“Miss, may I help you?” he called out to the woman, noticing how she was struggling to carry two heavy bags. “Sorry to approach so suddenly, but it looks like the bags are about to slip from your hands. Allow me to carry them.”
“Oh, really? Are you sure? Aren’t they too heavy?” the woman smiled shyly. “Thank you very much.”
The man took the bags easily, as if they were empty, and strode forward with a wide, confident step. The woman, pretty and a bit plump, hurried after him, trying not to fall behind. Together, they looked almost comical: he — tall, strong, with a sweeping gait as if on a parade march, and she — small, soft, round like a fresh cheese pastry, with curls bouncing with every step. For every one of his steps, she had to take two.
“Please, slow down a little!” she gasped. “I’m completely out of breath.”
He, as if snapping out of a trance, turned around.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
“If it’s no secret, what were you thinking about so deeply?” the woman asked, looking at him intently.
Her name was Galina, and she immediately noticed that the man was not dressed for summer — his clothes were worn, patched in places, and he looked lost, as if accidentally wandered into this world. Her curiosity would not let her just walk silently beside him.
“Well, come on, tell me, what made you so thoughtful?”
“Just about myself… about life,” he sighed.
“And what’s wrong with it? Is life hard?”
“No, not exactly…” he shook his head. “I just think a lot.”
“Ah, maybe you drink too?” she asked cautiously.
“No, no! I’m not that kind of person.”
“Thank God,” Galina nodded with relief. “And what’s your name? By the way, mine is Galina, but you can just call me Galka.”
The man hesitated, as if remembering or, on the contrary, trying to forget something important.
“My name is Vaska… that’s what they call me.”
“They call you? You don’t like your real name?”
“It’s not that…” he lowered his eyes. “I just don’t know what my real name is.”
Galina froze in surprise but quickly composed herself.
“So you don’t remember?”
“Exactly. I have a memory gap. They found me on the highway, barely alive. Dirty, bruised, in torn clothes. I was lying like a discarded puppy. Someone stopped, called an ambulance, and they took me to the hospital.”
“My God… And you don’t remember anything about yourself?”
“Not a single memory. Sometimes some images come up: faces, rooms, fragments of conversations, flashes of light… But all of it feels like someone else’s movie.”
“And what happened after the hospital?”
“They sent me to an orphanage. Gave me a temporary name — Vasily. Since then, I’ve been living like this. Good thing I’m not on the street — a roof over my head, food, work.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Whatever comes along. Odd jobs: loader, market assistant, sometimes help a butcher, cleaning. I earn a little, but enough to live.”
“And what did you do before? Do you remember anything?”
“Nothing. It’s like I was born anew. Had to learn everything from scratch. Not crawling, but living.”
“Your fate isn’t easy, Vasya. But if you haven’t broken, you’ll manage further. Memory is unpredictable: today it’s silent, tomorrow it might come back.”
“Maybe that’s true…”
“Of course it is! Why torment yourself over what you don’t remember? Live with what you have. And I see — you’re a strong, hardworking guy. Would you like to find a job?”
“I would very much.”
“Then come with me. I’ll talk to the lady of the house. She has a big house and a ton of work. Maybe we can find something for you.”
“That’s great. Let’s go, why are we standing still?”
Only then did Vasily realize they had been standing still for several minutes, attracting the attention of passersby.
“Is it far?”
“No, very close. I usually go by car, but today the driver is busy — so I came myself. The lady ordered a turkey.”
“And what do you do for her?”
“I’m a cook. The work is hard, but conditions are good. The lady is kind, though quiet. She changed a lot after the death of her son and husband. But she pays well and doesn’t mistreat anyone.”
“If she has such a house and staff, she must be rich?”
“Maybe. Not my business to count money. I just need pots and pans.”
They approached large wrought-iron gates. Behind them stood a two-story brick house, surrounded by greenery. Jasmine bloomed on either side of the gate, filling the air with a sweet aroma. Vasily suddenly stopped. Something stirred in his chest, as if memory wanted to awaken — but immediately vanished like smoke.
“Why did you freeze? Come on, don’t be afraid.”
They entered the house, walked along a neat path, and found themselves in the kitchen — spacious, bright, cozy, filled with the smells of homemade food.
“Here we are. This is my little world — here are my pots and pans. Come in, look around. Meanwhile, I’ll bring the lady her lunch and ask about work for you. I’m sure there’ll be something to do.”
Vasily looked around. For the first time in a long time, a strange feeling overwhelmed him — warmth, coziness, and even a certain familiarity. He couldn’t place it, but something about the kitchen felt like a home he had once known. The air hummed with a quiet kind of peace, and for the first time, Vasily felt like he was more than just someone passing through.