Chapter 1: The Monologue of the Sky
The sky darkened over the city in mere moments as if someone above had decided to drop heavy, leaden curtains, shielding the last rays of the departing day. The air, once filled with the scents of asphalt and a distant blooming park, turned thick and humid, signaling the impending deluge. And it came—not gently or contemplatively, but with ferocity, crashing down upon the streets and alleys like a solid wall of water, causing shop windows to tremble from countless impacts. It felt as if nature had planned a grand wash, eager to cleanse the city of its accumulated fatigue, disappointments, and the sorrows of its inhabitants.
Artem, wedged against the roadside, silenced the engine of his aging car. Silence reigned in the cabin, interrupted only by the rhythmic patter of raindrops on the roof and the soothing rustle of the windshield wipers, paused in mute anticipation. The air was scented with old faux leather, robust coffee from a thermos, and damp wool, remnants from yesterday’s passenger who had a large, restless dog. He gazed into the rearview mirror at his reflection—tired eyes, slightly marred by a network of wrinkles at his temples, revealed sleepless nights and days filled with repetitive hustle.
His life in recent years resembled a running track: early mornings, endless deliveries, occasional work as a ride-share driver for acquaintances or those solitary figures at cold bus stops who stirred a soft response in his heart. He couldn’t just drive by; despite all rational arguments, his heart remained tender.
This gentle, responsive place inside him led him to notice her that day.
She stood under a small umbrella, clearly overwhelmed by the force of nature, at a bus stop in the heart of the city, at the intersection of World Avenue and Autumn Street. Streams of water cascaded from the worn canopy, forming a fragile barrier around her.
Her silhouette appeared delicate and unprotected. Graying hair, neatly arranged but already drenched in a bun. Old-fashioned glasses framed a deep, attentive gaze. A coat that had once been warm and sturdy was now worn thin at the creases, bearing memories of countless winters. In her hands, pressed to her chest, she held an old synthetic leather bag, from which the corner of a familiar yellow medical card peeked out from an half-open flap.
She viewed the stream of cars with a silent pleading, a quiet, almost desperate hope, which made every passing vehicle steal a fragment of warmth from her. She didn’t wave, nor did she attempt to stop anyone; she merely stood and looked, as if waiting for the universe itself to send her a sign.
Something fluttered in Artem’s chest. The day had been challenging—several orders were canceled at the last moment, he had to endure a long wait at the gas station, and at home lay a stack of envelopes filled with disappointing figures. Weariness pressed heavily upon him. Yet, he couldn’t leave her there, alone, beneath this wrathful sky.
He slowly moved forward, rolled down his window, and tilted his face toward the splatters from the asphalt.
“Are you headed far?” he called out, trying to overpower the noise of the rain.
The woman approached slowly, hesitantly, clutching her bag as if it contained the most precious treasure of her life.
“To Lake Alley, if you can… near the old clinic,” she replied in a soft, yet surprisingly clear voice.
“Please, get in,” Artem nodded. “I’ll give you a ride, no need to worry.”
She hesitated, her gaze revealing slight disbelief.
“You… are you serious?”
“Of course. In this weather, even an enemy wouldn’t wish to wait for a bus. It’s right on my way.”
Carefully, as if fearing to disturb the invisible spirits of the car, she settled into the passenger seat, placing her bag in her lap and quietly, almost whispering, expressed her gratitude. Artem refrained from asking unnecessary questions; he felt—this woman carried a whole world of quiet sadness that outsiders should not intrude upon.
He restarted the wipers, and they, like a metronome, kept time to their silent journey through the watery veil. The city outside blurred into gray-blue streaks; the lights of street lamps and neon signs morphed into ghostly beams.
Only when the navigator indicated a forthcoming turn into Lake Alley did she softly break the silence.
“Do you… have a family?”
The question came so unexpectedly that Artem almost smiled.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just… you remind me of my boy. Only he…” her voice trembled, and she turned away to the fogged-up window. “He hasn’t visited me in a long time.”
Artem found no words to respond. He merely nodded, focusing on the road, and soon stopped in front of a modest three-story building, its facade marked by the passage of time.
“Thank you, young man,” she said, exiting the car and once more unfolding her battered umbrella. “You are very kind. Such people are rare these days.”
A warm, sincere smile illuminated his face.
