Maybe this is a sign?” Maria muttered as she paused by the gate. Her gaze fell on a split apple lying on the ground, perfectly divided in two.
Without speaking, Nikolai bent down and picked up both halves, offering one to his wife. His eyes conveyed a message far deeper than words could express.
It was their sixth attempt. Their sixth heartache. Yet, instead of despair, a quiet determination settled within them.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to the city,” Maria declared, taking a bite of the apple. “We’re visiting the orphanage.”
Their home sat atop a gentle hill, surrounded by a blooming garden where bees buzzed among the trees in summer and fresh snow cloaked the birdhouses in winter. The old two-story house, adorned with carved wooden trims and a broad veranda, felt alive—a part of their family’s soul.
“Are you certain about this?” Nikolai asked, running his fingers over the rough bark of their ancient apple tree.
Maria nodded firmly. Six months prior, they had been given the painful news—they could not have biological children. But amidst the sadness, a strange calmness enveloped her, as if fate whispered gently: This is not the end but a new beginning.
The next morning, they set off in their weathered blue pickup, winding along country roads and dew-kissed fields. Maria stared out the window, lips moving silently in prayer, pouring her heart into hopes beyond words.
Nikolai took her hand, squeezing it gently.
“Family isn’t chosen by blood, but the soul always knows its true home.”
They arrived at the orphanage, its windows aglow and the scent of fresh baked cookies in the air. Though tidy and cared for, a quiet sadness lingered—echoes of forgotten children.
The director, a kind-eyed woman with a gentle smile, led them inside.
“Don’t expect everything to click immediately,” she cautioned. “Sometimes bonds form not at the first meeting, but the tenth or twentieth.”
In a quiet corner, slightly removed from the noise, sat a tiny girl. Petite and delicate, her expression was serious, as if she sensed the importance of this moment.
Her small hand grasped a pencil with confident precision, tongue peeking out slightly—a sign of true concentration, like any artist.
“That’s Liza,” the director whispered. “Her parents were never found. She rarely speaks, lost in her own world.”
Maria knelt down slowly. The girl’s eyes met hers—and something ancient and unmistakable flickered there.
“What are you drawing?” Maria asked, pointing at the paper.
“A little house,” Liza said calmly, her words far beyond her years. “It has a chimney, and birds fly around it. They bring happiness. I read that in a book.”
Maria’s heart trembled as if a string had been plucked for the very first time.
She extended her hand. The girl hesitated for a moment, then gently placed her tiny palm in Maria’s—light and trusting.
“We have birds in our yard too,” Nikolai said softly as he crouched nearby. “And bees. They make honey, but they can sting.”
“Why?” Liza asked.
“Only when they feel threatened,” he answered. “Everyone deserves to protect themselves.”
The child nodded thoughtfully, then suddenly wrapped her arms around Maria’s neck. Maria froze, a tear slipping down her cheek unbidden.
After ninety-two days of paperwork, waiting, and hope, they returned—not as visitors, but as a family.
Liza stood on the porch, trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. She clutched a worn backpack, wore courage like a fragile cloak, and around her neck hung a small acorn pendant given by an older child.
The farewell was brief. The director kissed her gently on the forehead. A caregiver wiped away tears.
“Go on now, sweetheart,” she said softly. “But remember, we’ll always be here waiting for you.”
On the journey home, Liza remained silent, holding her bag tight. When they arrived, she stepped out, hesitating as if measuring her new life.
“Is this… my home?” she whispered, gazing at the warmly lit window of her room.
“It is now,” Maria smiled. “And we’re your family. Always.”
That night, a soft knock stirred Maria awake. Liza stood in the doorway, clutching a drawing—a glowing house filled with windows that promised warmth.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?” she whispered. “Just for the first night…”
Maria didn’t speak. She simply made space. Liza climbed in quietly. Their ginger cat stirred, sniffed the newcomer, then purred contentedly as it settled by her side.
“You’re home now,” Maria whispered, stroking Liza’s hair. “You’ll never be afraid again.”
The girl closed her eyes and for the first time in many months found peace, free from fear and loneliness.
Twelve years passed in the blink of an eye. The sun warmed the treetops, and the air blossomed with the scent of meadows. Liza, now a young woman, worked alongside her father at the apiary, gathering golden honey.
“Don’t rush,” Nikolai advised gently, showing her how to lift the hive frames with care. “Bees can sense your mood. Stay calm, and they’ll accept you.”
Liza nodded attentively. Tall now, with a long braid and those same deep gray eyes that once stirred Maria’s heart.
