The aunt sobbed as she spoke, “The children kicked me out… They pushed me into the shed, telling me I was in their way. I gave them everything, laid my life at their feet. Please forgive me if I’ve hurt you… Soon, I’ll have to answer to your late mother too…”
Artyom stood silently by the fresh mound of earth, staring at his mother’s grave, deep in thought. He wondered why people left and never came back. Beneath the damp soil lay his mother. How was she doing in that small, dark wooden box? Wasn’t it cold? He remembered his grandmother’s words from years ago: “When people leave, they turn into birds and fly up to the sky.” His grandmother had become a little bird when he was six, flying away. Now it was his mother’s turn.
“Will I be a bird too when I leave, like Mom?” Artyom asked, tugging at Aunt Marina’s hand.
“What nonsense are you talking? Stay still!” she snapped impatiently.
Artyom sighed, looking around as people began to leave, making their way toward the exit along the row of crosses. Aunt Marina grabbed his hand and hurried him along.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him away from his mother’s grave.
Once outside the cemetery, Marina turned toward the gate, made the sign of the cross, and ordered Artyom to do the same. He obeyed, crossing himself and glancing at the unpainted wooden gate. Just then, a small gray bird perched at the top of the gate, staring at him with its bright eyes. It opened its tiny yellow beak and chirped.
After his mother’s death, Artyom’s world changed completely. The peaceful life he had known was replaced by the hustle and bustle of unfamiliar people. Aunt Marina moved into their house with her two sons. They tossed out his mother’s belongings and shoved his things into the back of the closet. The house felt completely alien.
But that was just the start. The house’s owners changed too. Artyom noticed how the people around him began to distance themselves, as if he were something to be avoided.
“You’ll stay here,” Aunt Marina announced one day, showing him a small room that had once been a storage space.
“Why can’t I stay in my room?” Artyom asked, bewildered.
“Because it’s now my son’s room,” she snapped with venom. “He’s grown up and needs more space. You, being small and useless, will sleep here.”
“I’m not useless!” Artyom retorted.
Aunt Marina immediately slapped him hard on the head.
“You little brat!” she yelled, shaking him roughly. “Keep talking like that!”
Artyom broke free and hid behind a large box, sobbing in silence. No one had ever treated him this way, and the injustice burned deep within him.
Life in the cramped room became unbearable. Artyom endured constant bullying from his cousins and Aunt Marina. No one spoke kindly to him. No one gave him a warm look.
“I’m running away!” he declared one day after yet another attack from Aunt Marina.
“Run away,” she mocked. “Do you think anyone will care? Who needs you?”
Once she left, Artyom packed his things into his school backpack. He held it close, as though it were the only thing left that was truly his. At night, he climbed out the window, grabbed his old bicycle from the shed, and silently pedaled away, glancing back at the house he no longer recognized.
The next day, he rode through the countryside until his village disappeared from view, replaced by the cold, gray city ahead. The city once seemed full of life when he visited it with his mother, but now it felt harsh and unwelcoming, like an angry teacher.
He made his way to the train station. The building was eerily quiet, with only a few scattered people. Artyom sat down on a hard bench, his stomach growling in hunger. He opened his backpack, only to find that his food was gone. Across from him, a small snack bar sent delicious smells wafting through the air, but he had no money.
Unable to resist, he snuck into the café, grabbed a few pastries, and dashed out, devouring them greedily once he found a quiet spot. As he ate, a voice behind him interrupted.
“You sure know how to steal,” a man said, his tone amused.
Artyom spun around. A man in a leather jacket with a thick beard grinned at him.
“Care to share?” he asked, still smiling.
With trembling hands, Artyom handed him his last pastry. The man took a bite, then passed the rest back to him.
“Thanks,” the man said, his grin widening. “You’re a good kid.”
“Will you report me to the police?” Artyom asked nervously.
The man laughed.
“Police? For stealing a few pastries?” he replied. “They won’t care. But keep it up, and they will.”
“I’m not just any kid,” Artyom snapped. “I’m almost nine. I’ve almost finished second grade.”
The man’s eyes softened a little as he watched the boy. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Where are your parents?”
Artyom hesitated. “My name’s Artyom. My mom died… and I never met my dad.”
The man, who introduced himself as Uncle Mitya, rubbed his chin thoughtfully and tousled Artyom’s hair. “Tough break, kid. Come with me. I’ll get you some real food.”
“I don’t know you,” Artyom protested, eyeing him warily.
Uncle Mitya chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m harmless. I work as a janitor here. Come on, let’s go.”
He extended his rough hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Artyom took it. Uncle Mitya led him to a small shelter near the station. Inside was a stove, a makeshift bed, and little else. Uncle Mitya served hot soup, and they ate in silence.
“You’ve come a long way, kid,” Mitya said, smiling. “Sixty kilometers by bicycle? You’re tougher than you look.”
Artyom smiled wearily. “I’m used to it. Once we hiked thirty kilometers, and I was the only one who didn’t get tired.”
After lunch, Mitya left for work, and Artyom explored the area, finding his way into a nearby garage where people were working on motorcycles. He was soon approached by Borman, a young man with long hair, who looked at him curiously.
“Who are you?” Borman asked.
“Artyom,” he replied quickly. “I’m Uncle Mitya’s son.”
Borman raised an eyebrow. “Mitya has a son? Well, come on in.”
Artyom sat on a bench and watched as Borman and others worked on an old motorcycle. Borman later invited him for a ride, and Artyom felt the thrill of the bike roaring to life beneath him. It was a feeling he’d never forget.
Years passed, and Artyom grew up in the company of Mitya and Borman, learning about motorcycles and living a life he never could have imagined. On his ninth birthday, Borman even added a motor to Artyom’s bicycle, and he felt a sense of belonging he had never known before.
As an adult, Artyom returned home after serving in the army. But everything had changed. He visited the old station and found the place empty. Even Borman was gone. Artyom’s heart sank, but he didn’t dwell on it.
Years later, Artyom received a call from his father-in-law, telling him that Liza had given birth to their son. Artyom felt a rush of emotions. Despite everything that had happened, he knew he had to see his son.
The reunion with Liza wasn’t easy, but over time, they found their way back to each other. They built a life together, with Artyom working hard to create a future for his son and Liza by his side. Despite the challenges, Artyom found a sense of peace he had never known before.
In the end, he realized that family, love, and the lessons from his past had shaped him into the man he was meant to be. And as he looked at his son, Artyom knew that this new chapter of his life was just beginning.