Morning of the day that would forever split my life into “before” and “after” was filled with a sweet, almost childlike bustle. I woke with a festive feeling, a fluttering anticipation of a long-awaited reunion. Ten whole years had flown by since that graduation night when we, so young and naive, scattered into our adult lives. And now I, Alisa, once the tireless class monitor, had taken it upon myself to organize the reunion. I reserved a table at a cozy little restaurant overlooking the old part of town, called everyone who still lived in our city, and personally reminded each one of the time and place. I wanted so much for the evening to be perfect—warm and heartfelt, as if we had never parted.
I devoted the entire day to preparations. In the morning I stopped by a beauty salon, where they tidied up my hair with an elegant style and painted my nails a delicate peach shade. Then I drove to see my father, Sergei Petrovich. He lived alone in our old apartment that smelled of childhood and books. I had moved out two years earlier, when my career took off, but my heart always remained there with him. His health was poor—diabetes and a worn-out heart had left their mark—but he held himself with an astonishing, almost stoic courage. My mother had passed away when I was only three, and he raised me on his own, being both father and mother. He was my ideal of a man—honest, strong in spirit, kind, endlessly responsible. I often told my friends I would marry only someone in whom I saw at least a drop of his nobility. But it seemed such men no longer existed.
“Alisonka, my sunshine,” his face lit up with a smile as I stepped over the threshold. “Who are you all dressed up for today?”
“The class reunion, Dad. I told you about it, remember?”
“Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded, and a shadow of nostalgia flickered in his eyes. “Give everyone my regards. Especially that red-haired one, what was his name… Lyoshka. Good lad, sharp mind.”
I only nodded, knowing that Lesha had long since been conquering the capital’s IT heights and was unlikely ever to return. We sat for tea, I left him dinner I had prepared, and once again, like a wind-up toy, reminded him about his pills. He waved a hand with mild irritation:
“I know, I know, daughter. I’m not a child. Go on, don’t be late for your big event.”
I arrived at the restaurant half an hour early to personally make sure everything was ready. The manager, a pleasant woman with intelligent eyes, assured me the tables were set, the menu confirmed, and soft, unobtrusive music was playing. I surveyed the hall: dimmed lights, candle flames glimmering in elegant holders, snow-white tablecloths—everything breathed comfort and calm. It seemed nothing could spoil the evening.
Right at seven the first classmates began to trickle in. Nastya and Irina burst in first with joyful exclamations—once my inseparable friends, with whom I had shared all the joys and sorrows of school life. We hugged, kissed, and all started talking at once about who had changed and how. Gradually the room filled with voices and laughter—around twenty people, almost the whole friendly core of our class. Some had moved far away, some couldn’t make it, but those who came created exactly the atmosphere I had hoped for.
We sat, laughed, and recalled funny episodes and old pranks. The transformations were especially striking. Vitya, once the quiet boy who hid behind stacks of textbooks, had turned into a plump snob in an expensive suit who spoke only of his business projects and income. Marina, once the chief troublemaker and ringleader, had become a primary-school teacher with a strict yet kind gaze. Time had mercilessly molded new shapes out of us, erasing our old features.
About an hour in, with the evening in full swing, the door to the restaurant opened quietly. A young man stood on the threshold. Twenty-five or so. His silhouette took shape in the doorway, and there was something defenseless and broken about it. He wore a jacket worn thin by wind and time, torn jeans, and old sneakers that stayed on his feet only thanks to twine cinched tight in place of laces. His face was unshaven, his hair disheveled, but not dirty—just the traces of desperate neglect. He froze at the entrance, looking around the festive hall in confusion.
The manager rushed to him, her face set in icy politeness.
“I’m sorry, young man, but this is a private event. You’ll have to leave.”
“I… I just need to warm up,” he said, his voice quiet and hoarse, as if rusted by bad weather. “I’ll stand by the door a minute and go. It’s very cold.”
“No, no, that’s impossible. This is a respectable establishment. Please.”
I watched the scene and my heart clenched into a cold knot of pity. He was truly shivering, a small, rapid tremor, and outside the autumn wind was whistling while the thermometer stubbornly hovered no higher than five degrees. He was dressed as if it were summer. A homeless man. But in his gray, deep eyes I saw neither impudence nor bitterness. Only endless, bone-deep exhaustion and a tiny flicker of hope for simple human leniency.
Something flipped inside me. Without thinking, I stood and walked toward the entrance.
