Andrey Nikolaevich leaned back in his chair and finally allowed himself a deep, long exhale. The week had dragged on as a heavy procession of endless tasks: reports, inspections, documents that had “needed his signature yesterday.” He rubbed his temples with his fingers, as if trying to erase the fatigue, and, squinting slightly, swept his gaze around his office: neatly stacked folders, the pen returned to its stand. Everything seemed in order.

He stood, walked over to the heavy safe, turned the lock with a practiced motion, laid the signed papers inside, and shut the door with a dull click. Instantly he felt lighter, as if the heavy stone that had pressed on his shoulders all day had finally fallen away.

The clock on the wall read half past eight. The workday had long since ended. He was staying late again, as he almost always did. “Well, it’s fine,” thought Andrey Nikolaevich, pulling on his jacket, “tomorrow is my day off anyway.”

He had already reached for the door handle, imagining how, in a couple of minutes, he would breathe in the cool evening air, take a few unhurried steps down the empty street, and let his thoughts settle, when a quiet but tense voice sounded behind him:

“Andrey Nikolaevich, may I have a minute?”

He turned. The duty officer, usually imperturbable, looked worried now, almost at a loss.

“What is it now?” Andrey Nikolaevich frowned, automatically glancing at the clock again.

The duty officer stepped closer and lowered his voice:

“There’s a woman here… demanding to see a supervisor. She’s being stubborn, making a scene because they won’t accept her statement.”

“What statement?” Andrey Nikolaevich asked sternly.

“Well…” The man scratched his head, as if embarrassed to relay it. “Her daughter and granddaughter went to their dacha this morning. Since then—no word at all. Their phones are off. She insists we declare them missing. Immediately.”

“Missing?” Andrey Nikolaevich’s eyebrows rose involuntarily.

“Well… yes.” The duty officer spread his hands. “I tried to explain maybe there’s no reception out there. You know how it is with signal in those garden cooperatives—even now it’s a mess. But she won’t listen. She’s shouting that if we won’t take a statement, it means we don’t care that people are disappearing. She’s demanding ‘the most senior person.’ Which is… you.”

Something clenched in displeasure inside Andrey Nikolaevich’s chest. Every part of him protested: he was tired, he wanted to leave, to simply close the door behind him and put this week behind him. But he also understood something else—tomorrow this woman would be back, causing another scene, and they would be the ones who paid for it.

He sighed heavily, as if trying on yet another burden, and said curtly:

“All right. Let’s go.”

They moved unhurriedly down the dim corridor, where the ceiling lights flickered dully and a monotonous creak came from the corner—the duty fan living out its last days. The air was saturated with a familiar mixture: paper, dust, and cheap coffee.

She was waiting for them at the duty window. The woman stood half-turned, leaning on the counter as if her strength was leaving her, held up only by stubbornness. Her coat had been thrown on in haste: one button fastened in the wrong hole so the fabric was skewed, the collar sticking up. On her head—a colorful headscarf that must once have been festive, now pushed askew to reveal disheveled strands of hair.

Her voice rang loudly, breaking into hysterical notes and echoing through the empty corridor:

“You are obliged to take measures!” she cried, slapping her palm nervously on the counter. “It’s your job to save people!”

Andrey Nikolaevich automatically took a step forward. And then something happened he was completely unprepared for: the woman swung around sharply, and he stumbled—as if not with his body, but with his soul. His breath caught for a moment.

Seventeen years had passed, but he recognized her at once.

Standing before him was that very woman. The one who had once destroyed his world, ripped up by the roots everything he believed in and lived for.

In seconds his consciousness tore away from the gray corridor and carried him far back—into the past, into the life that had ended so abruptly.

…He had been only twenty then. Still just a boy, really, though he’d come back from the army with a straight back and a serious gaze. Life was only beginning: in his pocket lay his assignment to the police academy, and new prospects glimmered ahead. But that wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was that Zoya was beside him. His Zoya. The girl he had loved since upper school, who had waited for him to return from the army despite her friends’ teasing and her classmates’ attention.

Zoya studied at the pedagogical institute. She always spoke about the future with such inspiration and passion that Andrey would listen and see beside him the woman with whom he wanted to spend his whole life. Her eyes shone with a special, kind fire when she spoke about children, about her future pupils. He believed: with her, he could achieve anything.

