Late fall. The wind bangs on the shoulders, blowing fallen leaves between the gravestones. The sky is low and drab, resembling a hospital sheet hanging out to dry. The cemetery here appears abandoned: no living voices, no movement, just withered grass and deep silence. Three persons can be found at one of the graves. Maria is fixed to the location, but within her there is nothingness.
Her black gloved hands are clenched into fists, her face pallid, and her gaze frozen. She is dressed in a basic dark coat and an overly bright hat pulled down almost to her brows. Everything about her looks is frozen. As if her heart had already gone beneath, along with the small wooden coffin.
The priest speaks swiftly, and the wind tears off bits of the prayer, carrying them away. The man with the shovel, who works for pennies, buries the casket without looking. Each blow of the clods of earth on the coffin lid causes a dull anguish in Marina’s chest.
She does not weep. She does not move. Only her white lips reveal the anxiety.
“That’s it, Masha…that’s it,” Asya murmurs, grabbing her hand.
Maria slowly turns her head. Her lips shake, but there are no words. Only one question in her eyes: why? It’s too early. Too scary. Too unfair. Under the dirt is the girl she waited so long for, sung to before she was born, bought her first dress, and chose a name for. A name that will never be said aloud again.
Maria stays immobile, staring at the new mound as if she were looking not at the ground, but at the nothingness that now exists within. There were no tears or shouts, just a heavy numbness, as if a portion of her heart had been severed and the remainder left uncovered.
Asya softly squeezes her hand, and Lena conceals her face in her collar, slightly to the side. No one speaks. Everyone understands; no words can help. No questions with answers. And no one knows what comes next.
Maria blinks quickly, as if from a bright light. The scene before her eyes trembles and blurs. The graveyard, the wind, the cold—all of this fades away, and another image emerges.
Bright office lighting, the aroma of coffee, strange faces, and he. Alexey.
Things were different then. She came to get a job at a small furniture company. A simple office manager position, nothing special. But on that day, in the first hour, something clicked inside. He came out to meet her himself – tall, graying, in a cashmere coat, with a soft, confident look.
“You have calm eyes,” he said, looking through the resume. “People like that are the foundation of everything for us.”
Maria grinned shyly. Not from his words, but from his focus. Honest, adult, with no trace of flirting. A week later, she was already working, and two weeks later, they were drinking coffee behind a barrier while giggling at his bizarre visions. Then there came the first evening when he offered to give her a ride, and she accepted. The first phone at 8 a.m.: “Are you at work yet?” The first cautious phrase: “I only live with my wife because of business.”
It all started gently and almost casually. As if you could just love a bit. Trust a little.
He didn’t press or rush. He wrote first, and he invited me to meet, he once said, looking directly at me:
— If it weren’t for the documents and the business, I would have left a long time ago. Tatyana is the registered owner of everything. There has been nothing there for a long time. Only obligations.
And for the first time in a long time, Maria felt like she had been chosen. She was trusted. She didn’t make plans for years to come; she just lived for the “now.” Alexey was attentive, compassionate, and affectionate. He recognized the type of tea she drank and remembered her morning headaches. When the test revealed two stripes, he scheduled for her to be watched for a fee at a reputable facility.
“Everything will be different,” he said then. “I won’t let you be alone. And we’ll have a girl. You can feel it, right?”
She nodded. Everything inside her was singing. Even the fear – the one that always whispered, “It can’t be this good” – had disappeared somewhere. The pregnancy was going well. The girl was growing, moving, the doctors were praising her. They chose a name – Veronica. Alexey said that he had a grandmother like that. Maria smiled.
Life seemed like glass – fragile, but beautiful.
Until the evening. An unremarkable one. It was meant to end with a movie and tea. Alexey was late, and she had just started dozing asleep when her stomach began to hurt. It started with a tug, and then it grabbed her so firmly that she couldn’t reach the phone.
“I feel bad… come,” she said.
He arrived fast. We dressed quickly, sat next to me in the car, and held my hand.
“These are probably training ones,” he tried to reassure her. But Maria knew it was not true.
The maternity hospital was white and uncomfortable, similar to a railroad station. The doctors exchanged glances before calling someone over the intercom. One said briefly:
– Emergency cesarean. Hypoxia. Let’s start now.
She didn’t even have time to get scared. Everything happened quickly: rolling along the corridors, a mask on her face, cold and then darkness.
When I came to, I felt only cold. It smelled of medicine and hospital. I moved my hand with difficulty, felt for the call button. But the door had already opened.
“Where… where is my daughter?” Maria whispered.
The nurse hesitated, then lowered her eyes.
— Breathing stopped at birth. We did everything we could.
Maria looked at her without blinking.
– Is she d3ad? – the voice did not obey.
– We will sort everything out. You should rest. Sometimes that happens…
The words didn’t make sense. They bounced like balls. She did not hear. She did not believe.
What followed was a haze. The phone remained silent. Alexey did not show up. On the third day, she was informed that he had left for a business trip. The items were given over via security. Not a single message. Not a call.
