“Ma’am, could you tell me if the bus has already gone?” a breathless man called out as he hurried up to the stop.
He looked about fifty: an old jacket, stretched-out trousers, and a battered bag hanging from his shoulder. His face was plain, and he wore a mustache. Larisa Andreyevna couldn’t stand mustaches, so she turned away and said nothing.
“Ma’am, is it really that hard to answer? Has the last bus left or not? You’re waiting too, aren’t you?” the man asked after catching his breath, setting his heavy bag down on the bench beside her.
“I’m not waiting for anyone,” she replied sharply. Then, thinking that you never know who might be standing in front of you, she softened her tone. “Some bus left about five minutes ago. I didn’t really pay attention.”
“Well, that’s that…” He dropped onto the bench so heavily it gave a pitiful creak. “So you missed it too?”
What a nuisance, Larisa Andreyevna thought, straightening her coat. She had already decided to go home. It was late. An hour earlier she had suddenly felt uneasy—stifled, lonely. That had never happened to her before.
She had spent her whole life alone, and she had always been content with it. Her friends got married and had children, but she had never wanted any of that. She often remembered how her mother back in the village kept giving birth one child after another, only to send three of them away to a boarding school. Larisa, the eldest, had run off to the city.
She finished vocational school, trained as an accountant, and spent her whole life working at the city’s central restaurant. At first she was just an ordinary accountant, later the chief accountant. Weddings, anniversaries, endless bustle—there was never a chance to be bored.
She earned well, ate well, bought herself an apartment, went on vacations, and never wanted any other kind of life.
But a year ago everything changed. A new owner took over the restaurant and announced that she had fallen behind the times and that he was unhappy with the way she worked. She was pushed into retirement, though she had never planned for it.
At first she tried to find another job. Then she realized that the work she was being offered did not suit her, and the places she actually wanted preferred younger people. In the end, she waved it all off and decided to live on her savings.
At first, retirement felt wonderful: no alarm clock, no obligations. She went on excursions, took walks, even got into Nordic walking. But before long, all of that began to feel dull. And this evening, she had simply walked out of the house and sat down on the bench by the bus stop.
Cars rushed by, people passed talking to one another, and she sat there feeling unnecessary. As if she no longer existed at all. As if there was only this noisy city going on with its own life, while hers meant nothing to anyone. Not a single soul needed her.
And then this man appeared.
“So, have you got nowhere to sleep tonight either?” he suddenly asked. “Once I slept on this bench till morning myself. Caught the bus first thing after sunrise. I live outside the city, worked my shift, and missed the last bus. Back then it was warm, but tonight it’s chilly… Still, no matter. I’ve got sandwiches. Don’t be afraid, sit down. I won’t bite. Here—take one. Fresh bread, sausage. I’ll get out my thermos and we’ll have some hot tea with sugar, warm ourselves up.”
Without even noticing, he had switched to the familiar form of address and pushed a sandwich into her hand. Larisa Andreyevna wanted to refuse, but then she suddenly realized just how hungry she was.
She had skipped dinner and barely eaten anything all day. She took a bite and was surprised by how delicious it was. She had not bought sausage in a long time—she had been trying to stick to a diet. But here there was fragrant bread, juicy sausage…
The man laughed.
“Well, is it good? Here, take some tea—careful, it’s hot. What’s your name?”
“Larisa Andreyevna,” she answered with her mouth full.
“So, Larisa! And I’m Uncle Mitya—well, Dmitry Ivanovich, really. I used to work at a factory, then got laid off. Now I do security work—twenty-four hours on, three days off. It’s not so bad, I manage. My mother’s sick, getting old, so I earn money for her medicine… Maybe she’s still got some years left in her. I had a family once too, but it fell apart. My son grew up, and my wife left me for another man… That’s how I live,” he said with a sigh. He smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes.
“Is home far for you, Larisa? Want me to give you money for a taxi? I’m too far out—no one wants to drive there at night because they’d have to come back empty, so it costs too much. But for you, it would be enough.” He looked at her with a kind smile.
And suddenly Larisa remembered her childhood. Back in school she had a friend named Kolya. She was often hungry, and he used to bring sandwiches and share them with her. He had looked at her the very same way—warmly, kindly.
For a moment she felt like that girl again. As if all the years in between—her work, her retirement, her whole life—had never happened.
She finished the sandwich, washed it down with sweet hot tea, and then, surprising even herself, said:
“Come home with me, Uncle Mitya. You can’t spend the night on a bench. My building is right there, close by. No need to go anywhere. Pick up your bag and let’s go. Just behave yourself—I’ve got a heavy hand, so don’t be fooled by the fact that I’m not young.”
The man looked at her in confusion, then at the building behind her, then back at her.
“What were you doing sitting here then? What were you waiting for?”
“I wasn’t waiting for anything. And there’s nothing left to wait for. Are you coming or not?” She turned and headed toward the building.
Dmitry Ivanovich hurried after her, grabbing his bag.
“How can I… it’s not proper… I mean… don’t get the wrong idea, I’ll sleep on the floor, in some corner… I’ll leave first thing in the morning. Thank you. It’s cold out there…”
The next morning Larisa woke to an unfamiliar knocking sound. She stepped out and found Dmitry already up, fixing something in the bathroom.
“Your toilet tank was leaking, Larisa. I fixed it. Can I count that as earning my breakfast?” he said with a smile.
She looked at him: a stranger in a simple undershirt, hair half gray, fresh from washing up. And yet her heart felt warm and at peace.
“Well then, let’s have breakfast, Uncle Mitya. You’ve earned it. Would you like eggs with tomatoes?” She smiled. “By the way, my washing machine leaks too… and there are a few other things around here…”
And that was how Dmitry Ivanovich stayed. At first, only until his next shift. He called his mother—everything was fine with her—and then stayed longer. Now they live together.
He works his security schedule, one day on and three off. Larisa waits for him at home and cooks him delicious meals, just like in the restaurant. And he kisses her hands.
“Larisa, I understand now—you were waiting for me. It wasn’t by chance that I missed that bus. It was fate. Forgive me, you looked so lonely, I just couldn’t leave you there. I lived my whole life without knowing I could love like this… how lucky I am!”
They often visit his mother. She is nearly eighty, but still lively. Beside her, Larisa feels young again. And Maria Pavlovna is happy for her son—at last, he has someone to live for.
