Nastya hated Mondays. Especially ones like today—when the printer jammed an important report, the coffee machine decided to go on strike, and the boss nitpicked every comma. «A typical day in the life of typical office plankton,» she thought as she inserted the key into her apartment lock.
«Why wasn’t I born a millionaire?» Nastya muttered, kicking off her shoes in the hallway. «Or at least with a talent for programming…»
The old floor lamp in the corner blinked a friendly light as she flipped the switch. The clock on the wall struck seven, and its melodic chime echoed through the empty apartment. Nastya dropped her bag on the couch and stretched toward the refrigerator, where her faithful friend—a container of yesterday’s lasagna—waited.
Her phone quietly chimed. Nastya glanced at the screen mechanically and froze with a fork in her hand. The message was from «Grandma.»
«What the…» She blinked several times, but the text didn’t disappear.
«Nastya, you should know, there were more secrets in our family than you think. Look for the old jewelry box with a mirror at my place. Sorry for keeping silent.»
The lasagna was forgotten on the table. But her grandmother had been gone for two years. She shook her head, dismissing the memories. The smell of her grandmother’s cabbage pies, the clinking of knitting needles as she knitted her endless socks, the quiet whisper behind closed doors: «No, the children don’t need to know…» Of course, no one replied to the message. The number had already been disconnected.
Half an hour later, Nastya was ringing the doorbell of her parents’ apartment.
«Nastenka?» her mother looked out surprised. «Is something wrong?»
«No, just… missed you,» Nastya tried to smile as naturally as possible. «Can I look at grandma’s albums?»
«At nine in the evening?»
«What’s wrong with that? Feeling nostalgic.»
Her mother shrugged.
«They’re in the closet, in boxes. Just don’t make a mess.»
Nastya nodded and dived into the dim closet. Dust, old magazines, a box with Christmas ornaments… Ah, there it was! The jewelry box was found on the bottom shelf, wrapped in an old scarf.
«What are you digging around for?» her mother’s voice made her jump.
«Just looking…»
«Nastya,» her mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed. «You never just come by. What’s going on?»
«Nothing! Really! Just… remembered grandma.»
«Don’t dig up the past,» her mother’s voice grew harsher. «It’s never brought anyone happiness.»
«What are you talking about?» Nastya clutched the jewelry box to her chest. «What about ‘history teaches us’ and all that?»
«Nastya…»
«Can I take it? Just to look at the photos.»
Her mother paused, then waved her hand.
«Take it. Just bring it back.»
At home, Nastya spilled the contents of the jewelry box onto the couch. Old photos, postcards, some notes… One photo caught her attention: her grandmother, very young, smiling at the camera, and behind her—a woman surprisingly similar to her, but… different. Nastya turned the photo over. On the back, in faded ink, was written: «Summer 1965.»
The phone rang again. Nastya flinched, but it was just a regular weather notification. She looked again at her grandmother’s message. Something told her—this was just the beginning. Maybe the message didn’t get through a couple of years ago, but somehow it did now. There could be no other explanation, her grandmother wrote it before she passed.
«Well, grandma,» she murmured, examining the mysterious woman in the photo. «You always said I was too curious. Looks like it’s time to see how right you were.»
For the next three days, Nastya lived in a fog. At work, she mechanically nodded when her boss lectured about the importance of a new presentation, absentmindedly smiled at colleagues’ jokes, and nearly sent a client an email with the subject «Who is this woman in the photo?»
«Earth to Nastya!» Lena, her office neighbor, waved her hand in front of her face. «Are you okay? You’re pouring coffee into a full cup for the second time.»
Nastya blinked and looked at the overflowing cup. Coffee slowly spread across the table, approaching the keyboard.
«Damn!» she grabbed napkins. «Sorry, I… was distracted.»
«About what? Or whom?» Lena winked. «Has the one finally appeared?»
«What ‘one’?» Nastya sighed. «It’s just… Lena, can I show you something?»
She pulled out her phone and the old photo.
«Look. This is my grandma, and this… I don’t know who. And here,» she showed the message.
Lena whistled:
«Hold on. A message from your grandma, who…»
«Yes, who’s been gone for two years. The message was sent the day before her death, but it only came through now.»
«That’s creepy,» Lena shuddered. «And did you find anything in that jewelry box?»
«Besides the photo—nothing special. Some old letters, postcards…» Nastya fell silent. «Wait. Letters. I haven’t really read them!»
In the evening, she laid out all the findings on the floor, creating a sort of detective scheme from TV shows. Photographs, envelopes, postcards—all required careful examination.
The first letters were ordinary—holiday greetings, stories about the weather and the harvest. But then… Nastya froze, reading the yellowed lines:
«Dear Vera! I can no longer hide, but I hope you never tell the children the truth. Let everything stay as it is. We’ve already lost too much…»
The letter was addressed to her mother. Date—1989.
«Mom,» Nastya dialed the number without thinking about the time. «We need to talk.»
«Nastya? It’s almost midnight!»
«Who is Anna?»
Silence hung on the line.