“Please, have a seat over here,” I said gently, pointing to a free table in a warm corner. “Don’t be shy.”
He looked at me in surprise, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Really? May I?”
“Of course. Warm up. I’ll order you something hot.”
The manager shot me a disapproving glance but kept silent. The young man sat down timidly, and I brought him a menu.
“Choose anything you like. The borscht is very rich, and the cutlets with mashed potatoes are good.”
“I… I have no money,” he whispered, lowering his eyes.
“It’s my treat. Please.”
I ordered him a full meal. He ate greedily yet remarkably neatly, without smacking or dropping crumbs. His movements hinted at traces of former manners, a life long lost. Between spoonfuls of soup, I asked carefully:
“What’s your name?”
He hesitated for a moment, and emptiness flickered in his eyes.
“I don’t remember. The people who found me called me Alexey. But I feel it isn’t my name.”
“Found you? Where?”
“In a ditch, on the outskirts. A few months ago. My head was smashed, I didn’t understand anything. They say I lay there more than a day. They picked me up, took me to a hospital, patched me up as best they could, and discharged me. And there was nowhere for me to go. No papers, no memory. So I live wherever I can. Right now I’m holed up in a basement on Victory Avenue.”
A chill ran over my skin. Amnesia. I’d seen it only in melodramatic TV shows. But he spoke so sincerely, with such bitter truth in his voice, that doubting him felt sacrilegious.
“Didn’t the police help? Maybe someone’s looking for you?”
“I went to them. They told me to wait. No one ever came forward.”
We talked a bit more. He was strikingly literate; complex turns of phrase slipped into his speech, he knew Yesenin by heart and quoted Brodsky, but couldn’t remember where it all came from. His memory was like a torn canvas: scraps of knowledge and culture, but not a single thread leading back to himself.
When I returned to the classmates’ table, I was met with silent but eloquent disapproval. Vitya, our new “oligarch,” said loudly enough for everyone to hear:
“Alisa, are you out of your mind? You brought some bum to our reunion? Is this the latest charity trend?”
“He’s just warming up and eating. What difference does it make to you?”
“A huge difference!” he flared. “We came here to relax like civilized people, reminisce, and you’ve turned this into a flophouse!”
“I showed basic human compassion,” I cut in, feeling my temper rise. “You could stand to remember what that is.”
“Shame on you,” Marina, the former troublemaker, spoke up. “We’re adults, educated people, and we’re acting like the gang of louts who bullied the weak at school.”
“Oh, our defender of the downtrodden has arrived!” Vitya sneered. “Alisa, you’re taking the wrong side. These types usually have a double bottom. Today you feed him, tomorrow he’ll clean out your apartment.”
“Shut up, Vitya! You’ve turned into a vile, self-infatuated snob!”
“And you’re a naive, feather-brained fool!”
The argument flared into a scandal. Voices rose, some took my side, others Vitya’s. The air reeked of hatred. Vitya jerked in anger, knocked a crystal glass with his elbow, and it shattered into a thousand pieces with a ringing crash. A plate followed, thudding to the floor and leaving a greasy stain on the white tablecloth. The manager hurried over, horror twisting her face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, what is going on?!”
“Nothing special!” Vitya snapped. “Our ex-class monitor decided to host a charity evening for the denizens of the city dump!”
I turned to the corner—it was empty. The stranger was gone. Like a ghost, he’d melted into the air while we indulged in our petty boorishness. I felt sick with shame. Shame for them, shame for myself. The evening was hopelessly ruined. Some guests stormed out at once, slamming doors; the rest sat with stony faces. The manager brought the bill—three thousand for the broken dishes. I silently counted out thirty, covering everything—the stained tablecloth, the staff’s moral distress, and my own guilt. I just wanted to erase the evening from memory as quickly as possible.
The way home felt like a walk to the scaffold. I cried openly, unashamed of tears. Not because of the money—I didn’t begrudge it. Because of the monstrous callousness of people who had once shared years of my life. And because I hadn’t truly helped someone so defenseless. I hadn’t even learned his real name. Or rather, I had—Alexey. But it wasn’t real; it was a label given by those who found him in the ditch.
The next few days passed in the fog of routine. Work, visits to my father, household chores. But the image of that young man with the sad gray eyes wouldn’t let me go. He lived in a basement, freezing, hungry. I desperately wanted to find him and help for real—but how? The city is huge, and there are dozens of basements on Victory Avenue.
