The Sky’s Monologue
The sky above the city turned dark in mere moments, as if a higher power had decided to lower heavy, leaden curtains, obscuring the final rays of the departing day. The air, once filled with the scents of asphalt and distant blooming parks, became thick and humid—heralding the impending storm. And it came, not quietly or contemplatively, but fiercely, crashing down on avenues and alleyways in a solid wall of water, causing shop windows to tremble from countless impacts. It seemed as if nature itself had initiated a grand wash, aiming to cleanse the city of accumulated fatigue, disappointments, and the sorrow of its inhabitants.
Artem, having pulled over, turned off the engine of his not-so-new car. Silence enveloped the cabin, broken only by the rhythmic sound of droplets on the roof and the soothing rustling of the windshield wipers, frozen in silent anticipation. The air was scented with old faux leather, pungent coffee from a thermos, and damp wool—the remnants of yesterday’s passenger, who had a large and restless dog. He gazed into the rearview mirror at his reflection—his weary eyes, slightly crinkled at the temples, revealed sleepless nights and days filled with monotony.
His life in recent years felt like a constant loop: early mornings, endless delivery orders, and occasionally working as a freelance driver for acquaintances or those solitary figures at bleak bus stops that stirred a quiet response in him. He couldn’t drive past them; his heart remained soft despite all rational arguments.
It was this tender, responsive part of him that led him to notice her that day.
She stood under a small umbrella, clearly overwhelmed by the onslaught of the elements, at a bus stop in the heart of the city, where Prospect Mira met Autumn Street. Streams of water cascaded from the shabby canopy, creating a fragile barrier around her.
Her figure appeared fragile and vulnerable, with gray hair arranged in a neat yet soaked bun. Old-fashioned glasses sheltered a deep, attentive gaze. The coat, once sturdy and warm, was now worn at the creases, telling tales of many winters. In her hands, pressed to her chest, she carefully held an old faux leather bag, the corner of a familiar yellow medical card peeking from its half-open flap.
She gazed at the rushing traffic with such mute questioning and quiet, almost desperate hope that each passing vehicle seemed to rob her of warmth. She didn’t wave or attempt to stop anyone; she simply stood and looked, as if waiting for the universe to send her a sign.
Artem felt something stir in his chest. The day had already been challenging—several orders canceled at the last moment, long waits at the gas station, and a pile of envelopes filled with displeasing figures waiting for his attention at home. Fatigue pressed down on his shoulders like lead. But he couldn’t leave her there, alone, beneath that angry sky.
He smoothly moved forward, rolled down the window, and exposed his face to the splashes from the asphalt.
“Are you heading far?” he called out, trying to outshout the noise of the rain.
The woman approached slowly, hesitantly, clutching her bag as though it contained her most prized possession.
“To Lake Alley, if possible…” she said softly but remarkably clearly. “Next to the old clinic.”
“Please get in,” Artem nodded. “I’ll give you a ride. Don’t worry about it.”
She hesitated, her expression showing mild disbelief.
“Are you… serious?”
“Of course. In weather like this, even an enemy wouldn’t wish to wait for a bus. It’s on my way, really.”
She cautiously got in, as though fearing to disturb invisible spirits within the car, placing her bag on her lap and murmuring a quiet thank you. Artem chose not to ask any unnecessary questions; he sensed that this woman carried a world of silent sorrow within her that outsiders shouldn’t intrude upon.
He switched on the wipers again, and they kept time with the rhythm of their silent journey through the watery veil. The city outside blurred in gray-blue streaks, the lights of streetlamps and advertising signs transforming into ghostly glows.
Only when the navigator indicated an upcoming turn to Lake Alley did she quietly break the silence.
“Do you… have a family?”
The question caught Artem off guard, almost prompting a smile.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just… you remind me a bit of my boy. Just he…” Her voice trembled, and she turned away to the fogged-up window. “He hasn’t visited me in a long time.”
Artem found himself at a loss for words. He nodded, focusing on the road, soon stopping in front of a modest three-story house with a façade that bore the marks of time.
“Thank you, young man,” she said, exiting the car and unfolding her dilapidated umbrella once more. “You are very kind. Such people are a rarity in our times.”
His face lit up with a warm, genuine smile.
“Wishing you all the best.”
She nodded in response and disappeared into the murky entrance, leaving behind a faint, barely detectable trace of lavender and something medicinal, bittersweet in the air.
