Igor sat in his office, immersed in a heavy, almost physically tangible silence. It seemed even the clock on the wall was afraid to mark the time — its hands frozen, as if unwilling to break the silent grief hanging in the air. He stared at a single spot, the corner of the expensive dark wooden desk, but saw nothing. His gaze was turned inward — to the place where his soul ached, tormented by reproaches and thoughts of home, of the bedroom where, as he believed, his wife Kristina was slowly fading away.
There was a gentle knock at the door. Not loud, not insistent — as if someone feared to disturb his solitude. Olga, his deputy and, as he felt, the only reason he had not yet gone mad, appeared in the doorway. She entered, and the office seemed to fill with light. But her face lacked the usual warm smile. She came to the desk and silently placed a folded piece of paper before him. A resignation letter.
“Olga, what is this?” Igor’s voice faltered, turning hoarse. He felt something inside him crack.
“This is for the best, Igor. For everyone,” she replied quietly, without looking up. “I’ve already found a job. In another city.”
A pain, dull and sharp at once, pierced him. He jumped up, went around the desk, and took her hands. They were cold, like the winter wind blowing through the cracks of old windows.
“Don’t go. Please,” he whispered, like a prayer.
“I can’t stay. You’re needed by her,” her voice trembled with unshed tears. “You have to be with her.”
“It’s my fault! — Igor almost shouted, his voice breaking. — Because of me she got sick! My sin, my affair with you is killing her!”
“Stop,” Olga finally looked at him, and in her eyes, he saw the same pain. “You’re not to blame. Not for anything. Let yourself go.”
But he couldn’t. Images from the past raced through his mind, as if memory deliberately tossed up recollections to wound him deeper. His marriage to Kristina had been arranged by their parents, who believed children should follow family traditions and advantageous connections. He remembered her coldness, her almost disdainful attitude toward his attempts to get closer, her constant dissatisfaction. She didn’t want children, calling them “a burden” and “the end of her figure.” Her world was social gatherings, expensive clothes, and the sparkle of others’ diamonds in which she dreamed of shining the brightest. And he was just a wallet and a status symbol for her.
Then Olga appeared in his life. For the first time, he understood what warmth, care, and love meant. She asked for nothing in return. She just was there. Supporting. Listening. Embracing. Kissing as if she knew every thought in his mind. The last memory was the most tormenting. Having decided to be honest to the end, he went to Kristina to ask for a divorce. He wanted to tell her the truth about his feelings for Olga. The response was not just a hysterics. It was a performance. She screamed, broke dishes, then clutched her heart and fell onto the carpet. Since that day, she had “fallen ill” with a mysterious disease no doctor could diagnose.
Returning home became torture. The gloomy, oppressive atmosphere weighed on him from the doorstep. Kristina lay in her room, surrounded by pillows, greeting him with a weak but reproachful voice:
“You’re late again… You don’t care about me at all. Maybe I won’t live till morning.”
Igor swallowed the lump in his throat silently and sat in a chair by her bed, feeling guilt devour him from inside. He was ready for anything just to keep her alive, just to atone for his sin. So when she said she had found a “medical luminary” who could help her, he agreed without protest. A costly professor with well-groomed hands and a smug smile came twice a day, gave some injections, and sent Igor enormous bills. Igor paid without questions.
That evening, he drove up to the wrought-iron gates of his house and turned off the engine. He couldn’t make himself get out of the car. Five more minutes. Five minutes of silence before plunging again into this hell of reproaches, sighs, and the smell of medicines.
There was a tap on the passenger window. A thin little girl of about ten, in an old jacket, stood by the car holding a bucket of murky water and a rag. He had seen her several times in the neighborhood — she always hung around the road offering to clean car headlights.
“Uncle, want your headlights washed?” she asked brightly.
Igor nodded, pulled a bill from his pocket much bigger than the price of the service, and handed it to her. The girl quickly wiped the headlights, grabbed the money, and was about to run off but suddenly turned around.
“You come too late,” she said. “Try coming earlier.”
Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared into the darkness. Igor remained sitting in the car, utterly puzzled. What strange words were those?
Morning started as usual. Kristina greeted him with a moan and another round of reproaches:
“Don’t touch me,” she pulled her hand away when he tried to adjust her pillow. “The nurse will come soon, she’ll do everything. Go to your work if it’s more important to you than your dying wife.”
Igor slipped out of the house with relief. Work was no better. During the day, looking out the window of his office, he saw what he feared most. Olga was walking to her car carrying a cardboard box with her things. She put it on the back seat, sat down behind the wheel, and drove off. Forever.
A wave of despair, mixed with dull anger at himself and this unfair life, washed over him. He had lost her. He had given her away himself, trading her for the guilt before the woman he never loved. He sat down in his chair and covered his face with his hands. It was all over.
In the torrent of these jagged, painful thoughts, suddenly, like a flash, the image of the girl by the gate and her strange words appeared: “Try coming earlier.”
Why had she said that? What did it mean? The thought was wild, irrational, but it was the only clue in this ocean of hopelessness. The decision came instantly, impulsively. Without giving himself time to reconsider, Igor grabbed his jacket, ran out of the office, throwing to the stunned secretary: “I won’t be here,” and rushed off. He was going home. Right now, in the middle of the workday.
Approaching the house, he saw the familiar black Mercedes of the “medical luminary” by the gate. A cold spike of anxiety pierced his heart. What was he doing here during the day? His visits had been strictly morning and evening. Igor jumped out of the car, yanked open the gate, and rushed inside. And froze. From Kristina’s bedroom came music and… loud, hearty, absolutely healthy laughter of his “dying” wife.
