The on-duty doctor, whose body ached from an endless twelve-hour shift filled with human suffering and pain, leaned against the cold windowsill with a muffled groan and tiredly, almost mechanically, stretched, feeling his vertebrae crunch. He took the last sip of coffee, now indecently cold, and approached the wide, slightly fogged window. Beyond the glass, in the dark evening sky, illuminated by dim streetlights, the first snow fell slowly and majestically in large, fluffy flakes, wrapping the dirty asphalt and bare tree branches in a pure, virgin shroud.
The doctor nervously, with a twitching hand, lit a cheap cigarette, took a deep drag, and turned to the silent orderly, who was moving sterile bandages from place to place:
“Okay, so what are we supposed to do with this one? She’s already completely frozen, showing absolutely no signs of life. What’s the point of messing with a corpse? All the signs of biological death are obvious. The morgue is ready, and they’re not too busy today anyway.”
Artyom, a young but already experienced orderly, silently approached the gurney on which lay the motionless, pale body of a young woman, and with professional automatic precision checked her pulse at the wrist. There was indeed no pulse; it seemed life had long since left this fragile body. But then his gaze fell on her face, and it seemed to him that her long, wet eyelashes quivered ever so slightly, almost ghostlike. Holding his breath, he brushed a strand of tangled, snow- and water-soaked dark hair from her forehead and cheeks—and froze for a moment. Her emaciated, hollowed face somehow looked painfully familiar, as if from another dimension, from a distant, carefree past.
“Anna?” flashed through his mind like an electric shock, but he immediately dismissed this absurd, impossible thought. The real Anna had always had a well-groomed, rounded, sweet face with charming, deep dimples that deepened amusingly whenever she laughed or smiled her sunny smile. And now before him lay a gaunt, skinny, dirty vagabond of indeterminate age, dressed in rags.
While Artyom stood frozen at the gurney, struggling with the flood of memories, the on-duty doctor, Dmitry Valentinovich, had already called the mortuary attendants via the internal phone. The men in dark blue coats, with emotionless, hardened faces, quickly and without unnecessary words transferred the lifeless body onto their specialized metal gurney, covered her with a standard gray sheet, and silently wheeled her down the long, brightly lit corridor toward the elevator. The doctor, having finished his cigarette, was about to leave the emergency room and finally lie down to rest, when his eyes fell on the table—he had forgotten to give the attendants the standard cardboard file containing the passport and all accompanying documents of the unfortunate drowned woman. The attendants were already in the slowly descending elevator, heading for the morgue in the basement.
“Artyom,” he called the young man, “the poor girl’s documents are still here on the table. Run, be a pal, and take them straight to the morgue, hand them to the registry, then you’re free—you can rest if you have the energy,” he said, yawning widely and silently, displaying the full depth of his fatigue.
Artyom silently took the sheets and, not wanting to wait for the slow elevator, decisively headed for the staircase leading down. On the concrete landing between floors, a single bare bulb burned almost blindingly, its harsh light illuminating the top line of the accompanying sheet, where in neat, official handwriting were the deceased patient’s details: Saar Anna Gennadyevna, born March 17, 1994. Inside the transparent file lay a damp, water-swollen passport, the laminated page with the main details and old photo still intact, while all other stamps of registration and life events had been irrevocably blurred by water into blue and purple stains.
Artyom’s hands suddenly trembled, and something cold and heavy twisted in his chest. Artyom and Anna had been born in the same year and even the same month; she was only a few days older. From childhood, they had lived in neighboring apartments in the same panel building and attended the same kindergarten group. The boy and girl had been convinced since their earliest unconscious years that they were truly like family, almost brother and sister.
Anna had been very surprised and even upset when a small, crying baby, Tyoma, suddenly appeared in their apartment, and she was solemnly told he was her real brother.
“What brother?” she had genuinely puzzled, frowning. “Then who is Artyom to me? We’ve always been together?”
Their parents had laughed at her childlike innocence and explained patiently that Artyom was just a neighbor boy, a friend. But how could she explain to her kindergarten friends that Artyom wasn’t her brother, as she had proudly told them, but just a neighbor? It was so complicated and unfair!
A similar mirrored story happened in Artyom’s family when his little sister Liza was born. His father, strict but fair, said Artyom, as the eldest, now had to protect her and help in everything. The little boy thought and asked in his serious tone:
“And what about Anna? Who will protect Anna if I have to take care of Liza?”
His father smiled at the child’s logic and hugged him:
“You’re big and strong, you can protect both Anna and Liza. You’re our hero.”
Artyom nodded, understanding it as a direct order, but his father added:
“Remember, though, Anna is just a neighbor, a good friend, while Liza is your own blood, your sister.”
Artyom had then been confused by the word “neighbor,” thinking it applied only to elderly ladies who lived on the first floor and gave him candy. How could it relate to Anna, who had been inseparable from him since infancy, sharing toys and secrets?
When it came time for first grade, they were assigned to parallel classes, and both children threw a real tantrum.
“I won’t go to your school!” Anna shouted, stomping. “They made me sit with some fat, annoying boy who keeps eating sandwiches and smacking! I want to sit with Artyom! Only with him!”
Artyom, equally determined, proposed a “solution”:
“I’m never going to this stupid school again! There are too many girls in my class, always whispering and drawing hearts. At least let Anna replace one of them; she’s not like that, she plays football with the boys!”
