No one quite remembered how Alyssa came to work at the office. She appeared as if she had always been there—a quiet, unobtrusive presence, neither clearly young nor old. Her appearance was carefully hidden beneath a simple headscarf tied modestly and a high-neck sweater covering her neck.
For months, Alyssa quietly swept the floors, polished the toilets until they gleamed, wiped down door handles and glass partitions—anything touched by the hands and brows of busy clients. Three months had passed, and not a single coworker had ever heard her speak a word.
She wore no makeup, carried no scent but the faint freshness of cleaning products. After she finished, the office always shone with a clean, almost homey warmth.
Reactions among the staff varied. Some felt pity, others ignored her completely, while a few dared to mock.
“Hey, silent one! There’s dust here!” a young loan officer jeered, pointing to a spotless corner just to rile her up. Alyssa simply picked up her rag without a word and continued her work. No reaction. Just diligence.
“Look at her sweat!” another laughed once, only to get an elbow from a more empathetic colleague who disliked the cruelty.
Alyssa sighed quietly, never responding, skillfully avoiding confrontation as if she had grown accustomed to it. In the evenings, she returned to her cramped apartment, fed her fish, made a modest dinner, and sat down to paint. Her watercolors were soft and ethereal, flowing like dreamscapes across the paper. She painted for herself, never seeking recognition. Sometimes she painted outdoors, and then her work sparkled even more—mysterious, alive with natural light.
But every night, the same nightmare haunted her for nine years. Without fail, she woke up screaming.
One June night, sharp cries pierced the quiet of the building. The smell of smoke drifted through the cracks in the doorframe. The fire was not in her apartment.
Alice’s parents and her little brother rushed out in their pajamas and slippers, clutching documents. Neighbors gathered, bewildered and unsettled.
The fire engulfed the apartment directly opposite theirs, the second floor window ajar as smoke spilled out.
“Did someone call the fire department?” a woman yawned from the first floor, but quickly sobered up, fearing water damage to her renovations.
“Looks like they did,” someone replied, urging silence to avoid panic.
Alyssa barely knew the family living across—middle-aged couple and their six-year-old son, Leo. They’d only just moved in. She’d connected with the boy; once a schoolteacher, she had a gift for reaching children.
Just as she prepared to join the others, she heard a cough inside the burning flat—a child’s cough. She knew she had to act fast.
She tried the door; it was locked.
“Tools… tools,” she muttered, recalling her father’s toolbox under the shoe rack at home. She grabbed a crowbar.
“Please, let me do this… please, in time,” she prayed, wedging the bar between the door and frame.
If the neighbors had replaced their old plywood door with a sturdier one, chances would have been slim. But the worn double door still held its Soviet-era lock.
The door gave way. Thick smoke poured out. Flames devoured curtains and furniture. On the couch lay a woman, unconscious from smoke. But where was the boy?
Alyssa reached in and found the small body of Leo. Barely breathing. She lifted him carefully, but the fire had grown stronger. No way back through the door.
“Window!” she thought, pushing through smoke and heat to the window. The handle burned her palm instantly, but she forced it open.
Below, firefighters prepared their rescue net, alerted by the crowd’s cries.
“Leo! Son!” a man shouted, recently returned from a trip. He tried to rush inside but was held back.
Weak and exhausted, Alyssa handed the boy out the window. She didn’t see him catch it, didn’t hear the parents’ screams, didn’t feel herself losing consciousness as she crawled out after them.
Fresh air rushed in, fueling the blaze, which quickly consumed the entire apartment.
She was just 22 years old. Surviving seemed a miracle; doctors doubted anyone with such burns could live through the first day. The greatest luck—her face remained untouched.
Leo survived too, unlike his mother, who succumbed to smoke inhalation. No one knew where the man and his son went after the funeral—they vanished without a trace.
Experts later blamed the fire on outdated wiring, long overdue for replacement.