They made simple plans, dear to their hearts. She would get her diploma, he would finish his training, take a job—and they would marry right away. An apartment? Let it be small, let it be in an old building—no matter. The main thing was they would be together.

But there was one problem—one woman categorically refused to share their joy and hopes.

Kira Antonovna. Zoya’s mother.

A domineering, blunt woman with a heavy gaze and a sharp tongue. From the start Andrey felt her coldness, but he didn’t pay it much attention. The young always think love conquers all. And Zoya laughed when he brought it up: “Mom can think what she likes. What matters is what you and I think.”

But Kira Antonovna wasn’t one to give up easily. She was like an experienced huntress: she saw her target and knew that sooner or later she would get her way. Her words cut to the quick:

“A policeman is not a profession. It’s hard labor for pennies. He’ll be gone for days on end, and you’ll be home alone with the children. Why do you need that kind of life?”

Zoya brushed it off and swore to Andrey she loved only him. But Kira Antonovna kept at it. She waited. She lay in wait like a predator for the moment to strike at the sorest spot.

And one day she found it.

Venya Parshin suddenly appeared on the horizon—Zoya’s former classmate. In school he’d been the butt of jokes: no brains, no talent, just persistence in trying to win Zoya’s favor. He’d slip chocolates secretly into her bag, leave bouquets of wildflowers on her desk, write clumsy notes. Everyone thought him intrusive and hopeless; even Kira Antonovna had shaken her head then:

“God forbid my daughter ends up with someone like him!”

And when after eighth grade Venya abruptly disappeared from school, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. It was as if he had been quietly erased from memory, dissolved in the stream of time.

But fate, as it often does, decreed otherwise.

When Zoya was in her final year at the institute, Parshin suddenly returned. And he was no longer the awkward, shy boy in a stretched-out tracksuit. Somewhere along the road he had turned into a solid young man: an expensive suit, a well-groomed look, a neat haircut, a confident stride. In the institute parking lot stood a brand-new car, glinting in the sun as if to confirm this was a different Venya altogether. In his hands he carried a huge bouquet—luxurious, the kind people rarely saw then, and few could afford.

Talk in Zoya’s home shifted sharply. Kira Antonovna—who only recently had spoken the name Parshin with disdain—now uttered “Veniamin” with respect, almost savoring each syllable:

“Veniamin—that’s a real man. He’s made something of himself. With him, daughter, you’ll be safe as behind a stone wall. Not like that policeman. What does he have? Epaulettes and paperwork. But here—car, apartment, some profitable business, looks like.”

Zoya wouldn’t even listen. She lifted her eyes, full of resolve:

“Mom,” she sighed, “what do his money have to do with anything? I love Andrey. That’s all. I don’t need anything else.”

In those days Andrey felt like a victor. Zoya stood by him, steady and calm, never looking away, never wavering. It seemed all her mother’s nitpicking was just temporary caprice, empty talk.

But Kira Antonovna had no intention of retreating. She started slowly but surely, with small jabs, weaving doubt into every word: she’d say police work looks good only in the movies, that real life is different; she’d casually hint “today at work, tomorrow in the morgue”; she’d remind them that money decides much, and love without a material foundation withers quickly.

“Happiness is when your husband is beside you and the fridge is full,” she would declare right in front of Andrey, without shame. “Not when you constantly wait to see if he’ll come back alive from his shift and count pennies to buy milk for the kids.”

Veniamin himself might as well have moved into their home. At first he stopped by “on business”—passing by, wanting to check on how Zoya was doing. Then he stopped waiting for Zoya; he’d come when she wasn’t there and talk to Kira Antonovna. He had a way with words, persuasive and gentle, and he promised that if she convinced her daughter to marry him, she would never regret it.

“I’ll carry her in my arms, Kira Antonovna,” he said, looking his future mother-in-law in the eye. “And I won’t forget you either. You’ll be like a mother to me. Whatever you want—anything for you. Just help me, and I’ll be grateful forever.”

The words went down sweet as honey. And Kira Antonovna listened, nodding, rejoicing inwardly. Each day the thought grew stronger in her mind: here was the real chance for her daughter. Not some policeman with a miserable salary and unpredictable shifts, but a man who could provide stability, prestige, a “proper” life.