On legs that felt numb and weak, he approached the bedroom door. The laughter and music grew louder. He pushed the door open. And stood frozen in the doorway, unable to believe his eyes.
On their marital bed, sprawled out, sat the completely naked “doctor.” Before him, in a sheer negligee, danced his “dying” wife Kristina. In one hand, she held a glass of champagne; with the other, she made playful gestures in the air. She was full of life, energy, and health.
They didn’t notice him right away. The “doctor” was the first to turn. His face lengthened, the smile slid off. Kristina froze with the glass raised, her eyes wide with horror.
“Igor!” she shrieked. “It’s not what you think! It was her plan! He said it’s a kind of therapy!”
“What?!” the “doctor” blushed, jumping off the bed and trying to cover himself with the sheet. “Are you crazy, bitch?! It was your plan from start to finish! And you kept half the money for the ‘treatment’!”
Igor trembled. But it was not weakness. It was rage. Black, icy rage burning away all pain and guilt inside. He silently turned, left the room, went to his office, and took down the heavy hunting rifle — a gift from his father. He returned to the bedroom. The eyes of the lovers, filled with primal terror, were fixed on the weapon in his hands.
A shot rang out. The bullet struck the expensive parquet just a centimeter from the “doctor’s” foot.
“Five seconds,” Igor said in an icy voice. “For both of you to get out of my house and my life. Five… four…”
They didn’t need more. Stumbling, pushing each other, pulling on clothes as they went, they rushed out of the room and then out of the house. Moments later came the screech of tires from the departing Mercedes.
Igor was left alone in the room smelling of foreign perfume and betrayal. Shock slowly receded, replaced by one all-consuming realization. Olga. He had to find Olga.
He dashed from the house, jumped into the car, and rushed to her rented apartment. The door was opened by an elderly neighbor woman.
“She’s not here, dear. Left. Just gave me the keys and went to the station. Said her train leaves in an hour.”
A race. A mad dash through the city that had turned into an obstacle course. Igor sped, ignoring signs and traffic lights. He weaved through traffic, cut corners, drove on the wrong side. Two police cars were on his tail, their sirens tearing the air.
He didn’t hear the orders to stop. In his head, only one thought rang: “Make it!” Knowing the city from childhood, he turned into an unremarkable alley, pushed through bushes, emerged onto a service road leading directly to the railway tracks, knocked down a flimsy barrier, and shot onto the platform.
He jumped from the car. Around was a crowd. Hundreds of people with suitcases, children, bags. Noise, announcements from the loudspeakers, train whistles. Finding her here was impossible. Despair again started to rise in his throat.
His gaze caught a girl in a bright cloak holding a microphone. A promoter inviting people to some event. Igor ran to her, pulled all the cash from his pocket, and handed it to the stunned girl.
“Please, give me the microphone for a minute! I really need it!”
He grabbed the microphone from her, brought it to his lips, and his amplified voice spread over the entire platform:
“Olga! Olya, if you hear me, please don’t leave! I beg you, stop! It’s not what you think! I can’t live without you! I love you so much!”
He shouted it over and over, turning in different directions, trying to look into every face. Two policemen were already making their way through the crowd to him.
“Olga! My love!”
“And what about sick Kristina?” a quiet voice spoke nearby.
Igor turned sharply. Olga was standing in front of him. Her face was wet with tears, and she clutched a ticket in her hand. He dropped the microphone and fell to his knees before her, right onto the dirty asphalt of the platform.
“She was never sick!” he gasped. “It was all a lie. A performance to keep me. I found out everything. Forgive me for being such a blind fool! Forgive me!”
“Sir, please come with us,” the police grabbed him by the shoulders.
But the crowd, witnessing the scene, suddenly buzzed.
“Let him go!”
“Can’t you see, he’s bringing back love!”
“Have some conscience!”
Olga knelt beside Igor and embraced him. They both cried openly in the middle of the noisy station. The policemen exchanged confused glances, then one waved a hand, and they turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
Two hours later, Igor brought Olga to his home. The house was empty and quiet. He apologized that he wouldn’t have time to find her a place to stay today and silently began removing Kristina’s things from the bedroom, throwing them into garbage bags. At one point, he stopped and looked at Olga sitting quietly in a chair.
“Olya, why were you in such a hurry? You hadn’t even really found a job yet, I know. Why did you leave just like that, in one day?”
Olga raised tear-filled eyes to him and whispered with a sob:
“I was afraid… Afraid to tell you everything and put you in a completely hopeless situation.”
Igor frowned.
“What could be worse than it was?”
She took a deep breath, and her voice was almost a whisper.
“To tell you that I’m pregnant.”
Igor froze. Time stopped. He looked at her, at her tear-stained face, at her hands instinctively resting on her belly, and slowly the meaning of her words dawned on him. Then the world exploded in a fireworks display of pure, deafening happiness. He lifted her into his arms, spun her around the room laughing and repeating again and again like a mantra:
“I love you! Do you hear? I love you! And our baby! I will never give you to anyone!”
A year later. Igor and Olga stood on the terrace of their home, watching their three-month-old daughter sleep in a stroller in the garden. Everything connected with Kristina and her parents was left behind — courts, scandals, slander, legal battles. He gave his ex-wife exactly what was due by law and erased her from his life forever.
And by the road, the little girl with the bucket no longer stood. Igor found her that same evening after the station. It turned out her mother was seriously ill, and her father had lost his job. Now her father worked for Igor’s company, and her mother was undergoing treatment at the best clinic. Sometimes the girl came to visit them, and the three of them drank tea with pie.
Igor looked at his sleeping daughter, hugged his beloved woman by the shoulders, and understood that he had been through hell only to finally find his own true paradise.
