Alevtina Petrovna unfailingly appeared at the store at exactly seven in the morning. By that time the 24-hour “Groceries” was usually empty—only night-shift workers and the occasional sleepless passerby came in. Her worn gray coat and faded headscarf had long since become familiar to the staff. The old woman came twice a week, like clockwork—on Tuesdays and Fridays.
“Here comes our granny again,” Nina yawned. She was the cashier, her face frozen in an expression of perpetual fatigue. There was an hour left in her night shift, and she dreamed only of a hot bath and a soft bed.
“So what?” asked Sergey, a new stock handler—a broad-shouldered парень with freckles who had worked there only two weeks. The routine hadn’t yet rubbed the humanity out of him.
“Nothing,” Nina snapped her gum indifferently. “She’ll stare at the price tags for half an hour, then take half a loaf of bread. Sometimes tea too, if she has money left. We get plenty of those.”
The February morning was especially cold and foggy. The streetlights barely pierced the dense haze, turning into blurred yellow spots. Wrapped in her old coat, Alevtina Petrovna moved slowly between the shelves. Her dried, arthritis-twisted fingers sifted through coins in a battered wallet with peeling leather. She counted them three times, moving her lips as if afraid to make a mistake.
At the dairy section she lingered longer than usual. She looked at the milk bottles, yogurts, cottage cheese—but still didn’t reach out her hand.
“Looking for something?” asked Sergey, who had grown bored of stocking canned goods.
Alevtina Petrovna flinched and turned around. Her faded but still clear eyes looked at him with a faint тревога.
“Well, sonny, I’m just looking…” she hesitated, clutching the old wallet in her hands. “The prices… they’re something. Haven’t bought milk in a long time. I thought maybe today…” She didn’t finish, waved her hand, and headed for the хлеб aisle.
Sergey watched her go. Something pricked inside—pity, or shame at the feeling of pity.
The old woman came up to the register with half a loaf of bread. She rummaged in her wallet for a long time, counting out small change. A guilty smile wandered across her cracked lips.
“Sweetheart,” she addressed Nina, suddenly решившись. “Buy me some milk… I’ve got nothing left… My pension was delayed—they promised to transfer it on Monday. I’ll pay you back, I swear I will…”
Nina didn’t even look at her. She rang up the bread and swept the coins into the till.
“This isn’t a charity fund,” she cut in coldly. “We hear stories like that every day. Pension delayed, card lost… Just go already.”
The old woman’s shoulders sagged even more. She took her bread and slowly headed for the exit.
At that moment a red-haired girl in a bright red jacket walked up to the register. Varya—that’s what her badge said—worked at the photo studio across the street. She came into the store every morning to buy coffee and a snack.
“I’ll pay for the milk,” she said, placing five hundred rubles on the counter. “And add a bun for the granny. A fresh one, please.”
Nina sighed, but didn’t argue. She rang it up.
“Granny!” she called out to Alevtina Petrovna. “Come back—someone bought you milk.”
The old woman turned around, blinking in confusion. When the meaning sank in, she threw up her hands.
“Oh, dear, you don’t have to… I just said it without thinking… I’ll give it back when I get my pension!”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Varya smiled. “My name’s Varya, by the way. And yours?”
“Alevtina Petrovna,” the old woman introduced herself, taking the bag with the milk and bun. “Thank you, my child… God grant you health.”
“Thank you again,” Alevtina Petrovna said when they stepped out into the cold street. “Just don’t think I’m some kind of beggar. It’s just… money’s very tight right now…”
Varya shrugged and smiled.
“Come on, it’s nothing. Anything can happen in life.”
“It can,” the old woman sighed. “I’ve lived sixty-five years, and I don’t remember it ever being like this. Even in the nineties it was easier.”
“Where do you need to go?” Varya asked, glancing at her watch. There was half an hour left before work. “Let me walk you.”
“Oh, my dear! You have to go to work.”
“I’ve got time. Where to?”
“To Zarechnaya, 15. Where the construction site used to be…”
“That’s on my way!” Varya brightened. “I live on Zarechnaya, 7.”
They walked side by side—a young red-haired girl with freckles on her upturned nose, and a hunched old woman whose steps were so small that Varya constantly had to restrain herself from walking too fast.
On the way Alevtina Petrovna said she lived alone—her husband had died ten years ago, and her son and his family were in Novosibirsk.
“They call every week, sometimes they send money,” she said. “But they’ve got their own worries. My daughter-in-law lost her job in the fall, my granddaughter’s getting ready to apply to university. I don’t want to be an extra burden. We managed before, and we’ll manage дальше.”
But from her voice it was clear that “managing” was getting harder and harder.