“Wishing you all the best.”
She nodded in return and disappeared into the dimness of the entrance, while in the cabin lingered a faint, barely perceptible trace of lavender and something medicinal, slightly bitter.
Artem didn’t even think to ask her name.
Chapter 2: A Message from Another Time
Days folded into weeks as time flowed. Artem’s life returned to its usual rhythm: delivery routes, night shifts, brief conversations with his mother, who persistently inquired, “When will you settle down and find a good partner?” He would laugh it off, claiming he hadn’t yet met the one, but inside, he felt a growing void, a quiet yearning for something real and lasting.
At thirty-two, he couldn’t boast of a strong family background, a personal space, nor even a clear goal, except one almost fantastical dream—to someday open a small, cozy café that would smell of fresh pastries and ground coffee, where people would come not just to grab a bite, but to nourish their souls.
Then, in his mailbox, filled with advertising flyers and bills, an unusual letter arrived. Not an email that could be deleted with a click, but a tangible document, printed on sturdy paper with a waffle-embossed seal and formal stamps. The envelope was from a notary office.
With a mix of mild confusion and anxiety, he opened it. Inside lay an official document—a notification of inheritance rights.
“Citizen Artem Sergeyevich Belov… by the last will of the deceased… becomes the heir…”
He read these lines several times. The words whirled in his head, unfamiliar, like echoes from another reality.
The deceased—Vera Nikolaevna Orlova. The very woman from the bus stop.
She had bequeathed him her apartment in Lake Alley, house 12, and a sum of money in her bank account totaling 2,300,000 rubles.
Artem sank into the nearest chair, unable to tear his gaze away from the white sheet with its dry legal text. What was this? A ridiculous joke? A prank from colleagues? Or perhaps he was unwittingly part of some staged show where hidden cameras captured his reaction?
But everything was true, as confirmed by a serious man in a formal suit behind a massive oak desk at the notary office. Vera Nikolaevna had drawn up her will just days before her passing.
She had no relatives left—her son died in a traffic accident years ago, her husband had passed long before. All documents were impeccably arranged. Artem was the sole heir.
“But why me?” he asked the notary, still skeptical about what was happening.
“There is an explanation in Vera Nikolaevna’s will,” the notary replied, adjusting his glasses. “She wrote: ‘This person gave me a ride in a torrential rain, unaware of who I was or what I possessed. This act was the last manifestation of selfless kindness that I witnessed in my life.’”
Artem stepped out of the building into the street, where the bright sunlight, having replaced the recent downpours, stung his eyes. He stood on the sidewalk, feeling dazed. Thoughts jumbled together: an apartment in a good neighborhood—it was a real fairy tale, a dream. Yet a sense of guilt and confusion gnawed at him from within. Why had she chosen him? He was merely a random passerby on a rainy day…
Chapter 3: A Secret Hidden in an Old Chest
Moving into the new apartment took Artem a few days. He didn’t rush to sell this unexpected inheritance—first, he wanted to understand what it was for, what life had unfolded within those walls.
He slowly sifted through the belongings, treating each trinket left by Vera Nikolaevna with care. In the closet, he found an old photo album. The yellowed photos captured moments of a happy life: a young, smiling Vera with a tall, stately man; then her again, now with a little boy, who gazed at his mother with love. The eyes in those pictures sparkled with joy and hope.
But the closer he got to the end of the album, the more the pictures changed. The last photos were solitary: Vera Nikolaevna at the window, a book in hand; in the kitchen, with a cup of tea; in an armchair, with a fluffy cat in her lap. And in her gaze was a quiet, habitual sadness.
In the bottom drawer of the old chest, which smelled of mothballs and dried herbs, lay a notebook with a simple cardboard cover. Artem opened it with trepidation, knowing he was intruding on someone’s personal life but unable to resist the urge to discover the truth.
“Today I received another call from the bank. They insisted on some debt concerning a loan. But I have never taken out any 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 papers myself. But I don’t remember any of it. That day, I was in such a poor state of mind, everything was swimming before my eyes…”
Artem frowned, feeling anger surge in his chest. What loan? Who could have forced her to sign unknown documents?
