strength. It seemed he was interested—maybe they’d dig up something secret.
Agrafena stood aside. Didn’t intervene, didn’t command. Just watched them dig. She couldn’t anymore—her strength was completely gone. There was dry pain in her body, a dull waiting in her soul.
“What if there’s really something here?” Yarik called out, without turning around. “Maybe treasure? Or old iron?”
The answer was silence. Only Semyon continued digging—slowly, focused, as though he wasn’t digging earth but gathering someone else’s fate piece by piece.
Yarik swung the shovel with force—and suddenly there was a dull sound: metal against metal. Everyone froze.
“Ehhh… Guys, I think we didn’t find potatoes,” he muttered.
Semyon was the first to approach. Under the earth, they found a lid—old, covered with rust, with cracked hinges. A wooden chest with iron bands, preserved as though time had bypassed it.
When they opened the lid, a creak ran down their spines like cold. Inside lay something no one expected.
A child’s shirt. Thin, neatly folded, darkened with time. Next to it—a toy: a plush teddy bear with a frayed side. And a photo. Faded. A boy of about five. Lively eyes, a mole on his cheek.
Agrafena knelt.
“It’s him… It’s our… God… Forgive us… Forgive…”
She gently stroked the shirt as though touching her son. No one moved. Even Yarik didn’t joke anymore.
After that, they dug the entire yard. Silently. No laughter. Like in a graveyard. But they didn’t find anything more. No bones, no other things. Just traces. Just emptiness. As if the earth itself was deciding what to keep and what to forget.
Now Agrafena slept with that shirt. She held it as though it were a living child. She stopped eating. Barely spoke. She stared out the window, as if into an endless pit.
Semyon saw how she was fading. How the light in her was dimming day by day. And he understood: this couldn’t go on. He had to act. Save her.
On the fourth day, he came again. Knocked, as usual. No answer. The gate was open. The house—silent. Only the wind swayed the curtains.
She was sitting on the bench under the window. In her hands—the shirt. Folded perfectly, as if freshly washed. She didn’t even look at him. She just swayed back and forth, as if lulling someone.
“Tikhonovna… You need to rest. At least a little. I can take you to the city. I have a doctor friend. Maybe he’ll do an examination. And all this time, you’ve been using only your hands and heart…”
She was silent for a long time. Then nodded. Not out of hope. More out of exhaustion. Maybe she decided: if this doesn’t help, nothing will.
The trip began early in the morning. He settled her into the car, put a pillow under her head, fastened her seatbelt. The dishes in the trunk clinked, the springs creaked, spring fields flashed by. Agrafena was silent. She wasn’t sleeping—just staring somewhere through the glass.
The clinic was small, private. White walls, the smell of medicines, tea with honey in the waiting room. They were met by a doctor—about fifty, with an open face and a thoughtful gaze. His name was Anatoly Makarov.
He didn’t rush with questions. Just gave her some water, sat opposite her.
“Hello, Agrafena Tikhonovna. We’ll just talk. No diagnoses. No fear. Okay?”
She nodded. For the first time in many days, she lifted her eyes. And in them, he saw everything: the exhaustion that couldn’t be cured by sleep; the pain that had burned from the inside for years; and the last spark of hope.
After the conversation, he conducted an examination. Long. Cautiously. Then he said to Semyon:
“She doesn’t have any mental disorders. She’s in herself. But on the edge. The stress has drained everything. Like a house that stands, but inside it’s full of dampness and destruction.”
He left her for the night. Suggested she rest. Distract herself. At least for a couple of hours.
That evening, Makarov went to see his mother.
She lived in an old apartment. A kettle was boiling on the stove, the air was thick with the smell of memories. When he entered, she already knew—he had come for a reason.
“Mom, you lived in that village… where the boy disappeared?”
She wasn’t surprised.
“We left in ’69. Everything was unclean there. And yes, that boy… people said he was lost. But I knew—he didn’t just disappear.”
Makarov waited.
“One woman—Marina—said she saw someone digging. Then she disappeared too. Left. But they said she wasn’t alone.”
He straightened up.
“Do you know where she is?”
Anna nodded. Took out an old notebook, opened it. Showed an address: “Marina. Central Street, 9.”
