Autumn winds chased fallen leaves along the paths, creating whimsical little whirlwinds. Victoria stood by the window, gazing pensively at her neglected garden. Over the past few years, it had turned into a real tangle of shrubs and tall grass—something between a wild forest and an abandoned lot.
“Something has to be done,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
Switching on her laptop, Victoria opened her email. Her eyes fell on a message from Elena Sergeevna, a longtime acquaintance from her business circle. Elena was praising a young gardener: “Kirill is simply a master of his craft. In just a few months, he completely transformed my garden, restoring it to its former beauty.”
Victoria hesitated. The garden really did need serious attention. She had bought this mansion three years ago, when she decided to start a new life. But landscaping the grounds had remained on the back burner.
Her thoughts involuntarily shifted to an old photo in a frame that still stood on the shelf. In the picture, Victoria and Alexey were young and happy, newly returned from their honeymoon. She winced and turned the frame facedown. “Enough living in the past,” she said firmly to herself.
It had already been fifteen years since that fateful day when Alexey disappeared from her life—no explanations, no warnings. Victoria still remembered every detail of that morning. He woke up early, as always, kissed her on the cheek, and said: “I’ll be home late today; don’t wait for me for dinner.”
Those were his last words. She never saw him again. At first, she was lost: she called every friend and acquaintance she could think of, but nobody knew anything. It was as though Alexey had vanished into thin air. No trace, no clue as to where he might have gone. It was as if he had never even existed in her life.
Later, the divorce papers arrived. He acted through a lawyer and did not bother to meet her in person. Only much later did Victoria begin to realize how little she had known about her husband. He had appeared out of nowhere, courted her beautifully, was attentive and caring. But he rarely talked about his past, often deflecting serious questions with jokes. And she, blinded by emotion, hadn’t noticed the warning signs.
A phone call pulled her out of her memories. It was Elena Sergeevna, reminding her about the young gardener. “Yes, let him come tomorrow at ten,” Victoria replied after a brief pause.
The next morning, she waited for her guest in her home office. Exactly at ten, the doorbell rang.
A tall, fit young man with a confident posture and a calm yet attentive gaze stood on the threshold.
“Hello, my name is Kirill. Elena Sergeevna mentioned you might need a gardener,” he said with a slight nod.
Victoria led him around the property, showing him the scope of the work. Kirill moved unhurriedly, carefully examining every corner of the grounds, making notes in a small notebook, and asking specific, professional questions.
“There’s a lot to be done, but nothing impossible. In two to three months, we can bring everything to perfect order,” he summed up after the tour.
His confidence was contagious, and Victoria immediately felt she had made the right choice. They discussed the details, and Kirill started work the very next morning.
She often watched him from her office window. There was something mesmerizing in the way he worked: every movement was deliberate, with no pointless rush or chaos. It was as if he could sense nature and understood how best to work with it.
Gradually, the garden changed. The thick weeds disappeared, neat path lines emerged, and where the unruly shrubs had been, tidy flowerbeds appeared. Kirill worked from early morning until late evening, taking only a short break for lunch. Over time, Victoria got used to his constant presence. Sometimes they chatted—about plants, the weather, literature. It turned out Kirill was not only an excellent specialist but also an interesting conversationalist.
Still, something about him gave Victoria a vague feeling of déjà vu. His calm speech, his gestures… It all reminded her of Alexey. She tried to dismiss these thoughts as mere coincidence.
One day, passing by the window, she noticed Kirill examining an old gazebo in a far corner of the garden, almost completely hidden by grapevines. Victoria went outside.
“It’s a beautiful structure,” Kirill remarked. “It’s a shame it’s abandoned. Would you like me to restore it?”
Her answer was sharp and final: “No need.”
That gazebo had been where she and Alexey spent countless evenings—where he had proposed to her. That was another life, another house, the one Victoria had left behind when memories became too painful. Kirill looked at her in surprise but did not press the issue further.
That same night, Victoria was going through old documents in her office. Her gaze landed on a photograph of Alexey. She froze, studying it carefully. A young Alexey in the picture looked remarkably like Kirill—the same facial features, the same shape of the eyes, even a mole in exactly the same spot.
A chill ran down her spine. Coincidence? Or something more?
Early the next morning, Victoria purposely went out into the garden. Kirill was already there, busy pruning overgrown bushes.
“Good morning,” she called to him.
He turned, and once again Victoria felt her breath catch. In the morning light, the resemblance seemed even stronger.
“It’s chilly today,” she said, offering him a thermos. “Have some hot tea.”
“Thank you,” he replied, smiling a smile that felt painfully familiar.
“How long have you been gardening?” Victoria asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
“Officially, a little over a year. But really, about three,” Kirill answered.
“And why did you choose this profession?” she continued.
He shrugged.
“I love nature. I like seeing the results of my work. Plus, my father taught me to garden from childhood.”
“Your father? What’s his name?” Victoria asked, fighting to stay composed.