He began his investigation. He contacted the bank and requested detailed account statements. The picture became clearer: several months before Vera Nikolaevna’s passing, a substantial loan was taken out in her name, secured by the apartment itself. The entire sum was instantly transferred to the account of a company named LLC “Finance-Optima.” Artem soon discovered that the firm was registered to a front person and was not engaged in any real activities. Yet the loan agreement bore Vera Nikolaevna’s bold signature.
He took a copy of the contract to a handwriting expert he knew. After examining the document, the expert merely shrugged.
“This is not her handwriting. Too meticulous, yet lacking the characteristic pressure and natural fluidity. Most likely, it’s a skilled forgery made using modern techniques.”
Then the full depth of the tragedy dawned on Artem. She had been deceived. They had exploited her vulnerability, loneliness, possibly even her health condition. And likely, it was that betrayal that robbed her of her last strength, not age and ailments.
He filed a police report. A week later, a summons arrived in his name. But not as a witness. Rather, as a defendant in a case.
Chapter 4: A Battle in the Courtroom
The plaintiff was none other than the company “Finance-Optima.” Their demands were simple and cynical: Arte, as the heir, was obligated to repay Vera Nikolaevna’s debt amounting to 2.1 million rubles, including all accrued interest and penalties.
Their logic was ironclad from a legal standpoint: inherit the estate—accept the debts.
“But this debt is unlawful from the start!” Artem protested at the very first hearing, feeling his voice tremble with indignation. “The signature is forged! She was misled, she wasn’t 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 in a perfectly tailored suit with an expensive watch on his wrist, smiled condescendingly. He saw a mere driver before him, lacking funds for a decent attorney, without connections, facing off against a well-oiled system all alone.
But Artem was not willing to surrender. A stubborn resolve awakened within him, a determination he didn’t even know he possessed.
He became the archivist of his own defense. He gathered everything: official certificates from medical institutions regarding Vera Nikolaevna’s health condition, written testimonies from neighbors confirming her irrationality during those days, surveillance footage from the entrance clearly demonstrating that on the day the loan was issued, she was not home—she was in a hospital. He even tracked down and involved a neurologist who provided an assessment of her condition.
He managed to contact a former employee of the same company—a woman who requested her name not be disclosed, and agreed to give written testimony: “We were tasked with obtaining signatures from elderly people on documents by any means necessary. It didn’t matter if they understood or not. The key was that the paper was signed.”
The story began to gain attention from journalists. Articles with catchy headlines such as “Inheritance or Debt: How Kindness Led to a Court Battle” appeared in local newspapers. In social media, concerned individuals started raising funds for Artem’s legal help. A young, principled attorney agreed to take the case on a pro bono basis.
But the most unexpected twist awaited him at the third court session.
The door to the courtroom opened, and a woman in her forties stepped inside, dressed with strict elegance and her face radiating cold, calculated confidence. She approached the judge’s table and clearly stated:
“I am the daughter of Vera Nikolaevna Orlova. And I demand the will made in favor of the defendant be declared invalid.”
Artem’s breath caught. He felt the floor slip beneath him.
“What daughter?” he whispered. “She only ever spoke to me about her son… only about him…”
“My biological mother abandoned me in the maternity hospital,” the woman’s voice sounded metallic and precise. “But I found her through a modern DNA test. I am her flesh and blood. Therefore, I am the legal heir by rightful kinship.”
The judge required all necessary documents to be presented. And she had them: a birth certificate, genetic testing results, even an old, yellowed letter purportedly written by Vera Nikolaevna many years ago, wherein she apologized for her actions.
Now Artem risked losing not only the unexpected inheritance but also finding himself alone against a massive, unjust debt.
Chapter 5: Dust of Archives and Clarity of Truth
That night following the session, Artem lay awake, rereading Vera Nikolaevna’s diary, scrutinizing each line, each comma. His gaze fell upon a page he had previously overlooked, skipped past.
“Today, that girl came to me again. Again. She insists that she is my daughter. But I cannot remember… I cannot. In the maternity hospital, they clearly told me—the child, a girl, was stillborn. I wept over her little grave for weeks. And now this stranger with cold, hard eyes presents herself to me and demands recognition. I am scared. She keeps asking about the apartment, about documents. She talks about ‘restoration of justice.’ But there is not a shred of warmth in her words. Only calculating greed.”
Artem understood everything. This woman was not seeking a mother. She was after an inheritance. Like a vulture, she had sniffed an easy prey in a lonely and sickly old woman.