“I never called her. But I knew—someone would ask one day.”
He thanked her, kissed her, and left quickly—as people do when they know: what lies ahead is the most important thing.
In the morning, they went with Agrafena.
When he returned to the clinic, she was asleep. For the first time, her face was calm. He didn’t wake her. Just sat beside her.
When she woke up, he said:
“There’s a woman. I think she knows more than anyone.”
The road took two hours. The car rolled along the muddy roads, through fields, past old trees. Agrafena didn’t ask why. It was as if she felt: it wasn’t the beginning that mattered, but the end.
The house stood at the edge of the village. Behind it—a ravine, lilacs not yet bloomed, but already smelled of spring. A woman opened the door. A gray sweater, slippers, hair tied up. Her face wasn’t surprised. It just twitched a little.
“Agrafena Tikhonovna,” she said. Not a question, but a recognition.
Silence hung between them. Then Marina opened the door wider:
“Come in. Let’s talk.”
The house smelled of fried onions, mint, and old walls. Three cups sat on the table. As if she had been expecting them.
“I saw that night,” she said, looking straight at her. “How your husband was digging. I didn’t want to interfere. But when he left—I couldn’t stand it. I went up. Dug. There was a boy. Alive.”
Agrafena pressed her palm to her mouth, as if trying to keep in a sigh.
“He was barely breathing. But he was alive. I… I took him. I lived alone, had no family left. Left without a trace. Raised him. He grew up good. Calm. Strong.”
Makarov remained silent. Just carefully touched her hand—so she knew: she wasn’t alone.
“Now he works as a mechanic. His name is Andrey. I chose the name. But he… he’s not a stranger. He’s yours.”
Marina continued speaking—about illnesses, school, how the boy fixed a tractor starter with his hands when he was eight. But Agrafena hardly listened anymore. Inside her, everything moved, like a river waking up: slowly, but inevitably. There were no tears, just a new, unfamiliar feeling—like after many years underground, she finally felt the air.
Andrey entered quietly, as if afraid to break the silence. A man about forty, broad-shouldered, with a face in which Agrafena recognized him instantly—and eyes that reflected something far too familiar. He stopped, looked at her—and seemed to understand. No surprise, no fear. Just cautious, deep silence. He approached, sat next to her.
“I… don’t know what to say,” he said.
“And I don’t need much,” she replied, looking at his hands. “Thank you for being alive. That’s enough.”
At dawn, they left for the village. The car rumbled over the broken roads, and Agrafena looked out the window—not recognizing the place, but feeling how every stone echoed in her chest.
But when they approached the house—the air became dense, like water before rain.
The gate was locked. A new shiny lock. On the door—an announcement: “Private property. No entry.”
Agrafena was the first to get out of the car. She approached the gate, ran her fingers over the cold metal. Her heart was pounding, like a bird in a cage. She turned to Semyon. He just shook his head and took out his phone.
Half an hour later, it became clear: the house was sold. With fake documents. For a ridiculous price. The new “owner”—someone from the city. And behind it all—Yarik. The same one who laughed when they dug, the one who joked when they found the chest.
He took advantage of the moment: forged a power of attorney, arranged with the realtor, did everything quickly, in a rural way—without extra papers but with the necessary seals. For him, it was just a deal. For her, it was betrayal. And it all happened before they knew the truth.
Makarov spoke first:
“We won’t leave it like this. We have connections. We have lawyers. And we have debts—student debts, but reliable.”
Andrey stood, gritting his teeth. He didn’t shout, didn’t curse. He just looked at the house—with pain, but without fear. Now it wasn’t just a plot. It had become part of their life. And it had to be returned.
While Makarov and Andrey were figuring out who to call, Agrafena sat on the old stump by the gate. She stroked the hem of her dress—as if checking if she was still here. The house they were not allowed into—that very one where her child once lived. She didn’t cry. Not from weakness—from exhaustion. From that motherly exhaustion that never ends.
The case moved forward. Makarov found contacts in the prosecutor’s office. Andrey gathered documents—photos, certificates, old papers. A week later, the calls started. Three days after that—arrivals.
