Shadows stretched, devouring the last fragments of sunlight, and the evening air grew cool and biting. Svetlana, pressing her back against the rough bark of an old oak, watched the day’s end on the playground with a quiet, aching envy. For everyone else, it was an ordinary, noisy, slightly weary evening. For her, it was a daily ritual of saying goodbye to a world she didn’t belong to.
“Mishenka, sweetheart, don’t cry, we’ll come back tomorrow,” coaxed a young woman in a soothing voice, effortlessly lifting the chubby toddler in a bear-patterned onesie. The boy wiped his damp cheeks with tiny fists, mumbling something incoherent as he clung to his mother’s neck. Sveta watched him squeeze his eyes shut, burying his face in her warm jacket, and felt a dull, familiar ache in her chest.
“Kolya, let’s hurry, Dad’s waiting, he got off work early today!” urged another, adjusting the boy’s crooked hat. His face lit up with anticipation of home, a hot dinner, and his father’s embrace. Sveta imagined the scene: the lamp’s glow over the table, steam rising from plates, laughter—a picture from someone else’s life.
“Katyusha, darling, the sand will still be here tomorrow, I promise! We’ll make little cakes again, and tonight we’ll bake apple ones, just how you like it!” added a third, taking the hand of a girl with two funny pigtails. Hesitant for a moment, the child placed her tiny palm in her mother’s hand.
Sveta kept her distance, staying in the shadows. At eight years old—or maybe eight and a half, she’d long lost count—she felt like an old soul among the little sand-loving children. But mostly, she remembered the painful lesson: months ago, she’d dared to approach. The children had welcomed her into their play. Their games—primitive, loud, built on imaginary worlds—were a balm for her wounded soul. For a moment, she forgot she was an outsider.
But the mothers noticed. First wary glances, then whispers, and finally, one vigilant woman with sharp features decisively approached her.
“Whose child are you? What are you doing here?” her voice cracked like a whip.
Startled, Sveta mumbled something incoherent.
“Go away! Look at her—filthy! A stray! She probably has lice… or ringworm! Don’t you dare come near our children!” The chorus of outraged voices joined in, pushing her away. She ran, unseeing, and hid in the dense lilac bushes. There, in the thorny, dusty darkness, she cried until she had no strength left. Tears streamed all day and night, turning into quiet, bitter sobs. From that day, she only watched—from afar.
Once, long ago, and not as a memory but as a distant, unreachable dream, she had a mother. They lived on the outskirts of a large village, in a small house smelling of fresh bread and dried mint. Her mother was her universe: warm, kind, endlessly caring. One touch could chase away any fear, and her lullabies were magic spells, driving monsters from under the bed. But the universe collapsed overnight. Her mother fell ill, was taken to a city hospital, and never returned. Svetlana didn’t understand the word “cancer,” but she never forgot the chilling sound of it and the pitying glances of neighbors.
Her aunt Olya, her father’s sister, took her in—a ghostly figure her mother barely spoke of. Aunt Olya smelled strange, tangy and unpleasant, and her presence alternated between cloying sweetness and harsh aggression. Svetlana instinctively didn’t want to go with her, but the aunt hissed, “Cry or misbehave, and you’ll regret it.” Svetlana soon understood exactly what that meant.
In the aunt’s apartment, filled with the stench of tobacco and dampness, she stayed only long enough for paperwork and survivor benefits to be arranged. Once the money was in hand, the aunt’s interest evaporated. Often, Svetlana returned to find the door locked, the aunt passed out drunk. Once, a neighbor intervened, causing a scene and threatening to call guardianship or the police.
After that, she was punished severely, barred from going outside for two days. One day, when her aunt fell deeply asleep after collecting benefits, Svetlana quietly packed her meager belongings and slipped out—never to return.
She wandered the streets of a vast, indifferent city—months blurred into cold, hungry nights. She learned to beg for food only from kind eyes, hide from authorities and prying adults, and find relatively safe corners to sleep. Above all, she learned to hide her tears, which came silently at night, draining her soul, while in the morning she forced herself to smile—at herself, passersby, the world.
When loneliness became unbearable, she would retreat to a hidden spot and hum the lullaby her mother had sung—a strange, otherworldly melody, carrying a fragment of warmth and safety. Her mother had said it was passed down from her own mother, who had come from distant, almost fairytale lands.
As the last children left the playground, Svetlana emerged from her hiding spot. She swung briefly on the creaky swings, slid down the cold metal slide, shivered in the evening chill, and walked toward a nearby semi-ruined building, a former dormitory where runaways often slept.
Descending its debris-strewn, icy stairs, she sensed danger. The door was wide open; strange voices echoed inside. Flashlights swept across the dark interior. Her heart leapt—she had been discovered! She ran instinctively, away from the place, away from the threat of being returned to Aunt Olya or the orphanage, which felt just as frightening.
Her legs carried her across empty lots, past garages, to an old city cemetery—a gloomy yet relatively safe refuge. Many of her acquaintances found temporary shelter among graves. Tall monuments, dense conifers, and the general air of oblivion provided better protection than any wall.
Out of breath, she entered, slowing her steps. Silence reigned, broken only by distant ghostly train wheels. Her foot struck something hard and smooth—she recoiled to find a black rectangle: a smartphone.
She inspected it, finding it functional, battery still charged. The vibrant icons, cosmic wallpaper—all mesmerizing. She didn’t dare call anyone yet, simply gazing at this piece of the “normal” world.
Then, her eyes fell on one name: “Mama.”
Her heart leapt. She smiled through tears, for she had always believed a mother meant kindness. Aunt Olya and the other harsh women were aberrations. A real mother couldn’t be cruel.
With trembling fingers, she pressed the call button. Long rings, and then—music. The lullaby, pure and familiar, unaccompanied, flowed through the phone. Time froze. Tears streamed silently but powerfully. Then, a cautious female voice:
“Hello? Vanya?”
Svetlana only sobbed, pressing the phone to her wet cheek.
The woman’s voice softened: “Sweetie, why are you crying? It’s not Vanya. Who is this?”
“I… I… found your phone…” Svetlana stammered.
“This is my son Vanya’s phone. Where are you, dear? Where did you find it?”
“At the cemetery…” she whispered, mournful and eerie.
“Stay there, we’ll come. Don’t be afraid; I’ll stay on the line.”
Her sobs burst anew. The phone guided her to safety. Soon, a man and a woman appeared from the darkness, approaching carefully. The woman’s face was pale, eyes wide and tearful, yet something in her reminded Svetlana of her mother.
She was enveloped in a warm coat and a gentle embrace.
“It’s okay, little one,” said the man’s voice. “You’re safe. Are you alone?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I just… don’t have a home. And you… you look like my mom…”
The woman, Karina Sergeyevna, nodded, overwhelmed. The man, Vanya, carried her gently, like the mother she’d seen on the playground once.
At the grand mansion they arrived at, Svetlana met Aunt Tanya, welcoming and fragrant with vanilla and fresh baking. Everyone here had known and loved her mother.
That night, clean, fed, and in a sun-scented nightgown, Svetlana lay in her new bed. Karina Sergeyevna sat beside her, taking her tiny hand.
“Svetochka, we need to get to know each other again. I think I’m your grandmother,” she said softly.
“Really? Mom’s mom?” Svetlana asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes, my dear. I am your mother’s mother. And Vanya is your uncle, her younger brother. I’ll tell you everything,” Karina whispered, as Svetlana’s first genuine smile in years rested on her lips.
