Fyodor Petrovich had long dreamed of going to the cemetery — to visit his son. For a long time, his health had not allowed him to do so. But today he woke up feeling a little better. The paint for the fence had been bought in advance, all the tools prepared. After breakfast, the man began to get ready.
Two months ago, he had noticed how the fence around Sasha’s grave had tilted, and the gate hung on only one hinge. But that was understandable: almost ten years had passed since he buried his son…
However, Sasha was not his biological child. Fyodor Petrovich and his wife had no children of their own; they had lived together for twenty years. After much thought, they decided to adopt. At the orphanage, their attention was drawn to a thin boy about five years old, quietly sitting in a corner and sadly looking at strangers. Fyodor Petrovich’s heart ached.
“Why is this child alone?”
“Oh, Sasha is special. They brought him here six months ago. His mother didn’t want to give him up, the boy cried, clung to her… It was painful to watch. Since then, he has kept to himself, unable to forgive her betrayal. We tried everything — nothing helps.”
The couple decided they could show the boy the bright side of life. While the paperwork was being processed, they took him on walks. Sasha obediently did everything offered: ate ice cream, rode rides, but his eyes remained empty.
It took a whole year before he stopped fearing these people. And one evening, he came up to Fyodor Petrovich and asked:
“Will you really never abandon me?”
“Never. I promise you.”
Little Sasha pressed close to him and burst into tears. From that day on, they no longer noticed that he was not their biological child. The boy pleased them in everything: he studied excellently, and after school entered a military academy. In their small village, such examples were rare, so the parents’ pride was boundless. Sasha came home for holidays not to rest but to help. All the neighbors envied their tender attitude towards their son.
Sasha stayed to serve. The parents worried a lot, especially when communication was lost. They knew their son was in dangerous places. Later, he was discharged for health reasons. He grew sad, and after a couple of years fell ill; doctors just shrugged — the disease had been neglected.
Shortly after the son’s death, Fyodor Petrovich’s wife also passed away. He continued to live, but alone…
In the morning, he went out into the yard, and immediately the old dog Buyan ran up to him. The animal was already very gray. By human standards, he was as old as his owner.
“Well, Buyanushka, shall we go to Sasha? It’s time.”
The old man and the dog seemed to understand each other. Buyan wagged his tail joyfully.
They closed the gate and headed down the dirt road. The cemetery was at the far end of the village. They had to walk almost its entire length and then about a kilometer more.
“Hello, Fyodor Petrovich! Where are you off to with Buyan?”
“Hello, Marya Stepanovna. To my son and wife. The fence needs fixing and painting.”
“Oh, how are you yourself? You’re ill, aren’t you? Maybe ask someone else?”
“God didn’t give me grandchildren, and I don’t trust strangers. You know how things are now — they take the money and then you have to redo everything yourself.”
Continuing on, Fyodor Petrovich and Buyan reached the cemetery. There they met a stranger, clearly not local. He didn’t even say hello. This behavior surprised Fyodor Petrovich — in their village, people always greeted each other, even strangers. But here — not a word…
The cemetery was messy. A recent strong wind had broken branches. The old man sighed:
“Eh, Buyasha, how much work we have ahead.”
Suddenly the dog growled. He began digging the ground right by the fence, barking and squealing. Finally, he stopped and started barking loudly.
Fyodor Petrovich approached the hole. The edge of a cardboard box was sticking out of the ground. The cardboard was dry, so it had been buried recently. Possibly by that very stranger. The old man dug up the spot and pulled out the box — it was quite large.
Suddenly something moved inside the box. Fyodor Petrovich carefully tore the cardboard, while Buyan circled nearby.
“Quiet, quiet…”
Under some rags lay a newborn baby — a little girl. She moved, opened her mouth, trying to gasp for air, but had no strength to squeak. How long had she been underground? Probably no more than half an hour — there was air in the box, otherwise, she would have suffocated.
“Lord…”
Fyodor Petrovich grabbed the child and ran toward the exit. Buyan didn’t lag behind, barking as he hadn’t for many years. The old man’s heart was pounding, his breath ragged, but he didn’t stop. They hurried to Olga Sergeevna — the village’s former paramedic. Although the medical clinic had long been closed, people still turned to her for help.