And so, gradually, Veniamin became the embodiment of an ideal for Kira Antonovna, while Zoya continued living her life with Andrey. Their days were filled with quiet joy and a gentle anticipation of the future. They made plans, dreamed, discussed little things, picked dates, laughed at trifles, and warmed themselves in each other’s presence. Only recently they had seriously discussed when to go file their application at the registry office—it felt so natural, such a logical step.

Andrey felt like the happiest man in the world. He studied, and in his free time he served in public order patrols. Life was satisfying; Zoya was with him every weekend; her eyes shone with love and trust—what more could a person want? He couldn’t imagine that in a single moment his whole life would collapse like a house of cards.

But that moment came.

On the day everything changed, Kira Antonovna appeared on the threshold of his tiny apartment.

“Andrey,” she said in an unexpectedly soft, almost unfamiliar voice, “don’t turn me away. I came to talk.”

He was surprised but did not argue. He swallowed his surprise, invited her in, and seated her at the table.

“Tea?” he offered, out of habit, by the rules of hospitality.

“Of course, tea,” she agreed, taking off her gloves. “Listen, Andrey… I’ve thought for a long time and realized this. I can’t keep opposing it. If you and Zoya have decided, then so be it.”

Relief flooded Andrey; a smile spread across his face of its own accord. Could it be that the wall he had always felt before him had finally come down? Maybe now everything would work out?

He put on the kettle, took out mugs, offered cookies. Kira Antonovna spoke evenly, almost amiably:

“I worry about Zoya,” she said, as if justifying herself. “She’s still young, her whole life ahead of her. But it seems I was wrong… If you love each other so much, let it be as you decided.”

Her words sounded like music. Andrey’s soul filled with warmth; it seemed the road to happiness lay open before them. The world regained its colors, and his heart—its lightness.

Then came the blank.

After the tea he remembered nothing. Not how Kira Antonovna left, not how he collapsed on the couch and fell asleep. He only came to in the morning with a heavy head and a strange, viscous aftertaste in his soul he couldn’t explain.

And when he went to see Zoya, she met him with cold indifference. No warmth, no usual smile.

“Andrey,” she said coldly, evenly, with no hint of former affection, “it’s over.”

He didn’t believe it.

“Zoya, what are you saying? You… we…”

“It was all a game,” she cut him off, as if speaking in someone else’s voice. “I was always waiting for Venya. I love him. I’m marrying him.”

Her words slashed into him like sharp knives. Andrey tried to reach her, asked, begged for an explanation, pleaded to turn back time. But she repeated the same thing: all this time she had deceived him; it had all been a mere amusement.

That day his world shattered for good.

He would never forget how Zoya turned away and left, closing the door in his face. That image haunted him at night, came in dreams from which he awoke in a cold sweat. Again and again he relived the day when happiness became emptiness.

He never built a family. After that betrayal Andrey decided for himself: women could not be trusted. If the one who swore eternal love could betray so cruelly, then no one deserved trust. His heart shut down, and his mind built an invisible but impenetrable wall around it.

He threw himself into work. He took on more and more cases, stayed late into the night—anything to avoid going home. The silence of the apartment pressed on him, suffocating him, reminding him of what no longer existed. Paperwork, reports, interrogations—all this helped him forget. And so the years passed, one after another, quietly turning into seventeen long years.

And now, after all that time, she stood before him. Kira Antonovna.

He recognized her immediately—despite the years, the wrinkles, and the gray hair, her eyes still held the same cold, the same inner force that had once kept Zoya from his love. But she did not recognize him. She was too shocked, too distraught. Even when the duty officer said his name, she couldn’t connect this grown man with the young fellow she had once rejected in favor of a “profitable” son-in-law.

She paced and repeated the duty officer’s words in confusion: her daughter and granddaughter had gone to the dacha and were not answering; her statement was being refused. Andrey Nikolaevich tried to calm her:

“Perhaps there’s simply no reception. Outside the city that’s common.”

But she sobbed and suddenly broke into tears.