On the fourth day the doorbell rang—sharp and insistent. I opened and recoiled. Two men stood there. Big, broad-shouldered, with flat, unfriendly faces. One in a leather jacket, the other in a tracksuit too tight for his muscles.
“Are you Alisa?” the one in the jacket threw out without greeting.
“Yes. What do you want?”
“We were told you recently spoke with a vagrant. Worn-out jacket, torn jeans. Is that true?”
My heart dropped to my heels, then started pounding wildly. Who were they? Why did they want him?
“Yes, I talked to him. Why?”
“Where is he now?” A steel note crept into the voice.
“I have no idea. He left that same night. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Are you sure? Maybe he left you an address, a phone number?”
“He doesn’t have a phone!” I snapped. “And no address either! He’s homeless, don’t you get it?”
The men exchanged glances, and something ominous flickered there.
“If you happen to see him—tell him he’s expected. Very much so. It’s very important.”
“Who’s expecting him? Why?”
“None of your business. Just pass it on.”
They turned and left as suddenly as they’d come. I slammed the door and leaned against it, feeling my knees shake. What was this? Why were such obviously shady types looking for a hapless amnesiac? Clearly not to hand him the keys to an apartment. I had to find him. Quickly. But how?
That evening I went to Victory Avenue. I went from building to building, peering into dark basement windows that smelled of damp and despair. Most were sealed shut; some were empty. In one I ran into a group of real street dwellers—they exchanged gloomy looks and, grunting “don’t know,” turned away.
I was almost ready to give up when I saw him. He was sitting on the icy steps of an emergency exit to an abandoned workshop, huddled into his thin jacket. His body was racked by a heavy, tearing cough.
“Alexey!” I called, running up.
He raised his head, and surprise mixed with timid hope flashed in his eyes.
“Hello. How… how did you find me?”
“I searched. Listen, people are looking for you. Two big guys came to me asking about you. They looked dangerous.”
His face went pale.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say. But I think you’re in serious trouble.”
He started coughing again, this time so violently he couldn’t straighten up. I came closer and touched his forehead. His skin was burning.
“You’ve got a fever! You’re really sick.”
“Just a little cold. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” I protested. “You’ll freeze to death out here tonight! Come to my place. Now.”
He stared at me in disbelief, as if I’d suggested a trip to the moon.
“Where? To your place? Why would you do that? You don’t know me at all.”
“Do you only help people you know? Come on, no arguments. I have a spare room, medicine, hot food. Everything you need.”
He hesitated a second, then nodded. As if fate itself—in the guise of cold and illness—pushed him to decide. We drove to my apartment. I settled him on the soft sofa, turned on the heater, brewed strong tea with lemon and honey. While he warmed up, I ran a hot bath, found a clean towel, and my old workout clothes—there were no men’s things, of course. I sent his rags to the wash without regret.
When he came out of the bath—clean, with hair I’d trimmed quickly with my own scissors, wearing my T-shirt and pants (too short, of course)—he looked like a different person. Ordinary, even handsome, with well-cut features, fair hair, and those piercing gray eyes now filled with fathomless gratitude.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“You can’t. Just get well. Lie down, I’ll set everything up.”
I settled him in the guest room and gave him a fever reducer. During the night I came to the door a few times, listening to his breathing. It was even and calm. He slept the deep, healing sleep of the exhausted.
By morning he looked much better. Over breakfast we talked again. He said snatches of knowledge would surface in his memory—the names of capitals, historical dates, formulas, lines from the classics. But his own life was a blank sheet.
“The people who found me said my head was in terrible shape. The doctors said the memory could come back anytime. Or not at all. Depends on luck.”
“Any scars? Birthmarks? Anything that might help?”
“There’s a scar,” he rolled up his sleeve to show a long, pale, straight scar on his shoulder. “Old, probably from childhood. But where from—that’s a mystery.”
I examined the scar and kept thinking we should go back to the police. But he said every attempt ended nowhere. If no one had come forward in all those months, either there was no one to look for him—or… they didn’t want to find him.
Alexey stayed with me. First for a day, then two, then a week. It just happened on its own. He turned out to be incredibly helpful at home: he cooked amazing meals, kept the apartment perfectly clean. I’d come home from work tired, and there would be a delicious dinner waiting and a gleaming kitchen.
“Alexey, you’re a wizard!” I laughed. “How do you manage everything?”
