Sofia stood by the large panoramic window of her new home, her gaze sinking into the endless sea of crimson and gold. Autumn raged outside, and each leaf, spinning in a slow dance, settled on the ground as if laying down a soft, cozy carpet. She felt a new, previously unknown feeling being born inside her—a sense of peace, quiet and deep, like the still pool of a forest lake. All the worries and storms that had raged in her soul just a few months ago had receded, leaving behind only a light, almost imperceptible sadness, like the memory of a past tempest.

The heavy, exhausting period of parting with Artyom was behind her, like a page turned in the thick book of life. Nearly two decades of a shared path ended not simply with a mutual decision, but with a real battle, where every word was an arrow and every document—a shield. But she held fast. She went through all of it and stayed on her feet, weakened perhaps, but unbroken.

Her son, Mark, already a second-year university student, approached so quietly from behind that she didn’t hear him at first. He gently wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and his warm palms seemed to absorb the last traces of tension lingering in her body.

“Mom, you know, you are just unbelievably strong,” he said, genuine admiration in his voice. “I’m so proud of you—more than you can imagine. And Dad… I don’t even want to talk about it. I never thought he had so much pettiness and resentment in him.”

Sofia sighed softly, her gaze drifting into the distance, toward the horizon where the fiery crowns of the trees merged into one. She had married Artyom, her complete opposite, led by a great but so naïve youthful love. She had always been like a perpetual motion machine, an inexhaustible source of ideas—energetic and enterprising. He, on the other hand, remained calm, even phlegmatic, preferring to drift with the current rather than row forward.

At the very beginning of their union it seemed like the perfect balance, the harmony of two principles—yin and yang—but as the years went by, it became painfully clear that they were moving through life in entirely different directions, like two trains on parallel tracks. When the idea to open her own small but cozy café took root in Sofia’s mind, she burned with enthusiasm, spending night after night drafting business plans and studying recipes. Artyom met her fervor with icy indifference.

“Why do you need all this extra hassle?” he drawled lazily, not taking his eyes off the flickering TV screen. “You’ve got a job, the money suits us just fine. It’s nothing but a headache—I don’t even want to hear it.”

But Sofia didn’t back down. She possessed that inner core that wouldn’t let her give up. Taking out a bank loan, she threw herself headlong into making her dream a reality. The café, which she lovingly named “At Sofia’s,” unexpectedly for everyone—except her—became an incredibly popular spot in the city. The very atmosphere of coziness she had painstakingly created, the homestyle, delicious food, and her irrepressible, sunny energy did their work. Business took off, and with it came financial success. She could afford a good car, and soon she began planning to buy her own cottage out of town—a place where she could hide from the bustle.

Artyom… remained at his same unremarkable job, showing not the slightest spark of interest in her success and achievements. His life gradually narrowed to a simple, repetitive route: work–home–sofa. He increasingly sought comfort at the bottom of a bottle, finding understanding in the company of the same “unrecognized geniuses,” aggrieved at the whole wide world.

The final straw that overflowed her cup of patience was yet another drinking binge that ended in an ugly brawl right within the walls of their own apartment. The next morning, mustering all her will, Sofia filed for divorce. Artyom, egged on by his so-called friends, decided to go for broke and sue for half of her successful business—into which he had put neither a penny nor a drop of his soul. Nine long, grueling months of court battles drained her of every last bit of strength, but in the end, she won. Buying out the share assigned to her ex-husband by the court, she was finally able to breathe freely and, that very same month, purchased this very cottage—her fortress, her symbol of a new, free life, the beginning of a new path.

Life in the country house was like the most beautiful fairy tale. Silence broken only by birdsong and the rustle of leaves, crystal-clear air infused with the scent of pine and damp earth, cozy, warm evenings by the fireplace in her son’s company—Sofia had finally found what she had long and passionately dreamed of. She and Mark were not just mother and son; they were true friends, ready to support each other at any moment. He helped her around the house, and she, in turn, supported him in his studies, always ready to listen and advise. It seemed that nothing and no one could ever disturb this fragile yet steadfast idyll. But one morning the quiet was broken by a persistent phone call. It was Anastasia, her best friend since their student days.

“Sonya, hi, sunshine! I’ve got news—an absolute bomb!” she rattled into the receiver, her voice ringing with unfeigned joy. “Remember how we kept talking about that reunion of our classmates? Well, it’s settled! We’re getting together very soon—just a week and a half from now, on Saturday. And you know where? At your café! Everyone’s absolutely thrilled with the idea; it’s all they can talk about.”