“No, you don’t understand!” Her voice tore, turning into a desperate scream. “I can feel it… something terrible has happened! I only found out today: my son-in-law escaped from prison! He must have gone to them! What he’ll do to them—only God knows!”

Andrey’s heart tightened involuntarily. The woman’s words might be true. If an escaped convict connected to Zoya was indeed at large, the situation was far more serious. He inhaled deeply, gathered himself, and said briefly:

“Let’s go to my office. We’ll talk calmly there.”

He opened the door and let her go in first. The woman went in without looking back. Only then did he notice how much she had changed. There was no longer any confident firmness in her walk—only anxiety and helplessness, a slight tremble in her shoulders and hands. Every movement betrayed a fear that had once been foreign to Kira Antonovna.

Andrey closed the door. The office greeted them with its familiar quiet: only the steady ticking of the clock broke the pause. He pointed to the chair opposite and sat down at the desk, fingers interlaced. His voice was businesslike, even:

“Please sit. Tell me everything in detail. About your daughter, about your son-in-law.”

At first Kira Antonovna only blinked, as if trying to see him more clearly. She squinted, looked away, peered again, as though trying to remember where she had seen him before. Suddenly her face twisted. Her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled, and her voice broke:

“My God… Andrey?… Is it you?…”

Then the words poured out of her. First quiet, restrained, and then unstoppable, like a broken waterfall. She covered her face with her hands; her shoulders shook; her body seemed unable to bear the weight it had carried for so many years.

“Forgive me, son…” she said in a trembling voice. “God, how guilty I am before you… I truly didn’t know… or rather, I didn’t want to know! Venya… that Venya… he got his money by criminal means! And I, the fool, thought: solid man, has a car, courting her… I gave my daughter to him with my own hands!”

She sniffled, lifting her reddened eyes, full of fear and remorse.

“What happened then… I slipped a sleeping pill into your tea. Venya gave it to me. He said it had to be done quickly and cleanly. I… I believed I was doing the best for my daughter. Then I called him; he was waiting by the entrance. He came in, moved you onto the bed… And then brought in a girl… a paid woman. She lay down next to you, put her arms around you. I left. Went home.”

Her words sounded like a sentence.

“So Zoya would see…” he guessed.

Kira Antonovna closed her eyes and nodded.

“That morning my daughter told me she was pregnant. She said she would marry you even if I was against it. She was going to run to you, to share the joy.” She was gasping through her tears, but went on. “And I… I beat her to it, then came back and said I had thought it over, that I wouldn’t stand in her way. Go, daughter, go to Andrey and be happy.”

“And she came…” Andrey said dully.

“She came…” Kira Antonovna’s voice shook. “She opened the door… and saw you. You asleep, and that girl beside you, in your arms…”

Andrey clenched his teeth; his jaw ached from held-back rage and pain.

“She ran home in hysterics, sobbing on my shoulder,” the woman went on. “And I… I told her then: seize the moment, marry Venya. Don’t mention the child yet; he’ll take it as his own and never know. You’ll live happily with him, and that… traitor… let him gnash his teeth!”

Her voice broke; she coughed, but continued:

“And she believed me, poor thing! She agreed. The next day she and Venya filed the application. Then they moved to another city; I was the one who saw them off at the station.”

Andrey closed his eyes. His chest burned as if he were reliving it all—pain, betrayal, helplessness.

“I thought…” he said softly, barely audibly, “that she was happy. All these years I thought…”

“No,” Kira Antonovna shook her head. “No! She lasted two years. Then she came back to me, battered, in tears. He abused her, tyrannized her. He found out the child wasn’t his… God, what he did to her then! She barely escaped. After that he tried several times to get her back; he even kidnapped my granddaughter once. The police found her, thank God… But he kept coming back! In and out of prison, and each time he made my girl’s life a hell before he landed behind bars again.”

The woman broke down crying harder:

“Forgive me, Andrey! Forgive me for ruining your life—and hers too… I didn’t know Venya was like that! I was a fool, an old fool! But now help us! For God’s sake, help!”

At that moment Andrey Nikolaevich felt the entire weight of seventeen years—all the disappointments, betrayals, and pain of the past—collapse on him at once, like an avalanche sweeping everything in its path. His heart clenched, his breath caught, and his eyes filled with tears he had held back for so long.