When she demanded to take her daughter’s body, the administrator looked at her like she was insane. But they allowed it. A little coffin. Sealed. You have no right to open it.
Asya and Lena assisted with the funeral. They were present. They said to hold on. It will become easier over time. But Maria knew it couldn’t. Because there was no more life inside. The days blurred into one long wait for something that would never arrive. She ate since Asya had brought food. She went outside since Lena insisted. But everything was mechanical. Without flavor. Without color. Without meaning.
She moved throughout the flat as if it were someone else’s home, with the lights off and the windows and doors locked. And only emptiness remained.
She did not believe it. Not death; that was too real. However, the explanation seemed so tidy and manufactured that it appeared unbelievable. It all happened too swiftly and conveniently for someone. Maria remembers almost nothing about the doctors’ faces or the nurses’ words. All she had left was a little coffin, sealed and silent, without a name or farewell.
Alexey’s phone remained silent.
At work, they informed her that he had departed for important business. Nobody knew when he would return. Or no one cared to know.
Her friends convinced her to complete the paperwork: she needed to obtain a death certificate, a medical report, and register the record with the Civil Registry Office.
That is where everything changed.
One of the corridor doors was slightly open. Maria glanced there for amusement, out of boredom rather than enthusiasm. Someone was speaking inside.
These words struck like an electric shock. Maria stood up. Came closer. It was Tatyana. His wife. The birth certificate was lying on the table. For a girl.
What other girl?
Tatyana wasn’t pregnant.
A dense stillness filled the room. Nobody moved. Alexey turned around. There was no fear or surprise on his expression, simply annoyance. As if he had been sidetracked from an essential task.
“Excuse me, who are you anyway?” He asked gently.
– Are you serious? – Maria’s voice trembled. – You don’t know who I am?
The registry office employee carefully rose from the table. Tatyana took a step back, concealing her fear with a false grin.”Alexey, is this some kind of incident?” She inquired softly, but her eyes conveyed interest.
Maria didn’t take her gaze off him. She stopped shouting. She spoke slowly and plainly, each word as a blow:
— You were present when I gave birth. You held my hand in the surgical room. You promised that things would change once our daughter was born. Where is she? Where is my girlfriend?
He exhaled. Quickly, as if to save undue hassle. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and raised his eyebrows. As if contemplating whether to continue the circus.
— Call security. A woman is anxious. I do not know her. Perhaps from a clinic. I have a wife and a newborn daughter. Please help us.
Asya kept her hand until she exited. Silently, but firm. And whispered:
– We are with you. We will never depart. You are not crazy. It’s just too strange.
And this “strange” became the start of something new: a thin, nearly undetectable thread leading to the truth.
They strolled along the street silently. Maria felt a stinging sickness rise up, not from her body, but from realizing she had been obliterated. She’d been eliminated from the life she believed she had.
Asya was the first to break the silence. Her voice trembled like a child’s:
– Masha… do you understand that on paper they are right? Everything is official for them. But this… what was this anyway?
“It’s theft,” Maria replied. “It’s not a coincidence. It’s not a mistake. He knew. He knew everything.”
The next day they went to the police. Maria brought everything: a certificate from the maternity hospital, funeral documents, a doctor’s discharge. She tried to speak calmly, in order, although inside everything was bursting to scream. The officer on duty listened, frowned, called someone, and then returned and, without looking, said:
“You should see a psychiatrist,” the police officer remarked, avoiding her look. “Please forgive my bluntness. This is a tragedy, but there is no need to initiate a case. There is no evidence of a crime. The body was already buried. There are no witnesses. “You’ve never seen the girl.”
“And the birth certificate for another woman?” Maria responded harshly. “It doesn’t mean anything?”
He shrugged and spread his hands. Everything came back to the documentation. To the “mother” column, enter the name, which must be correct. Otherwise, you simply evaporate.
The Investigative Committee was up next. At the very least, they did listen. The young officer carefully documented every statement, asked questions, and offered to draft an appeal.
Following that, she proceeded to the maternity hospital. Not as a patient, but as someone who has questions. She put on a modest gray blazer, tucked her hair into a ponytail, and practiced her voice – calm and confident. However, the chief doctor met her with obvious anger. Not animosity, but contempt.
“We’ve already discussed everything,” he snapped. “A youngster died. The operation was carried out exactly as prescribed. “All documents are in order.”
“I’ve never seen my daughter,” Maria said steadily. “Why was the body delivered sealed? Why couldn’t I say my goodbyes?
– Such cases are not examined. The child’s condition… would not allow it. We have everything absolutely following protocol.
— Whose child was in such a state? Mine or yours, when it was necessary to hide the substitution?
The head doctor silently pressed the button to call security. This time, she was not thrown out, but it was clear that the conversation was over. She left, feeling the same emptiness as before, but with anger and the thought that someone, somewhere, knew the truth. That someone turned out to be Anna.
