How Aleftina ended up in the office, no one really remembered. She appeared as if she had always been there: a quiet, inconspicuous woman or girl – it was hard to understand. Some thought she was young, some thought she was older, but she hid her appearance under a headscarf tied in a rustic style and a long turtleneck that covered her neck.
She washed the floors, polished toilets, metal door handles, glass partitions – everything that clients’ palms and foreheads had soiled – until they shone. All this had been going on for three months, and not a single bank employee had heard a word from her.
No one saw makeup on her, no one noticed the smell of perfume – only the freshness of floor cleaning liquid and clean air. And indeed, the entire office sparkled and exuded a cozy, almost homely cleanliness after her.
The attitude of the employees towards her varied: some felt sorry for her, some simply ignored her, and some allowed themselves to mock her.
– Hey, mute! There’s dust here! – the mocker, a young manager from the credit department, pointed his finger at an absolutely clean corner. He was specifically looking for a reason to upset her, but Alya just silently took a rag and did what she was paid for. No reaction – just work.
– Look how she sweats! – another laughed once, for which he received an elbow from more experienced employees who sympathized with the cleaner.
Aleftina sighed, said nothing, carefully avoided rudeness, as if she was used to it. And in the evening she returned to her cramped apartment, fed her fish, cooked a modest dinner and sat down to draw. Her paintings amazed with their softness, airiness – watercolors flowed across the paper, creating entire worlds. She didn’t paint for fame, she didn’t even show them to anyone. Only for herself. Sometimes she went out into the open air – then her works became even brighter, more mysterious, filled with the light of nature.
But at night the same nightmare came to her. For nine years it repeated itself without changes. And each time she woke up from her own scream.
The flash happened on a June night. Somewhere in the entrance hall screams were heard, shrill and frightened. It smelled of burning. Smoke was getting through the cracks, through the keyhole. So, it wasn’t their place that was burning.
Ali’s parents and her little brother hastily grabbed the documents and ran out into the street right in their pajamas and slippers. The neighbors had already gathered on the landing – all at a loss, in whatever they had, but also not in complete order.
The apartment on the second floor was on fire – right across from their door. The window was slightly open, and smoke was already pouring out.
— Did you call the Ministry of Emergency Situations? — a woman from the first floor asked, yawning. But as soon as she realized that her renovation could be flooded while putting out the fire, she quickly sobered up and began to regret her words.
— I think they did, — someone from the crowd answered, asking everyone to shut up and not add to the panic.
Alya hardly knew the family living across the street. They had recently moved in — a middle-aged husband and wife, a boy named Lyosha, about six years old. There was almost no communication, but she and the child had somehow become close. Alya knew how to find an approach to children — she had once worked as a school teacher, and so much so that her students loved her and her colleagues respected her.
She was about to go down to the street to the others, when suddenly she heard a cough inside the apartment. She listened — it was a child’s cough. It was clear that he was there, inside. There was no time to put it off.
Alya went to the neighbors’ door and checked – it was locked. What to do?
“Tools… where are the tools?” she thought feverishly. Thank God, her father’s toolbox was at home, under the shoe rack. She took out the crowbar.
“If only it works… If only I can make it!” she thought, inserting the crowbar between the door and the jamb.
If the neighbors had changed the front door in time, if they had installed an iron one, there would have been no chance. But the old plywood, double-leaf, was still held by a lock from the time of Soviet builders.
The crowbar went deep, the door gave in. Behind it – a thick wave of smoke. The room was burning inside, the fire was already engulfing the curtains and some of the furniture. In the living room on the couch lay a woman – most likely suffocated by smoke. And where is the boy?
Alya reached out and felt a small body. Lyosha was barely breathing. She carefully picked him up, but she couldn’t get out the other way – the flames had gotten stronger.
“We need to get to the window!” flashed through her mind. From the room into the hallway, through the fire, through the heat. The curtains were already catching fire, the frames were cracking from the temperature. She grabbed the red-hot window handle – the skin on her palm instantly swelled. Pain pierced her body, but Alya still opened the window.
There was a gasp from below. The firefighters were already nearby, unrolling their sleeves, hearing the screams of the crowd. Seeing the window, they quickly unrolled the rescue sheet.
– Lyosha! Son! – a man who had just returned from a business trip screamed. He tried to run into the entrance, but they held him back.
Alya, losing her strength, picked up the boy and passed him through the window. She didn’t see how they caught him. She didn’t hear her parents screaming. She didn’t feel herself losing consciousness, crawling out after them…
The fresh air that rushed in through the open window became fuel for the fire. The flames instantly engulfed the entire apartment.
So Alya found herself in the bank. Of course, there were also some cheeky young men and indifferent bosses here… But work was work, and she did it conscientiously.
“Hey, why are you silent all the time?” the manager provoked. “You can’t or don’t want to? Or is your salary too small?”
She didn’t answer. She just patiently polished the glass, which was already sparkling.
And then one day, whispers began to spread throughout the room. All the clients, all the employees turned to face the entrance. An expensive car pulled up to the bank. A man got out and confidently walked inside.
“Boss! Sergei Mikhailovich! He’s here!”
Alya continued to polish the window, her yellow gloves flashing across the glass.
“Hello, Sergei Mikhailovich!” the chief accountant greeted him.
Alya shuddered. She turned around.
The man noticed her. Recognition flashed across his face. He froze, then stepped forward, came closer. His eyes filled with tears. In front of everyone, he knelt down and, taking off her gloves, kissed her palms covered in scars. Everyone present froze in bewilderment.
She was crying too.
“It was you…” he whispered, getting up and hugging her. “You saved my son!”
He turned to the employees:
“This is the girl who almost at the cost of her life carried Lyosha out of the fire!”
The room was tense. Someone looked down in embarrassment, someone coughed from awkwardness. And then, one after another, the applause began – at first timid, then loud and friendly. Alya smiled confusedly, hiding her hands, which Sergey was still holding.
And at that moment, a guy of about fifteen ran into the bank:
“Dad, you promised to be quick! I’ve been waiting for you for an hour!”
He froze in place, seeing his father kneeling in front of the woman.
Alya felt something inside her tremble. She looked at the boy, then at the man – and understood. Sergey turned around and quietly said:
– Lyosha… This is the same woman who pulled you out of the fire.
The guy rushed to her, hugged her:
– We finally found you!
And then, like a lightning strike, her voice returned. Perhaps the stress helped him wake up – it happens. The voice became lower, a little hoarse, but it was this intonation that added mystery and depth to it.
The three of them often met – in a cafe, at home, in the park. They talked about everything that had happened over the years. For the first time in nine years, Alya did not wake up at night from a nightmare.
As it turned out, Sergey and Lyosha had been looking for her for many years. They only knew that she had survived, but they did not know the new address – the apartment was occupied by other people. And they didn’t think they would meet her again, especially as a cleaner.
When Sergey found out that this woman worked in their branch, he immediately organized full treatment for her. He paid for all the surgeries and necessary rehabilitation. He felt that he had to do it.
And another friend of Sergey’s, the owner of a private gallery, accidentally saw her works. He was amazed. Her watercolor paintings, subtle and bright, received recognition from specialists. Now her paintings began to be bought, and her name began to sound in the circles of local artists.
Alya didn’t know that life could