“This last month has been awful,” the old woman admitted. “A pipe burst in the basement, we got flooded. The floor buckled, the wallpaper peeled. The smell’s so bad you can’t sleep. And the management company just shrugs—no money, wait. I call them every day, and what’s the point… And now the pension delay too.”
“Does your son know?” Varya asked.
“Oh, don’t you start!” Alevtina Petrovna threw up her hands. “Why worry him? They’ve got enough problems. If he finds out, he’ll send money right away. But right now every kopek matters to them. I’m the mother—I’m supposed to help, not take the last from them.”
They reached a shabby five-story building with flaking plaster. By the entrance Alevtina Petrovna unexpectedly offered:
“Maybe you’ll come in? We can have some tea. I’ve got blackcurrant jam—made it myself last summer.”
Varya looked at the clock. Twenty minutes remained before her workday started, and the photo studio was two steps away.
“Five minutes,” she agreed. “I’ll just call and warn them I’ll be a bit late.”
The apartment was small, but incredibly cozy. Old Soviet-era furniture, lace doilies, knitted cushions on the sofa. In the corner stood buckets; rags lay on the floor—traces of the recent flood. It smelled of dampness and, for some reason, apples.
“Sit down,” the hostess fussed. “I’ll put the kettle on. What tea do you like? I’ve got black and green.”
“Black, please,” Varya smiled.
While Alevtina Petrovna busied herself with cups in the kitchen, Varya carefully looked around the room. Her gaze fell on an open envelope with a utility bill on the table. She read the amount without meaning to.
“That’s for heating?” she exclaimed when the old woman returned with tea. “Ten thousand?!”
“There was a mistake,” Alevtina Petrovna waved it off. “I called the management company—they said something got mixed up with the meter. Promised to fix it, but for now you have to pay, and then they’ll recalculate. So I have to save on everything.”
“And have plumbers been here? What about the floor?”
“They promised to come on Monday. But it’s always like that—promise and then forget. I’ve been calling every day for two weeks.”
“You need to push,” Varya advised. “My дед always said: if you want results, don’t hang up until you get a specific answer.”
“I’ve tried every which way. They say the queue is huge, no materials, not enough workers. And for me it’s a disaster: damp, cold, the floor’s caving in. And electricity is more expensive now—the heater runs nonstop.”
The more Varya listened, the clearer it became: it wasn’t only finances. The old woman lacked support—someone who could listen and help her fight through the bureaucracy.
“Alevtina Petrovna,” Varya finally decided, “let me help you. I used to work at a newspaper, and I know how to put pressure on management companies.”
“Oh, my child,” the old woman fluttered her hands. “You’ve got your own life. I’ll manage…”
“No,” Varya said firmly. “Tonight we’ll go to your management office. If there’s someone on duty, we’ll demand they send a plumber immediately. If not, we’ll leave a written complaint for the director—with a copy to the housing inspectorate.”
Alevtina Petrovna stared at the girl with surprise and a touch of тревога.
“Is that allowed? They’re serious people, busy. Who am I to bother them?”
“You’re a person who pays for коммунальные services,” Varya answered confidently. “And you have every right to demand proper service. Deal?”
At the management office they were met by an indifferent woman in a строгий suit.
“Office hours are over,” she tossed out without looking up from her computer.
“We’re not here for office hours,” Varya smiled. “We’re here about an emergency. Flooding in an apartment at Zarechnaya, 15. They’ve been waiting for a plumber for two weeks.”
“The request is registered,” the woman said flatly. “A team will come on Monday.”
“On Monday?” Varya repeated. “So a person lives for two weeks in a wet apartment with a ruined floor, and that’s normal?”
“Listen, miss,” the employee began раздражаться. “We’ve got dozens of requests like that. Everyone wants it urgent. And we have one team.”
“And if the ceiling collapses?” Varya didn’t back down. “Have you seen the condition of the floors? Your company is risking a lawsuit for harm to health.”
“Who even are you?” the woman asked, finally tearing her eyes from the screen. “A relative? A representative? No? Then on what basis are you here?”
“On the basis of consumer protection law,” Varya shot back. “If you don’t solve the problem, tomorrow I’ll contact the housing inspectorate and the prosecutor’s office. And I’ll make a post on social media with photos of the apartment. How many likes do you think that will get?”
Fear flickered in the employee’s eyes.
“Don’t write anywhere,” she said quickly. “I’ll call the foreman and see what can be done.”
She dialed a number, and five minutes later turned back to them.
“The team can come today after six. They’ll fix the leak and inspect the floor. But we don’t have materials right now. You’ll have to buy linoleum yourselves.”
“And compensation for damaged property?” Varya asked immediately.