Soon Andrey Nikolaevich’s car was racing down the highway out of town. The headlights picked out of the darkness only a narrow strip of asphalt, the occasional sign, and peeling billboards with barely legible lettering.

Twenty minutes later the car slowed smoothly by the right plot. The wooden fence had sagged; the gate stood ajar, creaking on its hinges. In the dim glow of the headlights the windows of the house flickered in the distance—empty, no light inside, no sign of life.

But Zoya’s car stood by the gate. A chill ran down his spine: they had been there very recently.

Andrey carefully pushed the gate and stepped onto the property. The night air was thick and damp, saturated with an anxious silence. He listened: only the wind rustled in the leaves, and somewhere far off a lone dog barked.

He moved slowly, almost on tiptoe, around the grounds. He watched his step, let his eyes glide over every bush, every path, every flowerbed. And then… something glinted in the grass by the vegetable patch. Andrey crouched and carefully picked up the object. A smartphone. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, but when he pressed the button, the display still lit up.

He found a map with a tiny geolocation dot blinking in real time.

Andrey froze. His heart thudded once, twice… The name above the dot burned before his eyes: “Ksyusha.”

It felt as if something snapped in his chest. He remembered Kira Antonovna’s broken voice: “My granddaughter… Zoya’s daughter…”

Ksyusha—their daughter. His daughter!

The entire past, the cold of those seventeen years, and the truth now revealed, all fused into a single certainty: he had to find them. He had no right to lose them.

He stared at the map. The dot blinked nearby. And the place… he recognized it at once. His heart clenched painfully. The abandoned factory. Old workshops, ruins people avoided. The homeless stayed there, fugitives hid there, and the kind of things happened there that people preferred not to speak of aloud.

Andrey ground his teeth and swore under his breath. His hands trembled as he grabbed the radio.

“This is Colonel Krylov. Send backup immediately to the abandoned factory, the former machine-building plant.”

He didn’t wait. The next second he was in the driver’s seat, flooring the gas so hard the tires squealed.

When he arrived, the sky ahead already glowed with a red glare. One of the workshops was on fire, as if infernal flames had broken free. The fire greedily devoured old boards and beams; girders collapsed with a crack, and each time a fountain of sparks shot up, mixing with choking black smoke that twisted in the air like a living thing.

Andrey braked hard and jumped out. Hot air struck his face and scorched his skin at once. The smoke stung his eyes; his throat tightened until he coughed. But he didn’t stop. He had no right.

He felt—they were there. Zoya. Ksyusha. Somewhere inside that blazing hell. And he would go in even if it cost him his life.

“Zoya!” he shouted, over the crackle of flames and the groan of falling beams. “Ksyusha!”

A second of silence felt like an eternity. Then he heard a faint, rasping cough.

He lunged toward the sound, not thinking about the ceiling collapsing around him, about the flames licking the beams and ready to cut off his path at any moment. He vaulted over debris, stumbled over charred planks, shouldered aside chunks of brick, tore skin from his palms, but kept going until he saw them.

In a corner, behind a half-collapsed partition, in a cloud of smoke, sat Zoya: hunched, desperate, her face blackened with soot and her hands trembling. She was holding the girl, shielding her from the acrid smoke. The woman’s eyes—once so clear, so beloved—were wide with terror, but a tiny flame of hope still flickered there.

“Andrey?” Her lips quivered; his name escaped as a barely audible whisper.

He didn’t answer. Too much churned in his chest—pain, rage, relief. Instead he rushed to them, bent down, and embraced them both at once, pulling them to him as if he could hide them by sheer force from the fire and the danger. And he led them toward the exit.

Every step was a struggle: the air seared his lungs, his eyes streamed from the smoke. The way out felt endless. Tongues of flame snatched at their clothes as if trying to hold them back, to keep them from leaving hell. At one point a burning piece of the ceiling broke loose and crashed nearby, showering sparks—and by some miracle didn’t hit them.

But they broke through. A sharp blast of air struck his face. Cold night freshness rushed into their lungs, burning no less than the fire.

Zoya doubled over, coughing, her shoulders shaking. Ksyusha burst into loud tears, burying her face in his chest, still unable to believe they were safe. And for Andrey, it was as if music played all around: they were alive. He had made it in time.