“Can I go to Katya’s after lunch?” she asked while cleaning wax from her hands. “It’s her birthday.”
“Of course,” Nikolai smiled. “Just don’t be late. Your mom is making something special. Tomorrow is your day too.”
Liza loved those days: fresh pastries, a festive tablecloth on the veranda, and blue-rimmed porcelain plates reserved for celebrations.
That evening, sitting on the porch sorting strawberries, the air rich with lilac and dusk’s first breeze, Liza spoke softly.
“Mom, I want to study art.”
Maria raised an eyebrow.
“In the city?”
“Yes.”
“That’s far.”
“Two hours. Not so far.”
Maria paused, looking at the young woman before her—not the scared child she once was, but someone filled with dreams.
“You’re the best artist in school,” Maria said finally. “You deserve to be where you can grow even more.”
Liza hugged her, resting her cheek on Maria’s shoulder.
“I won’t disappear. I’ll come home every weekend and for holidays.”
That night, a storm raged. Lightning lit the sky, thunder shook the windows, wind tore branches from the trees, and the stream behind the house overflowed.
The next morning, they worked side by side—Liza holding boards, Nikolai hammering nails, and Maria straightening the leaning fence. The sky had cleared, though the wind still played with Maria’s braid.
“Look!” Maria exclaimed, pointing to the horizon.
A brilliant rainbow arched across the valley—vivid and pure as if painted by a gentle hand.
“You brought the sunshine, Liza,” Nikolai said. “Before you, we lived in shadow.”
The girl looked down shyly, happiness sparkling in her eyes.
Everyone at school knew of her talent. Teachers said she had a special gift—to see beauty others missed. The halls were her gallery, walls adorned with her paintings: portraits of neighbors, landscapes of familiar fields, abstract works alive with light and movement.
“Volkov submitted your work to the regional contest,” Katya told her on the walk home. “He didn’t tell you, but I overheard him speaking to the principal.”
“Really?” Liza froze. “He didn’t mention it?”
“Of course not,” Katya laughed. “But he said you might earn a scholarship to the Academy of Arts.”
Liza grew quiet.
“That’s not just a college,” she said slowly. “It’s a university—in the capital.”
“Exactly!” Katya exclaimed. “Imagine the galleries, the exhibitions, the real masters!”
That night, Liza lay awake under the stars, feeling something inside her shift. She knew her path would soon lead far beyond the rolling hills.
Her birthday morning dawned with the scent of fresh dough and soft violin melodies—Maria’s yearly tradition. On the table lay a leather-bound sketchbook, thick pages perfect for painting.
“We found this just for you,” Maria said. “For your great journey ahead.”
Liza ran her fingers over the cover as if it were alive.
“Thank you… for everything.”
Outside, neighbors gathered around a table laden with food. Nikolai grilled kebabs while laughter and music filled the air—a simple village celebration, rich with warmth.
When the moment grew quiet, Maria turned to Liza.
“We will always be proud of you,” she whispered. “No matter where life takes you—here or far away. We are with you. Always.”
Liza nodded, knowing it to be true.
That gave her courage to dream—and the strength to move forward.
As she looked beyond the hills toward the distant city, she whispered:
“You’ve given me everything—more than I ever imagined, more than stars could promise. But inside me, something waits… as if beyond the horizon, another life is calling.”
Suddenly, a sleek black car rolled into the yard, its polished surface a sharp contrast to the rustic world around. Conversation stopped. Even the guitar quieted.
A woman stepped out first—dressed in beige, her hair perfectly styled, bearing a confident air. Behind her came a man with salt-and-pepper hair and light glasses. They seemed out of place among the birdhouses, bees, and apple trees.
Maria instinctively stepped forward, protective.
“Hello,” the woman said, attempting a smile that faltered. “We need to speak with the residents. It’s important.”
Nikolai wiped his hands and replied firmly, “I’m the head of this household. What is it you wish to discuss?”
“Not here,” she answered softly, glancing at the neighbors. “May we speak inside?”
Whispers rippled through the guests. Liza’s skin tingled with unease. There was something strangely familiar about the man’s face—like a forgotten memory.
Maria nodded, her voice steady.
“Please come in.”
Inside, the visitors settled on the couch. They declined refreshments. The woman opened an expensive bag and pulled out a folder.
“My name is Veronika Streltsova,” she said, voice steady but eyes moist. “This is my husband, Andrei. We have been searching for our daughter for fourteen years. Today, we believe we have found her.”
Maria gasped, clutching her chest. Nikolai paled. Liza pressed herself against the wall, her face pale and blank, as if the air itself tightened around her.