In the evening, Asya called to report that a voice message had arrived at the general number, from a woman speaking in a quivering voice and requesting contact. She stated that she worked in the same maternity hospital. That she could no longer keep silent.
Maria listened to it 20 times. Her heart was thumping so fast that the last words were nearly lost. They called back. She introduced herself as Nurse Anna. She spoke rapidly, in a broken voice, as if she was scared to be overheard:
— I had a shift that day. I remember you. I recall how, at the last minute, the chief doctor personally arrived and took control. It was bizarre. He never goes to the night ward. And here he was issuing commands himself. Then your card vanished.
Maria was silent, scared to breathe too loudly.
– I was terrified then. They informed me that if I talked, I would be sacked. I have a child. I stayed quiet. However, my kid was recently involved in an accident, and the head doctor refused to grant me a reference since I requested a day off. Then I learned that quiet does not help. Now I’m prepared to reveal everything.
Maria sat with the phone to her face, unable to believe what was occurring. The stranger’s voice was the first genuine confirmation that this is not lunacy. This is correct. Her daughter was abducted.
Anna agreed to provide an official testimony. A few days later, they convened at the Investigative Committee. She provided chart printouts, a copy of the medical record, and a photograph of the infant that she was able to capture while the head doctor was out.
Anna was officially interrogated.
– This woman was not registered with us. Neither as a woman in labour nor as a patient.
Only a copy of the request for a cesarean section remained in the system, complete with his signature.
A week later, Alexey and Tatyana appeared for questioning. They got together. They appeared confident, clasped hands, and responded clearly:
– This is our child. There was a pregnancy, but we didn’t announce it. Witnesses are our business. Confirmations are your problem.
They were offered a DNA test freely. They agreed. Calmly. Almost defiantly.
“I hope you will apologize for the slander,” Alexey concluded before departing.
But it wasn’t put to the test. The investigator called Maria in the morning, a day after their interrogation. The voice was collected and incisive.
– They are attempting to depart. According to our understanding, they departed the city at night, carrying a child. A description was sent out. Be prepared: if verified, you will need to provide personal identification. Not much time remains.
Maria hung up and hid her face with her hands. She nearly couldn’t believe it. She almost did not dare to breathe. But the reality was already near, practically within arm’s length.
Alexey was the first to break.
After six hours of interrogation, after a confrontation with Maria, after reviewing Anna’s testimony and the records from the maternity hospital, he lowered his gaze. Not furiously, not theatrically – almost tiredly.
“It was her idea,” he said quietly. “I… didn’t know how to get out of this situation.”
The investigator turned on the recorder. Alexey spoke quickly, as if he was afraid to change his mind:
— Things have been complicated between Tatyana and me for a long time. She… she can’t have children. And everything we have — the house, the business, the finances — is registered in her name. If I left, I would be left with nothing.
He wiped his palm over his face, as if to remove all evidence of the talk.
– When Maria got pregnant, Tatyana devised a scheme. We would raise the child as our own. She made preparations with the head doctor and established the appropriate connections. I agreed. I did nothing else. I didn’t want to consider how it would be. I assumed that everything will work out later. That Maria would not find out.
He fell silent. The investigator hit “stop” and glanced at Maria.
– Everything is recorded. A genetic exam will be scheduled. Prepare for a lot of work ahead. However, you now have a realistic opportunity of reuniting with your child.
Maria nodded slowly. There was no delight. No alleviation. Only a strained silence inside. And a cautious hope that seems almost terrifying in its proximity.
The tests were completed shortly. Biomaterial from Maria, the girl, is being monitored at the clinic. The doctors’ results were unambiguous: healthy, typical development, with no aberrations. A small life, sleeping in a white box, unaware that someone was attempting to rewrite her birth.
The test results arrived a few days later. A perfect fit for all markers. There is no doubt about that. It was her daughter.
Maria obtained formal documents. Then comes the guardianship paperwork. Then you have the right to take Veronica home. The process was highly regulated: a lawyer, an investigator, a social worker – everything was in order. But one day, this long paper route was interrupted by the simplest moment: she was escorted into a room where, in a crib, lay what she had gone through hell for. Small, living, and real. With her eyes. With her chin. With her breath.
She did not cry. She simply knelt down next me, extended her hand, and calmly said:
– Hello, Veronica. I’m here. I’ve discovered you.
The girl opened her eyes, turned her head, frowned a little, as if she was remembering something. And closed her eyes again, trustingly falling asleep.
She realized the journey wasn’t ended yet. Papers, court, and questions were all ahead. But the most essential event had already occurred. Her daughter was lying close to her. It was worth every step.
At home, she gently dressed the baby in comfortable pajamas and placed her in a crib she had taken out of the closet. She sat next her as she fell asleep. She suddenly realized she was no longer alone. Never would be.
Veronica stretched in her sleep, releasing her toy and turning slightly towards her. Maria leaned over and hugged her tightly, as if pleading for forgiveness for every day spent away.
“Everything will be different now,” she said softly, glancing at the drowsy face. “I am here. Always.”
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