“I need to keep busy. At least this way I can thank you for your kindness.”
We got used to each other with astonishing speed. He was quiet, unobtrusive, tactful. He didn’t interfere, didn’t ask needless questions. He was simply there, and his presence filled the house with warmth and calm. The oppressive loneliness of the last few years let me go. I didn’t even tell my father—I was afraid he’d worry and ask too many questions.
One day, on our way back from a walk, we saw a tiny, filthy bundle by the garbage bins. A puppy—purebred, but clearly tossed out by someone. He whimpered pitifully and shivered with cold. Without thinking, Alexey picked him up and held him to his chest.
“Let’s keep him. Let him live with us.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But first—to the vet.”
We took the little guy to a clinic; they treated him and did all the vaccinations. We named him Charlie. He turned out to be a wonderfully cheerful and devoted dog—followed Alexey everywhere, slept at his feet, and whimpered if he was gone too long.
A month flew by. I had grown so accustomed to Alexey that I began to feel a secret fear. What if his memory returned? What if he remembered his former life, his family, his love, and simply left? It was selfish, but I couldn’t imagine my home without his quiet presence. He had become like a brother to me, my closest friend.
And then one evening the doorbell rang, sharp and insistent. I opened it and gasped. On the threshold stood Artyom. My most persistent and unpleasant suitor, whom I had been unsuccessfully trying to shake for the past six months. He grew up in our neighborhood, came from a poor family, but recently he’d been incredibly lucky—he inherited a huge fortune from some distant relative and now played the successful businessman. But behind the expensive suit and watch lurked the same crude, thuggish nature. I’d gone out with him a few times out of politeness, and each time I felt ashamed of his manners. Lately I’d just ignored his calls.
“Hi, Alisa!” he beamed a forced smile. “I missed you so much! Long time no see.”
“Hi, Artyom. I’m busy right now.”
“Come on, I’ll just pop in for five minutes!” He was already trying to peek into the apartment.
At that moment Alexey came out of the living room with Charlie in his arms.
“Alisa, have you seen where—” He stopped short when he saw the guest.
Then something inexplicable happened. Artyom stared at Alexey, and his face drained white; the smile slid off, revealing animal terror. He recoiled as if he had seen a ghost. They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, the air sparking with tension. Suddenly Alexey—my quiet, lost Alexey—said loudly and confidently:
“Artyom!”
Artyom flinched as if slapped.
“I… I’m not Artyom! You’re mistaken! I have to go!”
He spun around and practically ran for the elevator. Alexey lunged after him, but I grabbed his hand.
“Wait! What’s going on?”
He froze, staring at the elevator doors as they closed, and his face began to change right before my eyes. Sparks of memory flashed in his gaze—first pain, then fury, and then a blinding, deafening realization. He clutched his head and groaned.
“Alexey, what’s wrong?!”
“I… I remember everything,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “My name is… Dmitry. Dmitry Volkov. And that man… Artyom… he tried to kill me.”
We went back to the living room. Dmitry sank onto the sofa, pressing his fingers to his temples. Charlie, sensing trouble, leapt onto his lap and nudged his hand with a wet nose. Dmitry stroked him absently, then looked up at me with such pain and gratitude that my breath caught.
“My father was very successful. Big business, real estate, land. My mother died when I was little. He raised me alone. Then, when I was about fourteen, he met a woman. She had a son, Artyom, my age. They moved in with us. They never registered the marriage, and my father never adopted Artyom. We were never friends—he envied me savagely and hated me for having everything while he had nothing. I tried not to escalate things and treated him tolerantly.”
He paused, swallowing a lump in his throat.
“Two years ago my father died suddenly. Heart attack. I became the sole heir. Artyom and his mother got nothing in the will. Everything went to me. And then… then Artyom decided it was unfair. He put his buddies up to it. They lay in wait for me late one evening near my home, beat me brutally… I lost consciousness and came to in that ditch, with a smashed head and an empty mind. Their plan nearly worked—they figured I’d either die or, left disabled, never remember who I was. Then they could get their hands on everything.”
Cold goosebumps crawled over me. This wasn’t just amnesia. It was a real drama fueled by greed and betrayal.
“Dmitry, we need to go to the police immediately!”
“Yes. We do. But first…” He looked at me, eyes brimming with tears. “First I want to thank you. You saved me twice. First in that restaurant, and then here. If not for your kindness, I would have either frozen in that basement or they would have found me and finished the job.”