«Where did you…» her mother’s voice trembled. «What did you find?»
«A photo. And letters. Mom, who is this woman next to grandma?»
«I asked you not to dig into the past!»
«And I asked for honesty! Just once in your life, can you just tell the truth?»
More silence. Then a quiet sigh.
«Come over. Now. Since you’ve started digging—you’ll learn everything.»
The night city was unusually empty. Nastya drove her car through the sleeping streets, fragments of memories swirling in her head. Her grandmother’s unspoken phrases, strange looks between adults when she, a little girl, asked «inconvenient» questions…
Her mother awaited her in the kitchen. A half-empty bottle and two glasses stood before her.
«Sit down,» she nodded at the chair. «Never thought I’d have to tell this.»
«What are you telling?»
«About Anna. About why we all kept silent. About how one mistake can break more than one life.»
She poured into both glasses.
«Anna was your grandmother’s older sister. They were very close. So much so that when Anna…,» her mother hesitated, «when she did the irreparable, grandma couldn’t betray her.»
«What did she do?»
«In the sixties, she worked at a savings bank. And one day… a large sum of money disappeared. Very large. And with it, Anna disappeared too.»
A chill ran down Nastya’s back.
«Did grandma know where she was?»
«Yes. Anna was hiding with distant relatives in Siberia. She sent letters, sometimes even photos. But then…,» her mother downed her drink, «then the arrests began. Someone reported that the money was part of a large criminal scheme. They started checking everyone who could be involved. And grandma…»
«Lied to the investigators?»
«Not just lied. She took the blame upon herself.»
Nastya felt the ground slip from under her feet.
«What?!»
«They didn’t imprison her—some powerful man stood up for her, managed to pull some strings in the end. But she was fired, the stain on her reputation remained forever. And Anna… Anna never came back. Couldn’t confess, even when she learned that her sister suffered because of her.»
Her mother pulled out an old tin box from the cupboard.
«Here, take it. It’s all here—letters, documents, even old newspaper clippings. I kept it in case the truth ever came out.»
«Why did you keep silent all these years?»
«Because your grandmother asked. She said: ‘Let the children live peacefully. They don’t need to know that their grandmother is the sister of a thief.'»
Nastya opened the box. On top lay a small key tagged «home.»
«And this…»
«From the dacha. The old one. We sold it after grandma’s death, but the new owners haven’t moved in yet. If you want to know more—go there. There seems to be an old trunk left in the basement.»
Nastya clenched the key in her hand. It was cold as ice.
«You know,» her mother poured more, «sometimes I think: maybe she was right? Maybe some secrets really should die with those who kept them?»
«And maybe the truth is the only thing that can set us free?»
Her mother smiled sadly:
«You’re so much like her. Just as stubborn.»
The next morning, Nastya took a leave of absence. The early winter sun barely lit the road as she drove out of town. The old dacha village greeted her with the creak of frozen gates and silence, broken only by the cawing of crows.
Grandma’s house stood at the edge of the street—small, skewed, with boarded-up windows. Nastya struggled to open the squeaky door. Inside, it smelled of damp and old wood.
The staircase to the basement dangerously creaked under her feet. The flashlight beam caught the outlines of a large trunk. The lock on it was old, but the key fit perfectly.
Inside were albums, some papers, and… a diary. A thick notebook in a leather binding. Nastya opened the first page:
«Dear Anna! I’m writing these lines, knowing you’ll never read them. But maybe someday someone will read them, someone who will understand…»
Nastya sat right down on the dusty floor and began to read. The story that unfolded before her was more than just a story of theft. It was a story of love and betrayal, loyalty and cowardice, a family story where everyone carried their own burden of guilt.
Anna fell in love with a married man. He promised to leave his wife, but instead, he lost a huge sum at cards. And Anna, trying to save him, committed a crime. And when she realized he had used her, it was too late.
«I couldn’t betray her,» the grandmother wrote. «Not because she was a criminal. But because she was my sister. My only sister, who sacrificed everything for love. Foolish, blind, but real…»
The last lines were written very recently, with a trembling hand:
«I know I won’t be here much longer. And I know the truth will still come out. Nastya, if you’re reading this… forgive me. Forgive the silence, the lies, all these years of pretense. But know: sometimes silence is also an expression of love. We wanted to protect you from pain, from shame, from judgment. Maybe we were wrong. Now it’s up to you to decide what to do with this truth.»
Nastya closed the diary. It was cold in the basement, but she didn’t feel it. Her grandmother’s face was before her eyes—just as she remembered it: kind, wise, with concealed sadness in her eyes.
Now she understood the reason for that sadness.
Climbing out of the basement, she looked around again. The old walls held so many secrets… How many conversations had they heard? How many tears had they seen?
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from her mother:
«How are you? Did you find anything?»
Nastya looked at the diary in her hands and slowly typed a reply:
«Yes. I think I understand much more than I wanted to…»
Returning home, Nastya felt like a different person. As if in one night, she had lived a whole life—a stranger’s life, full of secrets and pain, which had now become part of her own history.
