After serving fifteen long years in prison, Vadim stepped into the world a free man—but there was no joy in his heart. Time hadn’t healed the wounds of his past. If anything, it had deepened them. He carried only one thought: visit the grave of the woman he had loved more than life itself—Polina.
Polina had been everything to him. They were young and deeply in love, planning to get married when life tore them apart. One tragic night, a fight broke out at a bar. Vadim, trying to defend her, struck a man who later died. He was sentenced to prison, and while he sat behind bars, word reached him that Polina had died in a car crash. The news shattered what was left of him.
Now, finally free, Vadim found himself at the gates of the cemetery, gripping a single red rose in his calloused hand. The wind rustled the leaves as he walked past rows of tombstones, until he found her name carved in cold stone: Polina Ivanova, 1987–2009.
He knelt, heart pounding, tears burning behind his eyes. He whispered her name. Just then, a soft voice behind him broke the silence.
“She’s not there.”
Vadim turned, startled. A young boy, no more than seven or eight, stood a few steps away. His hair was messy, his clothes a little too big for his frame, but there was a strange calm in his eyes.
“What did you say?” Vadim asked.
“She’s not there,” the boy repeated, his tone gentle, almost sad. “I know where she is.”
Vadim felt a chill crawl up his spine. “Who are you? What do you mean?”
The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and began walking toward the cemetery gate.
Something in Vadim—call it instinct, or desperation—urged him to follow.
They walked in silence through winding streets, the boy leading with quiet certainty. Eventually, they stopped in front of an old psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of town.
“She’s here,” the boy said.
Before Vadim could ask another question, the boy had vanished, as if swallowed by the wind.
Inside, the place smelled of antiseptic and loneliness. The nurse at the front desk looked up with mild suspicion as Vadim explained himself. At first, she refused to answer his questions, but when he showed a photo of Polina—faded, worn from years in his pocket—her expression changed.
“She’s… still here,” the nurse said hesitantly. “Room 207.”
Vadim’s heart thundered as he made his way down the sterile hallway.
There, by the window, sat a woman. Her long hair had grayed, and her frame was thinner, frailer, but when she turned, the spark in her eyes ignited something in his soul. It was her.
Polina.
She stared at him for a long time, confused, then slowly began to cry. “Vadim They told me you died,” she whispered.
The truth unraveled painfully. After Vadim was imprisoned, Polina had suffered a mental breakdown. Her grief consumed her. She attempted to take her own life but survived. Her family, ashamed and desperate, committed her to the hospital and forged a death certificate. They buried an empty coffin and cut all ties with the past.
And the boy? No one at the hospital had ever seen him.
Epilogue
Vadim visited Polina every day after that. Slowly, she began to return to herself. They laughed again. Cried again. Held hands like they once did as young lovers with dreams.
The past had stolen years from them. But in that quiet hospital room, they found something even time couldn’t erase—love, still alive, waiting patiently for its moment to be reborn.
And sometimes, in the evening light, Vadim would swear he saw a small boy standing at the end of the hallway, watching over them with a smile.