At that moment a car drove into the factory yard. Headlights flared, slicing the night with a blinding light. Behind it—another, and another. Doors slammed, voices of commanders rang out, quick footsteps clattered over the gravel. Uniformed men poured out: some unrolled fire hoses and directed streams of water into the flames; others rushed to sweep the territory.

“He’s here!” someone shouted. “Heading out through the north exit!”

Andrey turned. In the distance, against the glow of the fire, a shadow flickered. A silhouette he would have recognized among a thousand. Venya. The very man because of whom his life had collapsed, because of whom Zoya had walked through hell, and a child had grown up in fear, not knowing her real father. He ran bent low, trying to disappear into the darkness.

But Andrey did not move. His place was here now, next to Zoya and their daughter. He held them tighter, feeling their bodies tremble, breathing in the smell of smoke that had saturated their hair and clothes, and understanding that this was the end of a nightmare that had lasted far too long.

The response team worked flawlessly. Within minutes it was over: Veniamin was pinned, forced to the ground, and handcuffed. He thrashed, howled, spat curses, but none of it mattered anymore. They loaded him into a car, and the slam of the door sounded like a final period.

Later Andrey learned his sentence had been increased substantially. Prison escape, arson, attempted murder, threats to life—including that of a minor. Now, behind barbed wire, the years would stretch into what was likely a lifetime. He would return from there only as an old man—if he lived that long.

Doctors gave Zoya and Ksyusha the necessary aid. All the while Andrey stayed close, as if afraid that if he let go even for a moment, they would vanish. When the danger had passed, he drove them home himself.

At the entrance, Kira Antonovna was already waiting. Her face was tired; her eyes were red, lids swollen from crying. When, under the streetlamp, she saw her daughter and granddaughter—alive, though exhausted—she sprang forward at once.

“Daughter!..” she cried, and, forgetting everything, rushed to them. She embraced them both, holding them so tightly Zoya could barely breathe. “My God… my dears… I thought I would never…”

Her words tumbled out, tangled, interrupted by convulsive sobs.

“Forgive me, daughter…” her voice shook. “It’s my fault. All of this is my fault. Back then… I arranged everything. I thought I was doing what was best for you… But it turned out… My God, what have I done!”

Again the dam burst. She spoke in a rush, feverishly, sparing herself nothing. She told her daughter everything without concealment: how she had pushed her toward Veniamin, closed her eyes to his actions, how she had once destroyed her love. She spoke and wept, begging forgiveness.

Zoya listened in silence. Tears stood in her eyes, and in her chest rose a pain mixed with pity.

“Mom… why?” was all she could say. “Why did you do that?”

Kira Antonovna flinched, covered her face with her hands, but still answered:

“I was a fool… I wanted what was best. I thought about comfort, about the appearance of prosperity… And I hated Andrey. I feared he would drag you into poverty. I didn’t want to know he was a real, reliable man. I deceived both him and you.” Her voice broke, and she sobbed like a child, uncontrollably.

Zoya drew her mother close, stroked her head, and said quietly—tired, but steady:

“That’s all in the past now. The main thing is we’re alive. And Andrey is here…”

She lifted her eyes to Andrey. In her gaze there was only a warm, gentle weariness and that very trust which he had lost through another’s malice seventeen years ago.

…They sat together in the room: Andrey, Zoya, and Ksyusha. Andrey spoke about himself—unhurriedly, with pauses, as if learning to talk about his life all over again. How he had buried himself in work to avoid feeling the emptiness, how for years he believed he had neither past nor future. Zoya shared what she had endured with Veniamin, how often she had thought of Andrey, how she had long dreamed of meeting him and learning about his life; she had let go of her resentment a long time ago. Ksyusha listened and sighed softly.

They sat like that until morning. Dawn broke outside the windows; the room filled with the smell of coffee—Zoya had gone to the kitchen without a word and soon returned with steaming mugs. Ksyusha brought sandwiches.

Andrey looked at them both and suddenly understood: the loneliness was over. Life—harsh and merciless—had given him a second chance.

And that day—the very day he pulled them from the fire, when the truth finally came out and the past stopped tormenting them—became the happiest day for all three.