“Alyona, dear… help me,” Maria Nikitichna whispered, stepping in from the rain, holding two bundles close.
Alyona froze at the sink. Outside, their dog whined at the door, rain drumming heavily. Something about the day felt off, like the world had shifted.
“What happened?” she asked, rushing over. Maria’s tear-streaked face trembled as she opened one blanket—inside, a tiny, red-faced baby cried faintly.
“There are two. I found them in the old well,” she said.
Alyona’s heart nearly stopped. She took the boy, cold and dirty but alive, and stared into his wide, dark eyes.
“In the mossy well behind the woods?”
“Yes. Sharik led me there. He barked and wouldn’t stop. When I approached, I heard crying. We pulled them out with Petrovich. No one in the village is missing kids. They must be strangers.”
Alyona held the baby close. After five painful, childless years with her husband Stepan, this felt like a miracle.
“And the second?” she asked.
“A girl. Tiny. They must be twins.”
The door creaked—Stepan entered, drenched.
“What’s going on?” he asked, staring at his wife cradling the baby.
Maria explained. Stepan approached, touched the boy’s cheek, and said softly, “How could anyone do this?”
“I’ve called the medic and the district officer,” Maria added. “They’ll come tomorrow.”
Stepan took the girl. Her serious gaze stopped him in his tracks.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“If their parents aren’t found… the orphanage,” Maria said gently.
Stepan looked between the children and his wife. “We’ll keep them.”
Alyona repeated the words, feeling warmth bloom in her chest for the first time in years.
The medic confirmed the babies were healthy, about a year old. They named them Nadya and Kostya—Hope and Steadfastness.
Five years passed like spring. The farm grew, and so did the children. Maria became a devoted grandmother—firm but loving.
Then came a call: Maria had collapsed in the garden. Alyona rushed over. It was a heart attack. Too late.
Maria’s last words: “Look after… them… They’ve always been yours.”
Grief settled over the home. Stepan withdrew, silent. The children sensed the change. Alyona watched as he turned distant, then angry, drinking to numb the pain.
One morning, a knock. It was her estranged father, Viktor Sergeevich. A quiet man, once an engineer, now a widower. He brought light back into the home.
He helped with repairs, read to the kids, taught them. Even Stepan softened under his presence.
Weeks later, Stepan whispered, “Forgive me. I thought I lost myself with her.”
Viktor sold his apartment, bought land nearby. Alyona dreamed again—of trees, goats, and growing roots.
That evening, they sat together—Alyona, Stepan, Viktor, Nadya, and Kostya. No words were needed.
They weren’t perfect. But they were real. A family built not by blood, but by love, healing, and the simple choice to stay.