Sofia couldn’t help but smile. The news felt as pleasant as warm spring sunshine.

“That’s wonderful, Nastya! I’ll be so happy to see everyone. I’ll definitely give you the best discount so the evening will be truly memorable.”

“Wait, that’s not all,” Anastasia lowered her voice conspiratorially. “We’ll have a special, very important dress code. And I don’t mean clothes. The main, inviolable rule of the evening: entry strictly as couples only! No lonely, wistful looks or awkward pauses at the table. Only positive emotions and the joy of being together!”

The smile slowly but surely faded from Sofia’s face. As couples? She glanced around her cozy, beloved living room, and the sudden silence felt deafening, oppressive. A week and a half. Just ten short days to find a companion for that important evening. Feverishly, she began to mentally sort through every man she knew. Business colleagues—all long since and, it seemed, firmly married. Casual acquaintances she’d crossed paths with at various events—not the right level, not the sort of people she’d want to appear with before old friends.

Old, trusted friends—alas, happily married as well. After that painful divorce, there had simply been no room for men in her life. She’d been so consumed by the fight for her business, legal proceedings, and setting up the new house that she had completely forgotten something as simple as a personal life. The dilemma before her seemed impossible to solve. To come alone would mean breaking the rules and feeling like an odd one out—drawing unnecessary attention and perhaps pity. To skip it altogether would hurt those dear to her and make her miss the long-awaited event she secretly hoped for. Panic, light but insistent, began to rise to her throat, gripping it with cold fingers.

Amid all this inner turmoil and worry, another phone call came. It was her mother, Anna Sergeyevna, who lived alone in a small village a hundred kilometers from the noisy city.
“Daughter, could you come for the weekend?” came her tired but so familiar voice. “The potatoes need to be dug up, and I can’t manage on my own anymore—my back just won’t obey me, it aches and hurts.”

Though her mind was consumed with the problem of finding a date, Sofia could not refuse her mother. On Saturday morning, at first light, she got into her car and set out. To shorten the trip a bit, she decided to turn onto a familiar, long-proven dirt road that cut a good twenty kilometers off the distance. But she failed to account for one important detail—the day before, there had been a heavy, prolonged rain, and the road had washed out badly. Right in the middle of the way lay a huge, muddy puddle—more like a small but treacherous lake.

Sofia hesitated for a moment, then, pulling herself together, pressed the gas decisively. The engine straining, the car slowly but steadily began to ford the watery obstacle. Reaching a relatively dry stretch, Sofia exhaled in relief, and her tension eased a little. After another hundred meters, she suddenly braked sharply, almost instinctively. Lying face down in the middle of the road was a person.

Her heart sank into her shoes. The first instant thought—drunk. But something about the scene was off, something caught the eye and wouldn’t let go. Carefully, afraid of making a wrong move, Sofia got out of the car. The man was neatly dressed: clean, nearly new jeans, a good warm jacket. Overcoming her inner fear, she came closer and, holding her breath, listened. He was breathing, but his breath was strange—loud, interrupted by snoring. And most importantly—there was no trace of alcohol on him, none of that sharp, unpleasant smell.

Summoning her will, Sofia gently turned him onto his back. The face of the stranger—who looked about forty-five—was surprisingly calm, almost serene, as if he were seeing the sweetest dream of his life. What could have happened to him? Leaving him there, on that deserted road, was out of the question. Call an ambulance? But out here, in the middle of nowhere, it would take them hours, if not longer, to arrive. The decision came on its own, instantly and clearly. She needed to take him to her mother’s—her house was quite close by.
But how? The man was big, solidly built—easily a hundred kilos—and Sofia was a slender, delicate woman. Gathering all her strength and inner reserves, she made a desperate, almost impossible attempt. Grunting with effort, she first dragged him to the back door, then, using her body as a lever, inch by inch, in several exhausting passes, managed to heave his limp body onto the back seat. Soaked, muddy, and out of breath, she got behind the wheel and drove on, her heart stopping every so often as she glanced in the rearview mirror at her unusual, mysterious passenger.

When Sofia finally pulled up to her mother’s house, Anna Sergeyevna was already waiting by the gate, shading her eyes from the bright sun. Seeing her daughter trying to pull an unconscious man from the car, she gasped in shock.

“Daughter, what are you doing? Have you lost your mind? Who is this man?”

“Mom, I’ll explain later—I don’t fully understand myself! Please, just help me!”