“Alexey,” Kirill said without hesitation.
For a moment, the world seemed to shift beneath her. Victoria clutched the trunk of a nearby tree to keep her balance.
“Are you all right?” Kirill asked in concern.
“Yes…yes, just a little dizzy,” she managed, hastily heading back to the house.
Slamming the office door, she sank into her chair. Her thoughts swirled chaotically, like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. Kirill was nineteen. Alexey had disappeared fifteen years ago. Which meant only one thing: during their marriage, he had already been the father of another woman’s child. All their plans, their talks about having children… Lies. Nothing but lies.
Anger rose up inside, gripping her throat. For fifteen long years, she had blamed herself—maybe she wasn’t a good enough wife, maybe she made a mistake. But the truth was altogether different: Alexey had led a double life.
Kirill. His son. In her garden, day after day. Every move he made, every smile, reminded her of Alexey. And the young man had no idea who she was to him.
Days passed, and Victoria kept watching the gardener at work. Now each gesture stung with pain. She noticed more and more things about him that echoed his father.
One morning, Kirill brought her a bouquet of freshly cut roses.
“The first bloom,” he smiled. “Look how beautiful they are.”
Victoria froze. Alexey had always given her roses, telling her they were as beautiful as she was.
“Take them away,” she said sharply. “I hate roses.”
Kirill hesitated, lowering the flowers.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Victoria muttered through clenched teeth.
The sudden shift in her mood clearly threw the young man off.
Victoria turned away, struggling to contain her emotions. She spent the whole evening in her office, flipping through an old photo album. The happy moments she had shared with Alexey now felt like a cruel joke. What other lies had there been?
“I hate it,” she whispered, snapping the album shut.
But what to do about Kirill? Tell him the truth? Send him away? Or pretend nothing had happened?
She picked up her phone, intending to text Elena Sergeevna—maybe her acquaintance knew something important. But just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Victoria Andreevna, may I come in?” Kirill stood on the threshold. “I wanted to apologize about the roses. And ask you something.”
She nodded silently, letting him in. Kirill stepped over the threshold slowly.
“You know, I’ve wanted to tell you about my family for a while…”
“What is it?” Victoria tried to keep her voice steady.
“It’s about my father. Ever since I mentioned his name, something has changed between us.”
Her heart began to race.
“Why do you think that?”
“I notice how you look at me—like you’re seeing a ghost. And how your mood swings suddenly. Did you know my father?”
Victoria took a deep breath.
“Tell me about your parents. What were they like?” she asked, even though she already suspected.
Kirill sank into a chair, a sad smile crossing his face.
“I barely remember them. I was four when they died.”
“What?” Victoria bolted upright as if jolted by electricity. The room seemed to spin.
“My Uncle Lesha—my father’s twin brother—raised me. He became both mother and father to me,” Kirill continued.
“Twin brother?” Victoria repeated in almost a whisper, feeling her heart tighten in her chest.
“Yes. They were remarkably alike. That’s probably why I look so much like the man you once knew. Uncle Lesha legally adopted me, and since then I’ve called him ‘Dad.’”
Victoria covered her face with her hands, trying to contain the emotional storm. All these years she’d lived in ignorance…
“Fifteen years ago, Alexey was my husband,” she began in a trembling voice. “He disappeared abruptly, without explanation. Now it all makes sense. He chose you. He decided he had to be a father to his brother’s orphaned son. He became your support.”
Silence filled the office, broken only by the ticking of an old clock. Finally, Victoria spoke:
“I want to meet him. Can you arrange that?”
A few days later, Alexey walked into Victoria’s house. He had aged: gray at the temples, deeper lines on his face. But his posture was as straight and confident as ever, his shoulders still squared.
They stood there in silence for a long time, fifteen years of pain, resentment, and unspoken words hanging between them.
“Forgive me,” Alexey said first. “I should have explained everything. Back then, I thought it was the only right thing to do.”
“Right for whom?” Victoria asked quietly.
“For all of us. I couldn’t leave Kirill alone. His parents were gone, and he needed a father. And you… You were building your career, dreaming of having children of your own. I couldn’t burden you with someone else’s child.”
“You should have given me the choice,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I know. I see that now.”
They talked late into the night—about what had been, and what was now. About old wounds and about forgiveness. About love that had endured, even after so many years apart.
In the morning, Kirill found them in the living room: Victoria was asleep, leaning against Alexey’s shoulder, while he watched her as if afraid she might disappear at any moment.
“Does this mean everything’s different now?” Kirill asked.
Alexey smiled, though sadness lingered in that smile.
“Now things will be how they should have been all along.”
Victoria slowly opened her eyes and saw them both—two people who now held a new and vital place in her life. The man she had never stopped loving, and the young man so strikingly like him.
“Stay,” she said simply. “Both of you.”
Roses were blooming in the garden. They no longer brought Victoria bitter memories. On the contrary, these flowers once again became a symbol of love, hope, and a new life—the life she was beginning anew, together with her new family.