“Write an application, we’ll review it,” the woman sighed. “But keep in mind, the building’s old, the accident is due to worn-out pipes…”
“I don’t need compensation,” Alevtina Petrovna cut in. “Just fix the floor and let it be dry.”
On the way home the old woman was silent for a long time, then said quietly:
“Thank you, my child. I never would have dared to talk like that… We’re used to терпеть. My son is the same—never complains about anything.”
“There’s a difference between whining and defending your rights,” Varya noted. “And we’ll deal with that bill too. They can’t force you to pay incorrect charges.”
They really did sort out the incorrect bill—it was a mistake, and they promised to correct it within a week. But something else bothered Varya: why are pensioners forced to pay first and wait for a refund later? That’s illegal.
“Many pensioners simply don’t know their rights,” she explained to Alevtina Petrovna. “Anyone can check whether the charges are correct. And a delayed pension isn’t a reason to make you go hungry.”
“I’m used to it,” the old woman sighed. “When you live alone, you don’t have the strength to fight. I have an education, but when it comes to action—I get lost.”
The plumbers arrived at exactly six in the evening. Varya had left work early to help Alevtina Petrovna move things damaged by water.
“And who are you to her?” the foreman asked suspiciously—a stocky man in his fifties with a gloomy face.
“Just a person,” Varya shrugged.
The foreman snorted but didn’t ask again. As they worked, they chatted. It turned out he had known Alevtina Petrovna since Soviet times.
“My mom worked with her at the bread factory,” he said, repairing the pipes. “Ah, Petrovna—if I’d known this was your apartment, I would’ve fixed everything ages ago. Why didn’t you call?”
“It’s embarrassing,” the old woman said shyly. “Everyone has their own life.”
“This generation,” the foreman shook his head, turning to Varya. “They’d rather sit silently in a flooded apartment than ask for help. And my father knew her husband Ivan well. They fought together.”
“In the war?” Varya was surprised.
“Afghanistan,” the foreman replied shortly. “Petrovna, where’s your son now?”
“In Novosibirsk,” the old woman sighed. “He works as an engineer. Struggles, of course, but holds on. Granddaughter’s applying to university…”
By nine o’clock they had dealt with the pipes. They fixed the leak and temporarily reinforced the most damaged parts of the floor. But the linoleum problem remained.
“I’ll come by Saturday,” the foreman offered. “I’ll bring leftover pieces from another job—we’d throw them out anyway. Maybe my son Kostya will come too; he’s a мастер at laying floors.”
“How can I thank you?” Alevtina Petrovna was moved. “I don’t even have money…”
“Oh, stop it!” the foreman waved it away. “What счет can there be between our own? Your Ivan did so much for my father…”
After the plumbers left, Alevtina Petrovna sat in silence for a long time.
“You know,” she finally said to Varya, “I thought everyone had forgotten. But it turns out they remember. They remember Ivan, and they remember me…”
“Sometimes shared history matters more than family ties,” Varya said.
“Thank you, my child,” Alevtina Petrovna whispered. “If not for you…” She didn’t finish, but there were tears in her eyes.
On Saturday Varya came to help with the repairs. She brought old wallpaper left over from her own renovation. And she didn’t come alone—Sergey from the store came too, volunteering to help.
“I can lay floors,” he declared, inspecting the job. “My dad was a carpenter—he taught me.”
Sergey turned out to be quiet but hardworking. While Mikhalych and his son Kostya finished up the pipes, Varya and Sergey tackled the floor and walls. By evening the room had transformed: not a trace of dampness or mold remained; new linoleum lay on the floor (even if it was in several pieces), and the walls were covered with fresh wallpaper.
“How beautiful!” Alevtina Petrovna marveled, looking at her renewed home. “It’s like new! Even better than before! How can I thank you?”
“With tea and jam,” Sergey smiled. “That’s all we need.”
Over tea Sergey unexpectedly suggested:
“Alevtina Petrovna, would you like a part-time job at our store? We actually need someone to receive deliveries and check invoices. Just a couple of hours a day, but it’ll be an addition to your pension.”
“Really?” the old woman lit up. “I worked with documents my whole life! I know invoices and paperwork…”
“Perfect,” Sergey nodded. “Come by on Monday—we’ll talk to the director. He’s been looking for someone experienced for a while; the молодежь is unreliable—today they show up, tomorrow they quit.”
Varya looked at Sergey in surprise—she hadn’t guessed that behind his quietness was such a kind heart.
When everyone left, Alevtina Petrovna took a worn wooden box from an old cabinet and pulled out an antique silver brooch with a голубой stone.
“My grandmother gave it to me,” she said, holding it out to Varya. “A family piece, very old. I want it to be yours.”