He hired a private detective, the same volunteer lawyer who had agreed to help. Within a few days, the truth became bitterly twisted: the girl had indeed been born, but Vera Nikolaevna had undergone a harrowing labor with complications, teetering between life and death. Her husband, unable to bear the grief and fear of losing his wife, made the dreadful and reckless decision—he concealed the truth, telling Vera that the child had not survived. He didn’t want his ailing wife to learn that their daughter was alive but placed in an orphanage, as he alone could not raise her. He died of a heart attack a few years later, never revealing to his wife the terrible secret.
But the worst part was that this “daughter” knew the story. Knew it and intentionally filed a lawsuit to seize the apartment, feeling no regret.
Artem compiled all new evidence into an unbreakable chain. He brought a key witness to court—a retired nurse from the same maternity hospital, who, risking much, confirmed under protocol: the child was alive, but the mother knew nothing about its fate due to the father’s deception.
The judge, having listened to all parties, declared a recess for final deliberation.
At the next session, the verdict was announced. The courtroom held its breath.
The loan agreement was deemed null and void—the expert examination confirmed the signature forgery, while medical conclusions substantiated Vera Nikolaevna’s incapacity at the time of signing.
The will was affirmed as legitimate, reflecting the last wishes of the deceased—the evidence presented irrefutably established her clear consciousness at the time of its drafting and a conscious choice of heir.
The claim by the woman, calling herself the daughter, was rejected—the court ruled that she did not provide any evidence of real care for her mother or maintaining any relationship with her during her lifetime.
Artem exited the courthouse, his knees shaking—not from weakness, but from immense nervous tension. He had won. He defended his truth and honored the good name of Vera Nikolaevna.
But inside, there was no joy. Only a deep, piercing sadness for the solitary life that had brought him to this day.
Chapter 6: Echo of a Rainy Day
A month later, Artem made a decision. He sold the apartment in Lake Alley. Not out of greed or reluctance to live there. He simply realized that this house had never been his home. It was the last tangible hope of a lonely soul who, in her departure, wanted to leave her faith in kindness in trustworthy hands.
He divided the proceeds into two equal parts. The first part became the financial foundation for his long-held dream—a small yet cozy café. The second part was allocated for creating and registering a charitable fund, aimed at assisting lonely elderly people who found themselves in difficult life situations. He gave the fund a simple and bright name—“Vera.”
And on the very day his café “Morning Crew” opened its doors to visitors, he noticed an elderly woman at the nearest bus stop. She stood, tapping her folded umbrella against the pavement, searching through her bag, clearly freezing from the biting wind.
“Need any help? Where are you headed?” Artem inquired, approaching her.
She lifted her kind, slightly weary eyes to him and smiled.
“Oh, I’m not in much of a rush… Just heading home from the clinic.”
“Then allow me to give you a ride,” he said. “Free of charge, it’s the least I can do for my establishment.”
She accepted in mild surprise and got into his car. Artem turned on the heater to full power, and warm air began to fill the cabin slowly.
He no longer awaited or hoped for any reward for his kindness. But now he firmly understood that even the smallest, seemingly insignificant act could shine a light in someone’s darkest night. And that light, reflecting from other hearts, would return to you, magnified in its power.
EPILOGUE
A year passed. His café ‘Morning Crew’ became a place where people came not just for a cup of fragrant coffee, but for a heartfelt conversation, for a moment of peace. On one wall, in a beautiful wooden frame, hung the portrait of Vera Nikolaevna—the same young, happy woman with her son. Inscribed below the photograph were the words: “Kindness is not a spontaneous impulse. It’s a conscious choice of a strong person.”
In the local newspaper, there would sometimes be small articles: “Café owner helps an elderly couple avoid losing their home,” “A celebratory lunch for lonely pensioners in ‘Morning Crew’.”
Standing behind the counter, hearing the gentle hum of voices, the scent of fresh pastries and coffee beans, Artem no longer felt that previous, oppressive emptiness within. His life had gained meaning and fullness.
He now understood with absolute clarity: his real life didn’t begin on the day he received the envelope from the notary. It began much earlier.
On that rainy day when, tired and somewhat irritable, he stopped his car at the old bus stop at the intersection of World Avenue and Autumn Street.