Together, straining to the utmost, they somehow got the stranger out of the car and laid him on an old but sturdy bench under the awning. Anna Sergeyevna studied his sun-browned, tired face and threw up her hands in amazement.

“Why, that’s Sergei from the next village! A decent man, doesn’t drink, works like a horse. Married, though—long time—and they say not very happily. What on earth happened to him?”

The two women stood in complete bewilderment, unable to find a reasonable explanation for what had happened. Leaving Sergei to sleep in the fresh, healing air, they went to tend the vegetable garden, which her mother called her greatest treasure. Time passed; the sun slowly dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in tender peach tones. They dug up all the potatoes, heated the bathhouse, prepared dinner—and their mysterious guest kept sleeping, showing no signs of waking. They decided not to disturb him—let him rest.

In the morning, Sofia was roused by an unfamiliar yet cozy and homely sound—the measured, rhythmic thud of an axe. She looked out the window and saw yesterday’s stranger. He was neatly and deftly splitting firewood, stacking it into a tidy, even pile. Seeing Sofia at the window, he gave a bashful, boyish smile.
“Good morning. This is… to thank you for saving me. I have to show my gratitude somehow.”

Over breakfast, blushing and occasionally looking away, Sergei told his incredible, almost fantastic story. It turned out he had decided to leave his wife once and for all. Life with her had turned into a living hell—a never-ending nightmare. She was pathologically, madly jealous, started fights over absolutely nothing, and—worst of all—kept running to some local wise woman for love potions and counter-charms, trying to keep him by her side that way.

“I think she put some kind of sleeping brew in my morning tea yesterday,” Sergei said in a quiet, guilty voice. “I packed my few things, told her straight I was leaving for good. She burst into tears and begged me to have a cup of tea ‘for the road.’ Fool that I am, I drank it and set off on foot to the district center to catch a bus. After that… it’s a blank. I don’t remember a thing. I came to on your bench. What shame… Thank you so much—if not for you, I might have frozen out there on the road last night. The thought alone is terrifying.”

After breakfast, Sergei began getting ready to head home. Hearing his story, Anna Sergeyevna grew worried, lines of concern etching her face.

“Daughter, take Sergei back to his village,” she asked Sofia. “You never know—what if that… that woman drugs him again, and he collapses in some ravine? See him to his very doorstep—that’ll ease my mind.”

Sofia agreed without hesitation. She herself was wildly curious to spend more time with this man. All the way, they talked nonstop, like two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a hundred years. Sergei turned out to be a wonderful storyteller with a fine, subtle sense of humor. They talked about life, about their children, about dreams that never came true and hopes for the future—and with every minute, Sofia felt a warm, inexplicable fondness for this large, kind, and so unhappy man blossom in her heart. It was as if they’d known each other forever, as if some invisible yet sturdy bond existed between them. The time on the road flew by. At the very edge of his village, Sofia slowed carefully.

“We probably shouldn’t go any farther,” she said quietly. “If they see us together and tell your wife, it’ll all start again—more useless scandal.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Sergei agreed, unmistakable notes of sincere regret in his voice. He got out of the car, thanked her once more with a long look, and watched her drive away for a very long time, until the car disappeared around the bend.

When Sofia returned, she found her mother doing what she always did—peeling potatoes. Anna Sergeyevna squinted slyly, a merry sparkle dancing in her eyes.

“Well, did you see your knight home?” she asked and, not waiting for an answer, added, “I can tell—Sergei liked you. While he was splitting wood, he never took his eyes off you when you stepped outside. And you, daughter—you’re glowing from within like a lamp. Take a closer look at him. He’s a good man, reliable, with an open heart. People like that don’t grow on trees. Well—almost don’t,” she chuckled, glancing at her embarrassed daughter.

Sofia blushed as red as a poppy. Was it really that obvious from the outside? She herself understood that this chance, unexpected fellow traveler had stirred something long-forgotten, long asleep in her soul. She caught herself thinking that she hated parting with him, that in just a few hours he had become dear and close to her.

Sofia decided to stay with her mother until Sunday evening. The day passed in the usual round of household chores, but her thoughts kept circling back to Sergei, as if along a well-worn track. She wondered how he was, what he had decided, how that inevitable, difficult conversation with his wife had gone. And then, as dusk fell and the sky turned lilac, an old, timeworn Niva pulled up at Anna Sergeyevna’s gate. Out stepped Sergei, holding two large, battered bags. He walked purposefully toward the house, his stride steady and firm.
“Good evening, Anna Sergeyevna,” he said, seeing the women on the porch. “Sofia… I, uh… I left her for good. May I sit with you a while? I really need someone to talk to.”

