For nearly ten years, Fyodor Petrovich had lived with the quiet ache of grief buried deeper than the cemetery where his son, Sasha, rested. But age has a way of slowing down even the strongest hearts, and Fyodor’s health had made the journey to Sasha’s grave difficult. Today, though, something felt different. He awoke with a rare clarity in his bones — no dizziness, no tremble in his hands. The air was crisp, and the light through his window warm.
Fyodor and his wife, childless after twenty years of marriage, saw the silent heartbreak in Sasha’s gaze and decided to adopt him. And so began their journey together — one of trust slowly rebuilt. A year passed before Sasha would reach for Fyodor’s hand and ask, “Will you really never leave me?”
“Never,” Fyodor had said, not knowing how true and heavy that promise would become.
They raised Sasha with love, and he blossomed. He excelled in school, entered military service, and made his parents proud with each holiday visit. But the military changed him. When he was discharged for health reasons, Fyodor noticed the spark in Sasha dim. Within two years, Sasha was gone. And not long after, Fyodor’s wife — hollowed by grief — followed
Now Fyodor stood alone with his aging dog, Buyan, both too old for chasing anything but memories.
He crouched beside Buyan, rubbing the fur on his weathered head.
“Well, Buyan, shall we go see Sashenka?”
The dog wagged his tail in quiet understanding.