Artem didn’t think to ask her name.
A Message from Another Time
Days turned into weeks, flowing by in their usual rhythm. Artem’s life returned to its routine: delivery routes, night shifts, brief conversations with his mother, who persistently asked, “When will you settle down and find yourself a good companion?” He would joke that he hadn’t met the one yet, but inside, he felt a growing emptiness, a quiet longing for something genuine and lasting.
At thirty-two, he couldn’t boast about having a strong familial background, his own space, or even a clear goal, apart from a nearly fantastical dream—to someday open a small, cozy café where the aroma of fresh baked goods and ground coffee would fill the air, and people would come not just for a snack but to nourish their souls.
Then, an unusual letter appeared in his mailbox, which was stuffed with promotional leaflets and bills. Not an electronic message that could vanish with a click, but a real letter, on thick paper, embossed with official seals and stern-stamped marks. The envelope was from a notary’s office.
With a feeling of mild confusion mixed with anxiety, he opened it. Inside lay an official document—notification of inheritance rights.
“Citizen Artem Sergeyevich Belov… based on the last wishes of the deceased… becomes the heir…”
He read those lines several times. The words didn’t fit in his mind; they felt like visitors from a parallel reality.
The deceased was Vera Nikolayevna Orlova. The very woman from the bus stop.
She bequeathed him her apartment on Lake Alley, house 12, as well as monetary assets in her bank account amounting to a staggering 2,300,000 rubles.
Artem collapsed into the nearest chair, unable to tear his gaze from the white sheet with its dry legal text. What was going on? A ridiculous joke? A prank by coworkers? Or perhaps he had unwittingly become part of some staged show, where hidden cameras captured his reaction?
But everything turned out to be true, confirmed by a serious-looking man in a tailored suit sitting behind a massive oak desk at the notary’s office. Vera Nikolayevna had finalized her will just days before her departure.
She had no remaining relatives—her son died in a car accident years ago, and her husband had passed away even earlier. All the documents were impeccably in order. Artem was the sole heir.
“But why me?” he asked the notary, still disbelieving what was happening.
“There’s an explanation in Vera Nikolayevna’s will,” the notary replied, adjusting his glasses. “She wrote: ‘This person gave me a ride in the pouring rain, unaware of who I am and what I possess. This act was the last display of altruistic kindness I encountered in my life.’”
Artem stepped out of the building into the street, and the bright sunlight, which followed the recent downpours, sliced into his eyes. He stood on the sidewalk, feeling stunned. Thoughts tangled: an apartment in a good neighborhood—it was a real fairytale, a dream. But guilt and bewilderment gnawed at him inside. Why did she choose him? He was merely a random passenger on a rainy day…
A Secret Hidden in an Old Dresser
Moving into the new apartment took Artem several days. He didn’t rush to sell the unexpected inheritance; first, he wanted to comprehend what this place entailed and what life had unfolded within these walls.
He carefully sorted through her belongings, treating everything that belonged to Vera Nikolayevna with reverence. In the closet, he discovered an old photo album. The yellowing photographs captured moments of a happy life: a young, smiling Vera with a tall, stately man; then, the same woman with a small boy, who looked lovingly at his mother. The eyes in those pictures sparkled with joy and hope.
Yet, as he neared the album’s end, the photographs shifted to solitary images: Vera Nikolayevna by the window, a book in her hands; in the kitchen with a cup of tea; in an armchair with a fluffy cat on her lap. Her gaze reflected a quiet, accustomed sadness.
In the bottom drawer of an old dresser, which smelled of mothballs and dry herbs, lay a notebook in simple cardboard binding. Artem opened it with trembling hands, knowing he was intruding on another’s life, yet unable to resist the urge to uncover the truth.
“Today, the bank called again. They insisted on some debt regarding a loan. But I’ve never taken loans! I don’t even know what this account is… Where could it have come from?”
“If my son were here, he wouldn’t let them intimidate me. He always knew how to stand up for me; he was my protector…”
“They claim that I signed all the documents myself. But I don’t remember any of it. That day, I felt dizzy; everything was swirling…”
Artem frowned, feeling anger rise within his chest. What kind of loan? Who could have forced her to sign unfamiliar documents?