The village council was shaken when it realized: this was serious. Fake power of attorney, manipulation of appraisals, conspiracy—all began surfacing like dirt on the water’s surface. It turned out, Yarik wasn’t new to this business. He had just never been caught by those who were ready to go all the way.
He didn’t hide. One evening, he came himself. Knocked on the door of the house where Agrafena was staying. He stood at the threshold, twisting his cap.
“I didn’t know. I thought she didn’t care. The house was empty. Then they offered…”
His eyes were guilty. For the first time, he had nothing to say.
“You’ll return it,” Andrey said. “Through court. Through humiliation. But you’ll return it.”
Yarik nodded. Said nothing more.
A month later, the house was returned. By court order. But more—by conscience. The city buyer didn’t want to get involved. Took the money and disappeared. Yarik signed everything in a room with peeling walls and a prosecutor with an expressionless face.
When Agrafena stepped onto her yard’s threshold, she didn’t cry. She simply knelt, touched the earth—as if she were touching the very place where she had dug so many times. It smelled of dust. And freedom.
That same night, Andrey unlocked the door. Brought the shovel. Dug a hole by the fence, buried the old garbage in it—and planted jasmine. Silently. Without looking back. He just planted.
Since then, many things changed. Not immediately. Not sharply. Like spring arrives—imperceptibly, but irreversibly. Every morning began with the squeak of the door, footsteps in the yard. Andrey woke up first, checked the tools, inspected the fence, nailed the boards. He wasn’t in a hurry. It was as if he was restoring not just the house—but himself.
The old fence gave way to a new, strong one. The flower beds where Agrafena had once dug alone, now bloomed—dahlias, marigolds, even the fussy asters she had long forgotten. They blossomed—unexpectedly, but fittingly.
Yarik started coming by. At first, just standing by the gate. Then bringing bricks. Then helping. Without apologies. Without explanations. Just working. One day, Agrafena came out with tea and said:
“Drink. It’s not cold yet.”
Since then, no one spoke about the past.
Makarov visited once a week. Brought medicines, fresh news, tea with sea buckthorn, and silent support. One day, he brought his mother. Anna Nikitichna entered, looked around, and quietly said:
“It smells nice here.”
For the first time, Agrafena smiled—a real, living smile.
At night, the house grew quiet. No groans, no nightmares, no voices from the past. Only the ticking of the clock. Only the old armchair creaked when Agrafena moved her scarf from her shoulders to her knees. Sometimes, she fell asleep right there, with a cup in her hands, and Andrey would cover her with a blanket—so as not to wake her.
And one day, early in August, he went out to the fence and began digging. Not searching. Just digging—to plant. He worked in silence. The earth was soft, smelling of rain and bread. And in the window, as always, she sat. Not watching, not following. Just being. And that was enough.
By evening, she sometimes asked him to read. Not fairy tales—she knew them by heart. But something simple: a newspaper note, a letter, a medical book left by Tikhon. Andrey read—calmly, confidently, with warmth in his voice that he didn’t even notice.
One day, when the sky was soft, almost summery, and the air smelled like apples, she suddenly asked:
“Do you remember anything? Before Marina?”
He thought for a moment.
“Fragments. Like through water. The stove. Someone’s voices. Someone was singing. Someone was shouting.”
She nodded. Didn’t ask further. Just accepted. Because the main thing—was knowing: in him, there was no emptiness. But a trace. Even if faint.
A few days later, they went to the city, to the clinic. Not for help. Just like that. Agrafena wanted to speak to Makarov herself.
She sat in the office opposite the window. The light played on her face, making it almost transparent.
“And if all of this is made up? What if I just wanted him to be alive? What if Marina was wrong too?”
Makarov looked at her for a long time. Not at the years, not at the suffering—at the very essence.
“Then you would have disappeared long ago. Those who haven’t found the truth, don’t stay. But you found it.”
She didn’t argue. Took out a document from her bag. New. In the name: Andrey Tikhonov.
“He asked himself. Not for oblivion. But to be himself.”
Makarov took the paper. Nodded. Said nothing more. Because at moments like this, silence speaks louder than any words.