“Oh, Alevtina Petrovna!” Varya was frightened. “I can’t accept something so valuable! It’s a memory, a family heirloom…”
“That’s exactly why I’m giving it to you,” the old woman smiled gently. “These days you’ve become closer to me than many. You know, I once had a daughter… She died in childhood of scarlet fever. And you remind me of her—same red hair, freckles, and the same character—stubborn and fair.”
She placed the brooch into Varya’s palm.
“Take it. I’ll feel calmer if it’s with you. Maybe one day you’ll pass it on to your daughter.”
Varya squeezed the cool metal in her hand and, to her own surprise, began to cry—not from pity, but from some bright feeling, as if something important and meaningful had happened. As if a circle had closed.
Half a year passed. Alevtina Petrovna’s life changed beyond recognition. Now she worked three days a week at the store, checking invoices and helping with inventory. Her coworkers valued her attention to detail and experience, and the director praised Sergey more than once for the idea of hiring a pensioner.
Varya visited every Sunday—sometimes alone, sometimes with Sergey, with whom a romance had begun during that time. Sergey turned out to be not only pleasant, but surprisingly caring and reliable.
“I never would have thought I’d meet someone like that in a grocery store,” Varya once confessed to Alevtina Petrovna. “He’s not just handsome—he’s dependable. Like they write in old books: ‘With him, you’re behind a stone wall.’”
“I understood right away,” the old woman nodded. “He has kind eyes. People like that are rare these days.”
Over time, Alevtina Petrovna’s apartment became a place where a whole group gathered: Mikhalych with his wife Tamara, Kostya with his girlfriend, Dimka from the photo studio where Varya worked, the neighbor from the fifth floor with her grandson who was a university student. Even Nina from the store would sometimes stop by for tea.
“Where did you come from?” Mikhalych joked to Varya. “It used to be a quiet backwater—now it’s a roaring current.”
But everyone understood: thanks to that “roaring current,” their lives had become brighter and richer.
In April Alevtina Petrovna’s son flew in on a business trip from Novosibirsk and was astonished by the changes in his mother’s life.
“She’s glowing from the inside,” he told Varya. “I haven’t seen her like this in a long time. Thank you.”
“Oh, come on,” Varya blushed. “I was just there.”
“That’s the whole secret,” he smiled. “Sometimes just being there is more important than anything else.”
Before leaving, the son left his mother money for a new refrigerator and promised that in summer the whole family would come to visit.
And in May a small miracle happened—Alevtina Petrovna received a letter from an old friend she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. Valentina, who used to work with her in accounting, had moved to the Moscow suburbs—but suddenly decided to look up old acquaintances.
“Well, would you look at that,” the old woman shook her head, rereading the letter. “I thought everyone had forgotten, but she remembers. She asks about Ivan, about my son… I have to reply.”
Correspondence with her friend added another stroke to her new life. Now in the evenings Alevtina Petrovna sat at the table and described her days in detail—her new friends, her job. And she also helped a neighborhood boy with math—it turned out her память for numbers was still sharp.
One Sunday, as everyone gathered for tea as usual, Alevtina Petrovna suddenly said:
“Who would have thought,” she looked around at the guests, “that it would all turn out like this. And how ashamed I was then, in the store, to ask: ‘Sweetheart, buy me some milk…’”
“And I think those were the most important words,” Varya smiled, adjusting the silver brooch with the blue stone on her blouse. “Sometimes you just have to not be afraid to ask for help.”
“And not be afraid to give it,” Sergey added, putting an arm around Varya’s shoulders.
A warm spring breeze slipped through the open window, bringing the scent of lilacs and the voices of children playing in the yard. Varya looked around the room where so much had changed in half a year: new linoleum and wallpaper, fresh curtains that Mikhalych had given them, lamps, photos on the wall—many of them taken by her.
But the biggest change had happened in Alevtina Petrovna herself. The loneliness was gone from her eyes, and the wrinkles around them now gathered not from worry, but from smiling.
“You know,” Varya once said to Sergey, “I used to think kindness was when you give a part of yourself to others. Now I understand: real kindness comes back to you many times over.”
That day, setting the table for the guests, Alevtina Petrovna thought about how one случайный meeting had changed her life. But it wasn’t about the repaired pipe or the new linoleum. Her world had filled with people—alive, real, ready to help and simply be there.
And most importantly—the dull тоска that had squeezed her heart for years was gone. And every time she saw the red-haired girl step into her apartment, the old woman silently thanked fate for that February morning, and for the strength she found to say those simple, but so difficult words: “Sweetheart, buy me some milk… I don’t have enough for anything…