He commenced his own investigation. He contacted the bank to request detailed statements. The picture clarified: months before Vera Nikolayevna’s death, a large loan was taken out in her name, secured by the apartment itself. The entire amount was swiftly transferred to the account of a company called LLC ‘Finance-Optima.’ The firm, as Artem soon discovered, was registered under a false identity and did not engage in real activities. However, the loan agreement bore Vera Nikolayevna’s large signature.
He took a copy of the contract to a handwriting expert friend. After examining the document, the expert simply shrugged.
“This isn’t her handwriting. It’s diligent but lacks the characteristic pressure and natural fluidity. It’s likely a skilled forgery done using modern techniques.”
Artem then grasped the depth of the tragedy. She had been deceived. Someone had exploited her vulnerability, loneliness, and perhaps even her health condition. And, likely, it was this shock, this betrayal that drained her final strength, rather than age and illness.
He filed a report with the police. A week later, a summons arrived in his name. But not as a witness. Rather, as a defendant.
A Battle in Court
The plaintiff was none other than the company ‘Finance-Optima.’ Their demands were simple and cynical: Artem, as the heir, was obliged to repay Vera Nikolayevna’s debt of 2.1 million rubles, including all accumulated interest and penalties.
Their logic was unyielding from a legal standpoint: having accepted inheritance, so should he the debts.
“But this debt was illegal from the start!” Artem attempted to protest at the very first hearing, feeling his voice tremble with indignation. “The signature was forged! She was misled; she was not capable of understanding the significance of her actions!”
“Do you have irrefutable evidence?” the judge inquired coldly, not raising his eyes from the papers.
The plaintiff’s representative, a young man clad in a perfectly tailored suit with expensive wristwatches, wore a condescending smile. He saw in front of him a simple driver, without money for a good lawyer, without connections, alone against a well-oiled system.
But Artem refused to surrender. A stubborn resolve stirred within him that he hadn’t known existed.
He became the archivist of his defense, gathering everything: official reports from medical institutions regarding Vera Nikolayevna’s health status, written testimonies from neighbors confirming her incapacity during those days, and surveillance footage from the entrance proving that on the day the loan was issued, she had not been home—she was in a hospital. He even tracked down a neurologist who provided conclusions about her condition.
He managed to contact a former employee of that very company—a woman, who requested anonymity, agreed to give written testimony: “We were tasked to get signatures from elderly people on documents by any means necessary. Whether they understand anything or not didn’t matter. The crucial part was to have the paperwork signed.”
The story began to attract journalistic attention. Local newspapers published articles with catchy headlines: “Inheritance or Bondage: How Kindness Led to a Court Case.” Compassionate individuals on social media started to raise funds for legal support for Artem. A young, but principled lawyer, agreed to take the case on a volunteer basis.
But the most unexpected turn awaited him at the third court hearing.
The door to the courtroom swung open, and a woman in her mid-forties entered. She was dressed in strict elegance, and her face conveyed cold, calculated confidence. She approached the judge’s table and clearly stated:
“I am the daughter of Vera Nikolayevna Orlova. I demand that the will made in favor of the defendant be declared invalid.”
Artem gasped. He felt the ground shift beneath him.
“What daughter?” he whispered. “She only spoke to me of her son… only him…”
“My biological mother abandoned me in the maternity ward,” the woman’s tone was metallic and precise. “But I found her through a specialized DNA test. I am her flesh and blood. Therefore, I am the lawful heir by right of kinship.”
The judge demanded all necessary documents be presented. And she had them: the birth certificate, results of genetic testing, even an old, yellowed letter supposedly written by Vera Nikolayevna many years ago, in which she asked for forgiveness for her actions.
Now Artem risked losing not just the unexpected inheritance but facing an overwhelming, unfair debt.
Dust of Archives and Clarity of Truth
Artem spent the night following that hearing without sleep. He kept rereading Vera Nikolayevna’s journal, scrutinizing each line, every comma. His gaze fell on a page he had somehow overlooked before.
“Today, that same girl came to see me again. She claims she is my daughter. But I can’t remember… I can’t. The hospital staff clearly told me—the child, a girl, was stillborn. I cried over her little grave for weeks. And now, this stranger with strange, hardened eyes demands that I acknowledge her. I’m scared. She asks about the apartment and the documents. She speaks of ‘restoring justice.’ But there isn’t a shred of warmth in her words. Only calculating greed.”