They settled in an old but very cozy wooden gazebo at the far end of the garden. And they talked until dawn, without noticing the passage of time. They spoke of everything under the sun—of the past, of disappointments and mistakes, of hopes that glowed faintly in the depths of the heart. They were so alike in their loneliness, in their longing for simple human warmth and understanding. Both had suffered betrayal from the very people closest to them; both were exhausted from fighting unfair circumstances; both desperately dreamed of a quiet, safe harbor where they could hide from life’s storms.

Sofia spoke of her business, of the war with her ex-husband that had left deep scars on her soul; Sergei—of his years with a jealous wife, of his work—he was a jack-of-all-trades, an excellent builder, respected throughout the area. They understood each other at half a word, finished each other’s sentences, and laughed at the same, sometimes ridiculous things. It was an incredible, breathtaking feeling of recognition, as if two halves of a whole had finally, after years of searching, found one another in this vast world. In the morning, when a pink dawn broke over the garden and the birds sang their first songs, Sergei, embarrassed and fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, turned to Anna Sergeyevna:

“Anna Sergeyevna, could you… rent me a room for a while? I’ve nowhere to go right now, no one to turn to. I’ll pay, of course—whatever I can.”

Sofia’s mother, who had secretly watched them all night from the window with pounding heart, smiled happily, maternally.

“Oh, nonsense about paying, son! Stay as long as you need. I could use a man’s help around here—good, capable hands. And you, I can see right away, are solid and sensible. So let’s say we’re even.”

Sergei beamed, his face lit by such sincere joy that it seemed to brighten the air. He looked at Sofia, and in his gaze there was so much tenderness, hope, and something more that everything inside her turned over and went still. She realized her frantic, feverish search for a companion for the reunion seemed to have ended in the most unexpected—and most beautiful—way imaginable.

The following Saturday, on the very day of the long-awaited reunion, Sofia drove to the village to pick up Sergei. He was already waiting at the gate—smartly dressed, in a freshly pressed new shirt, clean-shaven, and somehow incredibly rejuvenated. His eyes glowed with quiet, profound happiness. In the week he’d lived with Anna Sergeyevna, the yard had been transformed beyond recognition: the leaning fence was firmly repaired, the firewood neatly stacked in tall, even piles, the creaky porch no longer made a sound. Her mother, seeing them off to the city, couldn’t stop rejoicing at the sight of them.
“Well then, Godspeed, my dear children!” she said, brushing a happy, shining tear from her lashes.

At the café, where her classmates had already gathered, they caused a genuine sensation. Anastasia, seeing Sofia on the arm of a tall, handsome, self-assured man, gaped in sincere astonishment.

“Sonya, where did you find a man like that?” she whispered, pulling her friend into a quiet corner. “He’s a dream—an ideal! Tell me the truth—where did you meet?”

Sofia gave a mysterious smile, as if keeping a great secret, and, looking at Sergei—who was already chatting easily with her old friends, charming everyone with his warmth—she answered with absolute honesty, without a trace of guile:

“On a country road. He was just lying there, that’s all.”

Of course, Anastasia didn’t believe a word, burst out laughing, and decided it was just another joke from her always witty, cheerful friend. The evening turned out wonderfully—light and joyful. Sergei proved to be the life of the party, and for the first time in many years, Sofia felt not just strong, independent, and successful, but truly soft, desired, loved, and protected.

They began living together, creating a warm home of their own. At first, Sergei moved into her spacious cottage, and six months later, without hesitation, they officially married. He turned out to be exactly the man she had once—deep in her most secret dreams—barely dared to hope for: easygoing, incredibly caring, with a sparkling, lively sense of humor and the most golden hands in the world. They understood each other at half a word—at a single glance.

Sergei quickly and naturally found common ground with Mark, who welcomed the new family member with genuine surprise and immense joy. He taught the boy essentially “manly” skills; they went fishing together at the nearby lake and tinkered with the car in the garage. In their large, bright, and cozy home, complete harmony, mutual love, and deep, wholehearted understanding finally reigned. Sometimes, sitting on a warm evening by the crackling fireplace, Sofia would remember that huge puddle and her unusual “find” on the washed-out autumn road, a quiet, happy smile on her lips. Who could have imagined that there, in the very wilderness, in the heart of the autumn forest, her hard-won, long-awaited, and so simple human happiness would be waiting for her?