When they returned, the village already smelled of autumn. Not cold, not wet, but warm, like rosehip tea, warming after a long day. The gate greeted them with its familiar squeak. The leaves in the yard lay as though someone had deliberately scattered them under their feet, so their steps would sound softer.
Andrey walked a little ahead, holding the bag. Agrafena followed, leaning on the stick—not from weakness, but from the habit of being attentive to herself and to the earth underfoot.
Since the documents officially made him Andrey Tikhonov, something had shifted in him. Not outwardly, not sharply, but inside—in his walk, in the way he held his head, in the way he met a gaze. It wasn’t the forgetting of the past, the refusal of Marina, but rather a return home to himself. Like a river that had long gone astray, but finally found its course.
The yard smelled of fresh wood, cucumber vines, and hot milk. Semyon waved from behind the fence, Zoya nodded from the porch. Everything was in place, but now everything inside had changed. Now it wasn’t just a house. It had become a place where time and memory crossed: the old cracks in the floor and the fresh whitewashing of the walls, the pain of the past and the hope for the future.
Agrafena entered first. Stopped in the hallway. Ran her palm along the doorframe—where they had once made marks for the child’s growth. They were barely visible. But they were. And that was enough for something alive to light up in her eyes.
“Tomorrow, we’ll plant,” Andrey said, as if continuing the thought that had started on the road. “Here, a pear. And under the window—viburnum. You like that, right?”
She nodded. Sat by the window. In her place. Took a handkerchief—not old and worn, but new, white. As if, at last, she could wipe not tears, but simply dust.
In the evening, they ate dinner in silence. Only spoons clinked on plates, like raindrops on the roof. And in that silence, there was more kinship than in hundreds of conversations.
At night, she dreamed of that day when she first took the shovel. Only now, she wasn’t digging. She was planting. The boy was standing next to her—not the five-year-old, but the adult, real one. He was smiling.
In the morning, Agrafena woke up early. The day was bright, dry, filled with soft, honeyed light that lay on the windowsill as though someone had placed a beam of warmth there. The house was filled with silence—that special kind that only happens where everything has already been said.
She didn’t get up for a long time. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her hands. They had become thinner, lighter, but there was no longer any tremor in them. Only warmth—small, like a spark, but alive.
The kitchen door slammed. The floor creaked. Outside—a rustling.
Andrey. Already in the yard.
She approached the window, threw open the shutters. The air poured into the room like a guest who had been long awaited. Andrey, in his work jacket, was preparing the soil, laying out the boards, marking the holes. At his feet—a young viburnum sapling, still fragile, but already with live leaves. He worked slowly, like someone who no longer rushes—because he had found his place.
She didn’t call him. Just watched. And suddenly understood: that’s it. No more searching. No more waiting. No need to explain anything. You could simply be.
Around lunchtime, Semyon appeared—not with milk, as before, but just to sit. Zoya sent pie. Yarik passed by with a bag of nails, not even looking back. Then, he did glance back. For a second. Agrafena nodded. That was enough.
All day long, Andrey worked in the garden: setting up trellises, stretching ropes, clearing old boards. Agrafena sat by the window and knitted—not for the result, but simply for the rhythm. For the feeling that life was moving—not crumbling beneath her feet.
When the sun became low and golden, Andrey approached the fence. Next to the young viburnum stood a sign on a patch. He adjusted it, deepened the stake. Raised his head. In the window—her face. As though nothing had changed. And as though everything had changed.
He smiled. And picked up the shovel again. Not to dig. To plant.
When he lowered it into the earth, the day had already turned into evening. Shadows stretched along the fence, the air grew quieter—like the whole garden was listening to itself. The day that had passed left behind the smell of tea, lost words, gloves on the bench. And the house—was not empty, not hollow, but alive.
Agrafena remained by the window. In the same chair, with the same handkerchief. But now there was no anxiety in her. She wasn’t searching, she wasn’t waiting. She just listened. And outside the window, mint rustled, the trellises jingled, the shovel tapped quietly.
Now, the house didn’t seem empty. It breathed—not loudly, not brightly, but like an old person breathes: remembering everything, but not aching. In the room, the smell of apples and warmth lingered. The light in the corners didn’t come from the lamp—it came from the very fact that people were living here again. Simply living.