Finally, their parents appealed to the school administration. The children were placed in the same class and even at the same desk, with the strict condition that they wouldn’t talk during lessons. They obeyed, but during breaks, they talked endlessly, overflowing with words. Teasing classmates called them “bride and groom,” but Artyom insisted Anna was his sister—cousin, not by blood, but almost.
“Well, fine, bride then,” he thought. “When I grow up, I’ll marry Anna and show them!” He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to prove, but the thought of a future with Anna comforted him.
In adolescence, Anna unexpectedly got numerous admirers from parallel and senior classes. They tried to take the blossoming young beauty from Artyom. He defended her fiercely with his heavy backpack, classmates’ satchels, and fists. Anna initially helped him, using her sharp nails and loud shrieks. But one day after gym class, she told him mysteriously:
“You don’t need to walk me home anymore. I’ll go myself.”
“Why? Isn’t it better for you?” he asked, puzzled.
She shrugged mysteriously. Artyom, embarrassed and hurt, muttered:
“Fine, your choice.”
He hid behind a fence corner, watching Anna run off laughing with a tall, athletic basketball player, Ruslan, the school’s sports pride. Shocked, Artyom clenched his fist, unable to cry out.
From then on, Artyom and Anna became almost sworn enemies, barely speaking.
After school, Anna surprisingly married that basketball player early and moved away. Her mother proudly told Artyom’s mother about her daughter’s luxurious life abroad. Artyom, half-listening, bitterly considered Anna a traitor, yet secretly hoped she might return.
He joined medical school, aspiring to sports medicine, dreaming of healing athletes in the ring. But in his final year, tragedy struck: his father died suddenly. His mother became ill, and Artyom had to care for her and younger sister Liza. He took an academic leave and became a hospital orderly, immediately sent to the ICU, dealing with life-and-death emergencies.
And now, this same Anna—his Anna, emaciated, dirty, helpless—was being taken to the morgue like a nameless tramp.
Artyom, losing all sense of self, ran down the stairs, caught the attendants at the morgue door, and stopped the gurney:
“Stop! This is a mistake! Back to the ICU, now!” His voice shook.
“Are you crazy?” asked the senior attendant. “The doctor wrote death by hypothermia. Protocol.”
“Wait! Don’t push it!” Artyom shouted, grabbing the gurney himself and dragging it back.
“Fine, but this is your responsibility!” the attendant shouted.
In the ICU, only two patients were present: an elderly woman with a major heart attack and a young woman with a head injury. Artyom carefully lifted Anna—she was light as a teenager—and placed her on a free bed, covered her with a sheet, dried her with a sterile towel, and cut her wet tangled hair. He immediately started an IV with a general strengthening solution and electrolytes. Her condition was critical but stable: body temperature critically low, pulse barely 40, dangerously low blood pressure.
He stayed by her bedside, staring at her, still unable to believe it was Anna, his lively Anna. Her thin, bluish skin clung to her bones, revealing nothing of the luxurious life her mother had described. Suddenly, Dmitry Valentinovich’s sharp voice interrupted:
“Artyom, what’s going on here?”
“Dmitry Valentinovich, she’s alive! Look at the monitor!”
“The attendants already took her to the morgue! How is she back in the ICU?”
Artyom admitted everything, lowering his head:
“I caught them on the stairs. I couldn’t let them… I saw she was alive.”
“Have you lost your mind? You could get me in trouble!”
“I didn’t intend any harm… this woman… she’s my cousin,” Artyom lied.
The doctor was stunned.
“How did she get like this?” he asked softer.
“I don’t know… I’m waiting for her to recover so she can tell me,” Artyom admitted.
The doctor went for a strong medication, returning shortly. Artyom switched it into the IV and thanked him fervently. Exhausted, he finally rested in the chair, drifting to sleep.
Near dawn, he was woken by a faint moan. Anna was barely conscious, whispering:
“Why… why?”
“Anna… it’s me, Artyom. Everything will be fine now. I’m here.”
She studied his face through the fog, then quietly wept:
“Artyom… is it really you? I don’t want… not like this.”
He gave her a calming injection and held her hand. Thoughts raced: had she tried to end her life? What could drive his lively Anna to this?
After his shift, he asked the nurse to watch over her closely.
At home, Artyom called Anna’s mother, Veronika Petrovna, explaining that a patient resembling Anna had arrived at the hospital. Her mother was suspicious but he reassured her.
Later, the nurse called: Anna had tried to jump from the second floor, barely restrained. Artyom rushed to the hospital. She was under IV sedation but had recognized him.
He spoke gently, coaxing her, and she slowly confessed: her husband, a basketball player, had mistreated her. She had lived in a hostel, working menial jobs, became sick and malnourished, and had attempted to end her life.
Anna’s mother came to the hospital, crying and embracing her daughter. Two weeks of intensive care, nutrition, walks, and vitamins restored Anna. Her dimples returned, her cheeks filled out, and the traces of exhaustion disappeared.
One day, Dmitry Valentinovich whistled in surprise at her appearance. Artyom corrected him:
“She’s not my sister, she’s my future wife. Please, don’t distract her.”
On discharge day, Anna walked the hospital corridor holding Artyom’s hand, a bouquet of roses in her other hand, smiling and thanking everyone. Even the mortuary workers respectfully tipped their hats. For the first time in years, she truly wanted to live, love, and be loved—because that morning, Artyom had proposed, and she tearfully said yes.