“Don’t thank me, Dima. I just couldn’t walk by.”
“You could have!” he burst out. “Most people would! But you didn’t. And for that I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my life.”
The next day we went to the police. Dmitry wrote a statement, laying out the whole story in detail. A criminal case was opened. It turned out that the heir Dmitry Volkov really had been listed as missing. They had searched for him, but without success. Meanwhile, Artyom and his mother, using forged documents and connections, had obtained a court ruling declaring Dmitry missing and began gradually taking over his assets.
Once Dmitry reappeared, everything spun rapidly. A DNA test confirmed his identity. Witnesses surfaced who had seen Artyom and his henchmen forcing Dmitry into a car that fateful night. The puzzle came together. Artyom and his mother were arrested. A long trial followed, but in the end everything taken was returned to its rightful owner.
You’d think the story had reached a happy ending. Dmitry got back his name, his memory, his fortune, and his place in society. I was overjoyed for him and inwardly prepared for him to leave my modest apartment and return to his huge, wealthy world. But Dmitry didn’t leave. He kept living with me—cooking dinners, walking Charlie, and watching evening shows by my side.
“Dima, you have your own house now. A huge one, probably. Why squeeze into my little two-room place?” I asked one day.
He looked at me with such tenderness that my breath caught.
“Alisa, I can’t leave you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve become everything to me. And Charlie doesn’t want to part with me either. Look at him.”
The puppy was snoozing sweetly on his lap. I smiled.
“Charlie is one thing. What about you?”
“As for me…” He paused, looking straight into my eyes. “I’m madly in love with you, Alisa. Somewhere between that first bowl of borscht and our last walk in the park. I don’t know when it happened. I just realized you’re the most precious, most important person in my life. And I don’t want to go anywhere if you’re not beside me.”
My heart beat in time with his words. I looked at this extraordinary man and understood that between that evening in the restaurant and this moment, he had become more than someone I rescued. Somewhere along the way, I had fallen in love with him too—his quiet strength, his nobility, his kind heart.
“Dima, I don’t want you to leave either,” I breathed.
He hugged me, and the embrace was so strong, so steady, as if he feared losing me in this vast world. Charlie woke up and, wagging his tail, joined our happy chaos. We laughed, tears of joy running down our faces.
Six months later we got married. The wedding was very intimate—just my father and a few of our closest friends. Sergei Petrovich wept as he embraced Dmitry.
“At last my girl has met a real man. I can rest easy about her.”
“Dad, you know, he really is a lot like you. Just as kind, strong, and honest.”
Dmitry took back his father’s business, but he didn’t run it fanatically; he found his greatest happiness in family. We bought a spacious house outside the city with a big garden where Charlie could race around from morning till night. Sometimes I look at this idyll and can’t believe it’s real—that one simple good deed, one impulse of the soul, can change your life so completely.
One day I asked Dmitry:
“What would’ve happened if, back at the restaurant, I’d walked past—like everyone else?”
He thought for a moment.
“Then I probably wouldn’t have survived that winter. Or Artyom would have found me and finished what he started. You saved my life, Alisa. In the most literal sense.”
“It wasn’t me. It was just… coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Dmitry shook his head. “I believe the good you put into the world always returns to you like a boomerang. You reached out to a stranger, and in return you received love, a family, true happiness.”
I leaned against his shoulder, watching our now-grown Charlie chase a speckled butterfly across the lawn.
“Then I’ll keep trying to do good. Maybe something else wonderful will come back.”
“It will,” he said with absolute certainty. “It will.”
And we sat together on our porch, pressed close, watching the crimson sun sink below the horizon. I thought about how thin and intangible the boundary is between tragedy and happiness. How a single decision, a single moment of compassion, can turn everything upside down. How vital it is to remain human, even when the whole world insists on pragmatism and indifference.
My classmates—the very ones who looked with contempt at the ragged man in the restaurant—kept on with their measured, comfortable, indifferent lives. And I found the greatest treasure—love and family—because I couldn’t walk past a stranger’s misfortune. And if this is a fairy tale, then I wish with all my heart for such fairy tales to happen more often. Fairy tales where kindness wins not with thunder and spectacle, but quietly, modestly, and forever. Where a prince can enter your life in torn sneakers tied with twine, and the princess is the most ordinary girl who simply hasn’t forgotten how to listen to her heart.