Artem understood everything. This woman wasn’t looking for a mother. She was after inheritance. Like a vulture, she had sensed an easy target in a lonely, sickly elderly woman.
He hired a private detective, the same volunteer lawyer who had agreed to help. Within days, he uncovered the truth. The reality was bitter and complicated: the girl had indeed been born, but Vera Nikolayevna had endured a harrowing childbirth complicated by health issues, teetering between life and death. Her husband, unable to bear the sorrow and fear of losing his wife, made a terrible, reckless decision—he concealed the truth, telling Vera that the child had not survived. He couldn’t bear to tell his sick wife that their daughter was alive, albeit placed in an orphanage, as he could not raise her alone. He died of a heart attack a few years later without revealing this terrible secret to his wife.
But the worst part was that his ‘daughter’ knew this story. She knew and consciously filed the lawsuit to seize the apartment, devoid of any remorse.
Artem gathered all new evidence into a singular, unshakeable chain. He brought in a key witness to court—a retired nurse from that very maternity hospital who, at great risk to herself, testified under oath: the child had been alive, but the mother knew nothing about her fate because of the father’s actions.
After hearing everyone’s testimony, the judge announced a recess to reach a final decision.
At the next hearing, the verdict was proclaimed. The courtroom held its breath.
The loan agreement was declared void—the forensic analysis confirmed the forgery of the signature, and medical conclusions supported Vera Nikolayevna’s incapacity at the time of signing.
The will was upheld as lawful, reflecting the final wishes of the deceased—irrefutable evidence showed her clear consciousness at the time of its writing and her considered choice of heir.
The claim made by the woman who had called herself the daughter was dismissed—the court ruled that she had not provided evidence of any real care for her mother or maintenance of any relationship while she was alive.
Artem exited the courthouse, his knees wobbling—not out of weakness but from colossal nervous tension. He had won. He defended his truth and honored the good name of Vera Nikolayevna.
Yet inside him, there was no elation. Only profound, piercing sadness about the lonely life that led him to this day.
The Echo of a Rainy Day
A month later, Artem made a decision. He sold the apartment on Lake Alley. Not out of greed or reluctance to live there. He simply understood: that house was never his home. It was the last tangible hope of a lonely soul wanting to leave her belief in kindness in reliable hands.
He divided all the proceeds into two equal parts. The first became the financial foundation for his long-held dream—a small yet cozy café. The second half was directed to create and register a charity foundation dedicated to aiding lonely elderly people in difficult life situations. He named the foundation simply and brightly—”Vera.”
On the very day his café “Morning Crew” opened its doors to visitors for the first time, he spotted an elderly woman at the nearby bus stop. She stood there, tapping a folded umbrella against the asphalt, looking for something in her bag while clearly shivering from the biting wind.
“Do you need directions? Where are you headed?” Artem asked, approaching her.
She raised warm, albeit somewhat weary eyes to him and smiled.
“Oh, I’m not in any hurry… Just returning home from the clinic.”
“Then allow me to give you a lift,” he said. “It’s on the house; it’s how we roll at my café.”
She agreed with mild surprise and got into his car. Artem cranked up the heating to full, and warm air slowly filled the cabin.
He no longer waited or hoped for any reward for his kindness. But he now firmly knew: even the smallest, seemingly insignificant act could be that very beam of light to illuminate someone’s darkest night. And that light, reflected from other hearts, would return to him, magnified in its strength.
EPILOGUE
A year passed. His café “Morning Crew” had become a place where people not only came for a cup of aromatic coffee but for a heartwarming conversation, for a moment of peace. On one of the walls, framed in beautiful wood, hung a portrait of Vera Nikolayevna—her happy likeness with her young son. Below the photo, an inscription read: “Kindness is not a spontaneous impulse. It’s a conscious choice of a strong person.”
Occasionally, the local newspaper featured small snippets: “The café owner helped an elderly couple avoid losing their home,” “A festive lunch for lonely pensioners in ‘Morning Crew’ was held.”
Artem, standing behind the counter and hearing the steady hum of voices, the scent of fresh pastries and beans, no longer felt the same oppressive emptiness within. His life had found its purpose and fulfillment.
He now understood with absolute clarity: his real life did not start the day he received the envelope from the notary. It had begun much earlier—on that rainy day when he, tired and slightly irritated, nevertheless stopped his car at the old bus stop at the intersection of Prospect Mira and Autumn Street.