Are you my real mother?» I asked in a trembling voice, examining the locket.
«No, dear. I’m just the one who knows the truth,» the woman in black dissolved into the crowd, leaving only the echo of a mystery behind.
Mornings at the train station always started the same way—with the smell of fresh pastries and an endless stream of people. I was wiping down the counter in my little coffee shop when I heard another train announcement.
«Good morning! Vanilla latte and an almond croissant, as usual?» I smiled at a regular customer.
«Alina, you’re reading my mind,» winked the gray-haired professor from the local university.
I loved my job for such people—simple, kind, predictable. At least that was the case until that day.
«Miss,» a quiet voice made me turn around. An elderly woman in a black shawl stood before me, «may I have a moment of your time?»
Something in her gaze compelled me to step out from behind the counter.
«I’ve come to give you this,» she extended an antique locket with a rose engraving, «it belonged to your real mother.»
I froze, unable to move.
«Sorry, but you’re mistaken. My mother is Marina Petrovna, she…»
«Look inside,» the woman interrupted, «and call her. Ask about the locket.»
In the evening, I sat on the bed, examining the photograph inside the locket. An elegant woman in an old-fashioned dress seemed vaguely familiar.
The next day.
«Do you have similar lockets for sale?» I asked the antique dealer, showing him the find.
«Darling, such things are not sold. They are passed down through generations,» the old man put on his magnifying glass and whistled, «Volkovs… Interesting.»
Later, I spent a lot of time online. Until I found the needed article: «Mysterious Disappearance of the Volkov Family Heiress.» My heart skipped a beat when I saw the date—exactly twenty years ago.
«Dad, we need to talk,» I placed the article in front of my father.
«Alina…» he removed his glasses and tiredly rubbed his nose.
«The truth. I need the truth.»
«We took you from an orphanage. The documents… they were strange. Marina so wanted a child, and I… I just turned a blind eye to all of it. You’re not our real daughter.»
The woman in black appeared at the station a week later. I recognized her from afar.
«Why now?» I asked, handing her tea.
«Because your biological mother died a month ago. I was her nanny,» she pulled out an envelope, «Here’s the address of the estate and old photographs. You were stolen on the order of an influential man. He owed your father a large sum and decided to take revenge.»
«And my adoptive parents?»
«They didn’t know the whole truth. They were told that your mother had abandoned you.»
The Volkov estate looked like a backdrop to a Gothic novel. Ivy entwined the walls, window shutters clapped in the wind. I pushed the massive door.
«I wouldn’t advise entering without permission,» a voice sounded behind me.
«And you are?» I turned sharply.
«Sergey Mikhailovich, the Volkov family lawyer,» the man handed me a business card, «And you, I presume, are Alina?»
«How did you know…»
«Your face. You look incredibly like Elena Alexandrovna. Let’s go inside, I have something for you.»
In the office, the scent of leather and old books filled the air. Sergey Mikhailovich pulled out a folder.
«Your parents searched for you for fifteen years. They hired the best detectives, but…» he spread his hands, «The man who organized the kidnapping was too influential. All leads ended in a dead end.»
«And now?»
«He died two years ago. Confessed everything on his deathbed.»
I flipped through the documents—birth certificate, photographs, letters.
«But why did the nanny stay silent for so long?»
«They threatened her. She tried to tell the truth when you were five. After that, her grandson was in an accident. An intentional accident.»
«Mom,» I sat in the kitchen with my adoptive mother, «why didn’t you ever tell me?»
«I was scared,» she cried, smudging her mascara on her cheeks, «When I learned the truth… you were already calling me mom. I couldn’t… couldn’t lose you.»
«And the documents?»
«Victor arranged everything. Paid whoever needed to be paid. I just… just wanted a child. Forgive me, daughter.»
I looked at the woman who raised me. Who kissed my scraped knees, baked cherry pies, read bedtime stories. And at the locket, where another woman smiled—the one who gave me life and facial features.
«You know,» I took my mom’s hand, «the estate has fifteen rooms. Enough space for everyone.»
Her eyes widened in surprise.
«You mean to say…»
«That it’s time to pack up. And yes, your cherry pies will be very appropriate there.»
The estate’s office gradually came to life. I hung old photographs—the elegant Volkov couple in the garden, little me in the arms of my biological mother. Next to them—birthday photos, where Marina blows out candles on the cake together with me.
Two families. Two stories. And one me—the girl from the station who found her real home.
«So, you’re now a millionaire,» the professor smirked, picking up his morning latte.
«It seems so. But you know, money is not the most important inheritance.»
Sergey Mikhailovich laid out documents on the table. The Volkov inheritance was impressive—real estate in three cities, bank accounts, stocks. I looked at the numbers and couldn’t believe.
«And all this…»
«Is yours,» the lawyer nodded, «But there’s one condition in the will. The estate must remain in the family.»
«Oh, believe me, I’m not planning to sell it.»
The renovation took half a year. I hired the best restorers to preserve the historical look of the house. Marina oversaw the kitchen setup, and dad enthusiastically planned the winter garden.
«Alina, look what I found,» mom handed me an old box, «It was in the attic storage.»
Inside were children’s items—a tiny dress, a rattle, an album with photographs. In one of them, my biological mother held a baby. Me.
«You know,» Marina stroked the photograph, «she was beautiful. And loved you very much.»
«How do you know?»
«You can tell by the eyes. Only mothers look that way.»
The woman in black—Anna Stepanovna—became a frequent guest at the estate. She told stories about my parents, how my father taught me to walk, how my mother sang lullabies.
«And this is your room,» I opened a door on the second floor.
«What?» she blinked in confusion.
«You’re part of the family. Both of them.»
In the evening, we sat in the living room. Marina served tea in the old Volkov service, dad read the newspaper in an armchair, and Anna Stepanovna knitted a scarf.
«You know,» I said, watching the fire in the fireplace, «sometimes fate makes strange gifts. Takes one family, gives another. Then returns both.»
Two portraits hung on the wall—the Volkovs and my adoptive parents. So different and so dear. In the locket on my neck were two photographs—past and present, merged into one whole.
I was no longer the lost girl from the station. I became who I was meant to be—the daughter who united two families, the keeper of two love stories.
