— “Oh, Grigory, what a blessing you are! I can’t imagine how we ever managed without you,” Elena Sergeyevna said, watching the young man skillfully work with his tools.
Grigory packed up his bag and smirked.
— “Oh, come on, Elena Sergeyevna. It’s just a small fix—moving the hinge to a different spot. Barely five minutes of work.”
He checked the gate, swinging it open and shut. It moved smoothly, good as new.
— “Easy for you to say, Grishenka. For us, it would take all day, and we’d probably break something in the process. Women aren’t built for this kind of work, and old age doesn’t help either,” she sighed, shaking her head.
— “Age? Nonsense!” Grigory laughed. “We’ll find you a husband yet!”
Elena Sergeyevna burst out laughing.
— “Oh, you joker!”
Grigory had been living in the village for a year now. He had bought an abandoned house and immediately set to work restoring it. The elderly villagers watched with interest as he repaired the crumbling structure, bringing life back to a home long forgotten.
Once, the village had been full of young families. But over the years, the youth had moved away, leaving behind an aging population and homes slowly falling into ruin. The sight saddened those who had spent their whole lives here.
No one asked why a young man like Grigory had chosen to settle in such a remote place. If he had decided to stay, that was his business.
— “Alright, Elena Sergeyevna, I must be off. I’ll stop by in the evening to check your blood pressure,” Grigory said, heading for the gate.
— “Oh, don’t bother yourself with me! You have more important things to do,” she waved him off.
— “Of course. And who nearly toppled into the potato patch from dizziness yesterday?” he teased.
— “Was that me?” she laughed. “You notice everything! I just got a little overheated in the sun. What now? Are you going to check my pressure every hour?”
As he was leaving, Elena Sergeyevna suddenly shouted:
— “Oh, who’s speeding through the village like that?”
Grigory turned to see a car racing down the dusty road, scattering geese and chickens in its path. Something was definitely wrong.
The vehicle screeched to a halt right at Elena Sergeyevna’s gate. A man jumped out, flung open the trunk, and grabbed a few suitcases.
— “Sergey, my God, what’s going on?” the old woman cried, wringing her hands.
Grigory recognized the name—this was her son-in-law.
Sergey dropped the luggage at her feet and said coldly,
— “I’m returning her. Second miscarriage. Who needs a broken woman? No one.”
He yanked open the passenger door, and a frail young woman nearly collapsed into her mother’s arms. Slamming the door shut, Sergey jumped back into the car and sped off, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust.
The woman clung to her mother, one hand pressed against her stomach.
— “Liza, my child, does it hurt?” Elena Sergeyevna’s voice trembled.
— “No, Mom. The ride was just rough… They discharged me yesterday… I just need to lie down.”
— “My God, daughter, how could he do this to you? How could you travel in such a condition?” the elderly woman cried, shaking with fury. She turned toward the retreating car and shouted, “Idiot!” before helping her daughter inside.
Grigory instinctively reached for the suitcases but hesitated. What if they wanted privacy? He decided against interfering.
Later that evening, as he stood in his yard, debating whether he should check in on them, he heard a familiar voice calling him.
— “Grishenka!”
— “Yes, Elena Sergeyevna?”
— “Could you go fetch a paramedic? My daughter’s in bad shape.”
— “Of course, don’t worry.”
He jumped into his car and drove to the neighboring village.
No one here knew that ten years ago, Grigory had been a doctor. His life had taken a sharp turn when his wife had an affair with the hospital’s chief physician. That betrayal led to a fabricated case against him—accusations of negligence, a supposed patient’s death.
Completely blindsided, he had no idea how to fight back. But the investigator saw inconsistencies in the accusations. It turned out the chief physician had pushed for the case, likely to protect himself. Justice prevailed—the corrupt doctor lost his job, and his affair with Grigory’s wife soon ended. Ironically, she then had the audacity to suggest they reconcile.
But Grigory had had enough. He left the city, bought a house in the countryside, and swore never to practice medicine again. He would find a different path—perhaps farming. He had no financial worries, thanks to selling his apartment, but now, facing an emergency, his past was calling him back.
The village paramedic listened to his request and sighed.
— “Look, first of all, this isn’t my problem. Second, I have guests. We’re in the middle of a celebration—you expect me to just leave?”
Grigory’s patience snapped.
— “Are you a medical professional or not? A woman who’s just had a miscarriage, endured a long journey, and suffered severe stress—do you understand what could happen?”
— “I understand.”
— “Then you know she could start bleeding at any moment. If no one reacts in time, she could die! And who will be responsible then?”
The paramedic hesitated, muttering, “Damn it… Petrovich, you’re an idiot. You always get dragged into these things.” But even as he grumbled, he grabbed his medical bag and followed Grigory to the car.
— “My mother always said, ‘Why stick your nose where it doesn’t belong? Why couldn’t you pick a peaceful profession?’ But no, I had to go and become a medic!”
Grigory smirked, barely containing a chuckle.
— “Why are you smiling? You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Let’s go already!”
By the time the paramedic finished examining Liza, his expression was grave.
— “She needs proper medication. Without it, she won’t last long without ending up in the hospital again. Here’s a prescription. Buy everything on this list. And she’ll need injections every four hours.”
Elena Sergeyevna looked distressed.
— “But where can I find someone to give injections?”
Grigory took the list from the table.
— “I’ll take care of it.”
— “You? But how do you—”
— “I know what I’m doing,” he assured her.
At first, Liza refused to acknowledge him, turning her face to the wall whenever he entered. But on the fourth visit, with her mother absent, she finally spoke.
— “Are you a doctor?”
He smiled.
— “I used to be.”
And with that, the wall between them began to crumble.
Slowly, with every visit, Grigory coaxed her back to life. He shared his story, and she listened.
One evening, he finally said,
— “Liza, this isn’t right. You’re letting yourself fade away.”
— “And why should I care?” she scoffed.
— “Because life isn’t over. You still have a future.”
She looked at him then, her gaze filled with pain.
— “A future? I’m 37, discarded like trash. I failed as a wife, as a mother. What’s left for me?”
Grigory held her gaze.
— “Everything. You just don’t see it yet.”
Over time, their conversations deepened. She helped him draft business plans for his farm, and soon, lively discussions replaced empty silence.
One day, Grigory kissed her nose playfully and said,
— “We did it, Liza! The farm plans are ready.”
Her heart skipped. Love had crept in quietly, unnoticed—until now.
Three days later, he returned from the city, eyes dark with turmoil.
— “Grishenka, what’s wrong?” she asked.
— “I swore I’d never love again,” he admitted. “Then you came along. What do I do now?”
She exhaled softly.
— “I don’t know, Grish, because I need to figure out how to live with it too.”
And as they stood in the middle of the room, holding each other tightly, Elena Sergeyevna quietly stepped back and closed the door.
— “God willing,” she whispered.