Olga Sergeevna was weeding the garden beds when she noticed Fyodor Petrovich running toward her house. From his appearance, it was clear — something serious had happened. Without wasting time, she quickly rinsed her hands in a barrel of rainwater and went out to meet him.
“What happened, Fyodor Petrovich?”
The old man silently handed her the little girl and croaked:
“Found her… in a box… buried…”
The baby weakly squeaked, and Olga Sergeevna, as if coming to her senses, hugged the child and hurried inside. There she carefully wrapped the girl in a soft towel, while her husband feverishly dialed numbers and asked Fyodor Petrovich about everything that had happened.
Half an hour later, paramedics and police gathered at the gate. Curious neighbors watched the scene. Someone from the crowd handed the old man heart medicine.
The next day, an expensive, unusual car drove up to Fyodor Petrovich’s house — one he had never seen before in the village. The old man tried to get up from the sofa, but after yesterday, he had almost no strength left. Sasha, the paramedic’s husband, peeked out of the house.
“Who’s there?”
“Hello. Are you Fyodor Petrovich?”
“Yes, that’s me,” the old man answered, struggling to approach the door.
“I’m German, the grandfather of the girl you saved.”
Fyodor Petrovich saw the young man carry a large box and put it on the table. On top of it, German placed a thick envelope of money.
“This is for treats, and this is gratitude. I understand that money isn’t the best way to say ‘thank you,’ but I don’t know how else to express my appreciation. Please, accept it from the bottom of my heart.”
Fyodor Petrovich sat down on a chair. German continued:
“The thing is, my daughter married against my will. I immediately realized her husband had his own interests, but she didn’t listen to me. When she got pregnant, I hoped everything would change. But she died in childbirth. I didn’t even know about it. The girl survived, and her stepfather decided to get rid of her to inherit. I couldn’t imagine such a thing was possible. Now the investigation will sort it out, and the son-in-law has already been arrested. For me, this little girl is the last link to my daughter. I should have intervened, but I didn’t want to meddle in someone else’s family.”
Fyodor Petrovich understood perfectly what it was like to lose a loved one.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She’s fine, you arrived just in time. Thank you very much.”
Fyodor Petrovich told the story of that day over and over: how he was going to the cemetery, how he wanted to fix his son’s tilted fence…
The old man was able to walk normally only after two weeks. The gift box contained so much food and money that it was enough not only for a new fence but also for a beautiful monument. One clear day, Fyodor Petrovich took a measuring tape and left the house. Buyan happily jumped along beside him.
“Will you come with me, buddy?”
The dog wagged his tail cheerfully and barked with excitement. They passed through the gate and soon met Marya Stepanovna.
“Where are you heading, Fyodor Petrovich?”
“To the cemetery. The girl’s grandfather came and helped financially. Now I want to take measurements and order a new fence — the old one is completely worn out.”
“Go ahead, of course.”
The woman watched him go and crossed herself unconsciously. She knew more than he thought: she had been at the cemetery the day before.
Fyodor Petrovich walked, talking to the dog:
“The main thing is that nothing happens today. No incidents, right, Buyan?”
At some point, he stopped, looking around. Right before him stood a majestic memorial complex. Black chains, white gravel, neat tiles, tall black monuments with portraits, as if alive. One bore his son’s name, the other — his wife’s.
“Sanechka…”
Fyodor Petrovich immediately understood who had done it. He bowed and quietly said:
“Thank you, kind person. You did everything right.”
The old man sat down on a bench near the graves:
“That’s all, my dear ones. Now you are at peace. I didn’t come until I finished my business, but now everything is as it should be.”
That evening, Marya Stepanovna saw Buyan return alone. The dog whined plaintively, as if trying to say something. The woman suspected something was wrong and went to Fyodor Petrovich’s house. The door was locked. She gathered the neighbors, and together they hurried to the cemetery.
Fyodor Petrovich sat on the bench with a kind expression. He passed away peacefully, smiling.
The funeral was organized by German. But Buyan didn’t want to leave Marya Stepanovna, although German offered to take him to his country house. The dog often ran to the cemetery, spending time by the graves. After his owner’s death, he lived two more years and died next to a beautiful fence where he was buried — near the family and his beloved person.