“Her real name is Alisa,” Veronika continued. “She was taken from us when she was barely over a year old. The police searched, we searched, but eventually, we tried to move on. Until now.”
She handed over documents. Andrei silently produced a worn photo of a little girl with stormy eyes, sitting on a red swing. Her smile was one Liza hadn’t remembered in years.
Each detail awakened a distant yet painful familiarity.
“These are DNA results,” Veronika explained. “Samples were taken through her school. It’s a perfect match. Your Liza is our Alisa.”
Her voice softened, almost apologetic, yet the words struck like thunder.
“That’s impossible!” Nikolai exclaimed. “We adopted Liza legally! The paperwork is in order!”
“Yes,” Veronika nodded. “She was found abandoned at a bus station in another city. No documents, no family. She was placed in an orphanage. We don’t dispute the legality. We just want the truth. And to meet her.”
Andrei looked at Liza.
“Look behind your ear. Alisa has a crescent-shaped birthmark. It’s still there.”
Liza instinctively touched her face, fingers brushing over the very mark she had always thought was just a blemish.
“So what happens now?” Liza’s voice quivered. “Are you here to take me away? To destroy my life?”
“No,” Veronika said softly. “We’re here to know you’re safe, that you’re happy. And if you want, we want to be part of your life.”
Liza stepped back, heart pounding.
“What if I don’t want that? What if I don’t want to be Alisa? What if I don’t want you?”
The couple exchanged a glance. Andrei answered gently:
“Then we’ll know you found a home. And be thankful.”
Liza fled, the door swinging wide as she ran out, leaving the room frozen in silence. The celebration stopped, the laughter hushed, even the breeze stilled.
Her feet carried her to an old oak tree at the edge of the fields—the secret refuge she had known since childhood.
Half an hour later, Nikolai found her sitting quietly, hugging her knees, watching the sun dip behind the horizon. He sat beside her, speaking softly.
“I’ve read the papers. They’re real. The test is true.”
“Will you give me to them?” she whispered.
“Never,” he replied firmly. “No one will take you away. But…”
“But?”
“You can learn your past without losing this life. We are your roots, your family. But if you want to know where you came from, that can be part of you too.”
She leaned against him, just as she had the first night she came home.
“I don’t want to choose,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, kissing her head. “Family isn’t just blood. It’s love. And you have more than enough.”
When they returned, the guests remained. Veronika and Andrei sat quietly, Maria poised and composed—like someone who had weathered a storm within.
Liza stood in the center of the room and spoke:
“I don’t know who you are to me. Maybe you’re my real parents. But my family is here—these people. Mom and Dad. They gave me a home, a name, love. That’s my true family.”
Veronika wiped tears away.
“We don’t want to take anything from you. We only want to be part of your life if you choose.”
Four weeks later, Liza stepped toward a grand estate—the house where she was born. It was exactly as she’d imagined: pristine and cold, like a museum.
Her childhood room smelled of fresh wood and held photos of a little girl she didn’t recognize. Toys she never played with sat untouched in a corner.
“This was your first birthday,” Veronika said, turning the pages of an album. “And here are your first steps.”
Liza gazed at the pictures, as if looking through a window into another life.
Gradually, the two families found balance. Meetings were hesitant, words careful. But a connection blossomed. Nikolai and Andrei fixed the greenhouse, while Maria and Veronika shared recipes. Even the cat adapted to the newcomers.
For Liza’s seventeenth birthday, they all gathered. No longer strangers, not quite family, but close.
Veronika gifted Liza a silver oak leaf pendant.
“You have two stories, two homes,” she said. “You are unique because you belong to both.”
Liza enrolled at the Academy of Arts, with the Streltsovs funding tuition and her birth parents paying for her city apartment. Two photographs hung on her wall: one of the village orchard and the other of the grand estate.
“I have two wings,” Liza said when asked about belonging to two families. “One lifts me up; the other grounds me. Together they give me strength to fly.”
Years later, at her first solo exhibition in the city, the gallery buzzed with visitors. Maria and Nikolai stood nervously in formal clothes; the Streltsovs were there too, elegant and proud.
The centerpiece was a large painting: an oak tree with two nests. One filled with the breeze and bees of the countryside, the other glowing with city lights and life. Between them soared a young bird with open wings—not choosing but soaring free, whole, and strong.
When reporters gathered, Liza quietly placed her hand on the painting and said:
“This is my story—two roots, two families, two beginnings woven into one. It’s not separation but wholeness. It’s my family. Every single one of them.”