She didn’t go to work. She called in sick, and for the first time in five years, no one at the company doubted her words—her voice really did sound broken.
«Maybe bring you some chicken soup?» Lena asked caringly. «Your voice…»
«No, thank you,» Nastya almost smiled. «I just need to… think.»
She sat in the armchair, wrapped in her grandmother’s old blanket, and re-read the diary. Again and again. Each page revealed something new—details, hints, echoes of long-gone days.
«Today I saw someone who looked like Anna,» her grandmother wrote in one entry. «My heart nearly jumped out. But it wasn’t her. Anna never dyed her hair red. And didn’t wear red lipstick. This woman… You know, sister, sometimes I think—maybe you’ve been living nearby all along, just I don’t recognize you?»
Nastya put the diary aside and approached the window. Wet snow was falling outside, turning the city into a blurred watercolor.
«You never told me about Anna,» she whispered, as if her grandmother could hear her. «Why? Were you afraid I would judge? Or that I would blab?»
The phone rang so unexpectedly that she jumped. It was her mother.
«I’ve been thinking all day,» her mother’s voice sounded unusually soft. «Maybe you’ll come over? We’ll talk?»
«About what?» Nastya felt everything inside her tighten. «You’ve already told me everything.»
«Not everything. There’s something else.»
An hour later, they were sitting in the kitchen. This time, instead of glasses, there was a teapot and an old cookie box on the table.
«I didn’t show you these photos,» her mother pulled out a stack of pictures. «Look.»
Anna at a playground with a little girl. Anna by the sea. Anna in some garden…
«Wait,» Nastya looked at the dates on the back. «These are from the nineties? But you said she disappeared in the sixties!»
«She sent photographs. Every year—a new one. No return address, just in an envelope. Grandma never showed them to anyone.»
«And you kept silent?»
«What was I supposed to do?» her mother turned away to the window. «Go to the police? Say—look, my aunt, who stole money thirty years ago, is alive and, apparently, happy?»
Nastya laid out the photos in chronological order. A life story in pictures—from a young woman to a gray-haired old lady with kind eyes.
«Who is this girl with her?»
«Maybe her daughter. Or granddaughter. We’ll never really know for sure.»
«And the last photo? When did it come?»
Her mother paused.
«A week before grandma’s death. On the back, it was written: ‘Goodbye, sister. Thanks for everything.'»
Nastya felt a lump rise in her throat.
«Did she know? Did she know grandma was dying?»
«Maybe. Or she just felt it. They were always strangely connected—like twins, though they were born three years apart.»
Nastya walked around the kitchen. Stopped at the window, looking at the swings in the yard—the very ones she once played on as a little girl.
«You know what I’m thinking?» she turned to her mother. «We all lie. Constantly. Say everything’s fine when it’s not. Pretend we don’t notice someone else’s pain. Hide the truth, thinking we’re protecting others…»
«Nastya…»
«No, listen. I’m like that too. How many times have I told you everything’s fine? That I like my job? That I’m happy?»
«Are you not happy?»
Nastya bitterly smiled:
«I don’t even know what it means—to be happy. I just exist. Like a robot: got up, went to work, came home, went to bed. And so day after day.»
She approached the table and picked up the last photo of Anna.
«And she was happy. Despite everything. See how she’s smiling? She made a choice—terrible, wrong, but her own. And lived her life the way she wanted.»
«And broke your grandma’s life.»
«No,» Nastya shook her head. «Grandma made her choice. She could have betrayed her sister, but she chose to take the blame upon herself. That was her choice too.»
Her mother poured more tea. Her hands were slightly shaking.
«And now what? What will you do with this truth?»
Nastya pulled out her phone and opened that very message from her grandmother.
«You know, I think she didn’t just send it. She wanted me to know. Not just about Anna—about everything. About the fact that sometimes you need to make a choice. That sometimes the right path is not the easiest. That love can be different…»
She fell silent, looking at the phone screen. Then decisively pressed «delete.»
«What are you doing?» her mother was surprised.
«Letting go of the past,» Nastya smiled. «Time to start living my own life, not others’ secrets.»
In the evening, returning home, she sat down at the laptop and opened the «Drafts» folder. There was a letter she had written to herself a year ago but never sent:
«Dear me! If you’re reading this, a year has passed. I hope you still remember who you are. Not who others want to see. Not who you pretend to be. But the real you—with all the fears, dreams, and crazy ideas. Live the way you want, not the way circumstances dictate. And remember: sometimes you need to lose something to find yourself.»
Nastya smiled and pressed «send.» Let this be her own little secret—a letter to the future, which will be a reminder of the past.
Outside, the snow had stopped, and the moon appeared in a gap between the clouds. The old floor lamp in the corner cast warm shadows on the walls, and the clock steadily counted time—not the past, but the future. Her future.
Nastya approached the window and whispered:
«Thank you, grandma. For the lesson. For the truth. For everything.»
Somewhere in the city, bells rang. A new day was beginning.
Let me know what you think about this story! I would be glad to hear your thoughts