Recovery was slow and painful. Alyssa was literally pieced back together. The hardest part was losing her mother—her heart couldn’t bear seeing her daughter on fire.
Scars covered her arms, shoulders, and back. Plastic surgery was out of reach financially, so she wore long sleeves and turtlenecks to hide painful memories etched on her skin.
“Maybe we should sell the apartment,” her father worried. “Buy something smaller. Get you better…”
She only shook her head. She had no words. After the fire and her mother’s death, she fell silent. Doctors said her vocal cords were fine, but her body seemed to have shut down speech itself. “A nervous condition,” they said. “Let’s wait.”
The apartment was eventually traded. Her brother married and took a mortgage—no help was expected from him. Her father took a corner room for visits.
Teaching was no longer an option.
“Alyssa Tarasovna, I understand your condition… but how will you teach the children?” the school principal signed her dismissal with a heavy heart.
She nodded silently. Yes, she was no longer a teacher.
Work came unexpectedly—in an office needing a cleaner. She noticed the sign after a painting session outdoors, walked in without hesitation. Why they hired her remained unknown. The manager never complained. Her hands ached from old burns, but she persevered. Despite the pain, she scrubbed floors, wiped glass, polished handles—and her hands softened, became less tense.
The staff was pleased—moving refrigerators, lifting cabinets, washing ladders. No one guessed the effort it cost her.
When the office relocated, the manager called a friend:
“Michal, hey! I’ve got a recommendation for you. This girl is a real find. Take good care of her.”
That’s how Alyssa ended up working at a bank. Of course, she faced rude young employees and indifferent bosses… but work was work, and she did hers with dedication.
“Hey, why so quiet?” a manager teased. “Can’t or won’t speak? Or is the salary too low?”
She said nothing. Just patiently polished the already shining glass.
Then one day, whispers filled the room. Clients and employees turned toward the entrance as a luxury car pulled up. A man stepped out confidently.
“Boss! Sergey Mikhailovich! He’s here!”
Alyssa continued wiping the window—yellow gloves flashing.
“Hello, Sergey Mikhailovich!” greeted the chief accountant.
Alyssa shivered, turned around.
The man noticed her. Recognition flashed across his face. He froze, then stepped forward. Tears filled his eyes. Before everyone, he dropped to his knees, removed her gloves, and kissed her scarred hands. The room fell into stunned silence.
She wept too.
“It’s you…” he whispered, rising to embrace her. “You saved my son!”
Turning to the staff, he said:
“This is the woman who risked her life to pull Leo from the fire!”
Tension filled the room. Some lowered their gaze awkwardly, others cleared their throat. Then applause began—hesitant at first, then loud and warm. Alyssa smiled shyly, hiding her hands still held by Sergey.
At that moment, a teenage boy burst into the bank.
“Dad, you promised to be quick! I’ve been waiting for you an hour!”
He stopped, seeing his father kneeling before a woman.
Something inside Alyssa stirred. She looked at the boy, then at Sergey—and understood. Sergey quietly said:
“Leo… this is the woman who saved you from the fire.”
The boy ran to her, embracing her tightly:
“Finally, we found you!”
Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, her voice returned. Perhaps stress had awakened it. Her voice was lower, slightly hoarse, but the tone gave her a new depth and mystery.
They often met—at cafes, home, parks—talking about the years that had passed. For the first time in nine years, Alyssa slept through the night without nightmares.
Sergey and Leo had searched for her all those years. They only knew she survived but not where. They never expected to find her working as a cleaner.
When Sergey learned Alyssa was at their branch, he arranged full medical treatment. He paid for surgeries and rehabilitation. He felt it was his duty.
A friend of Sergey’s, a private gallery owner, discovered Alyssa’s paintings. He was impressed. Her delicate, luminous watercolors gained recognition. Her art began selling, her name echoing in local artist circles.
Alyssa never imagined life could be like this—valued, appreciated, seen for her true beauty despite everything.