A cold, piercing wind played with the hem of her light dress, as if trying to hold her back, stop her, bring her back. She stood at the gate, looking around, as if expecting someone to call out to her, hold her back, say: “Don’t go.” But all around was only autumn silence, interrupted only by the rustling of leaves. Her hands were shaking when she carefully, with incredible love, lowered the basket to the ground. Inside, under the edge of the blanket, lay a little girl who did not yet know what pain and betrayal were. She muttered something in her childish language, stretched her hands toward the sun, which seemed to promise warmth, but in fact was as deceptive as hope.
“Liza,” the woman whispered, gently adjusting the edge of the blanket. “That’s what I called you. Forgive me, my angel. I can’t do otherwise.”
The words hung in the air like an echo that found no response. Around the corner, as if to confirm her determination, a sharp, hoarse horn of an old Moskvich sounded. It was waiting. It was waiting for her, the woman who dreamed of starting everything from scratch, leaving behind pain, suffering, loneliness. But there was no joy in her eyes, only a shadow of regret, only pain squeezing her heart with an iron vice.
She cast one last glance at the basket. A second. A moment. An instant that would forever be imprinted in her memory. Something inside snapped. Something important that would not return. And she turned around. She ran. Without looking back. Towards the car, towards the future, towards a dream painted in the color of betrayal.
She didn’t know that she was running not from the past, but straight into it.
The years flew by like autumn leaves in a gust of wind. Names changed, addresses were forgotten, lovers came and went. And with every passing year, the memory of the girl in the basket grew quieter, like a faded photograph in a drawer she refused to open. Liza turned into a ghost, a prickly splinter in her mother’s heart, which she tried to ignore.
But fate does not forget what people do.
Now the woman—Vera—lay within the walls of an old hospice, where time loses its meaning, and life becomes only a countdown of the last moments. Her body was exhausted, her hands thin and shaking. Her breaths were short, labored. The nurses were kind, but distant. She didn’t want their pity. She only wanted to forget.
But regret, sharp and unrelenting, had moved in long ago. It slept beside her, breathed with her, whispered in the quiet hours: You left her.
On the day it happened, the hospice was wrapped in storm clouds. The rain had been lashing the windows since morning, and the gray sky pressed down like a sentence. At twilight, the wind howled like a wounded beast, and the lights flickered briefly in protest.
Vera was half-asleep when she sensed someone in the room. Not a nurse. Someone… lighter. Quieter. But there. She opened her eyes.
A woman stood by the window. In her arms, a bouquet of white roses. The kind Vera used to dream about when she still believed in good endings. The woman’s coat was damp, and her long dark hair clung to her cheeks. Her face was striking. Calm. Mature. And blind—her irises pale and clouded, but her expression unshakably steady.
“Hello,” she said softly. Her voice was firm. Not cruel, not angry. Just… clear.
Vera blinked, as though trying to focus through layers of time.
“You don’t recognize me,” the woman said, stepping closer.
Vera’s lips trembled. The roses filled the room with a scent so delicate it hurt.
“I…,” Vera began, but the words snagged in her throat like thorns.
“I’m Lisa,” the woman said. “The same Lisa you left at the gate.”
The world stopped spinning. The room shrank. Vera’s breath caught. Her skin turned cold. For a moment she thought she might die right there.
“Lisa…” she whispered. “No. No, that’s not possible.”
Lisa sat beside her and set the roses on the table.
“I was taken in by the mansion’s owner,” she said. “Her name was Anya. She was older, widowed, and never had children of her own. She raised me like her own daughter. I never went without food, or love. She gave me music. Books. I learned to see in ways others couldn’t.”
Vera listened in stunned silence. Tears fell slowly, silently.
Lisa continued, “They told me later… about the basket. About you. I had questions, of course. But I never searched for you. I didn’t need to. Until recently.”
“Why now?” Vera whispered. “Why come now?”
Lisa touched the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing Vera’s wrist like a feather.
“Because I heard you were dying,” she said. “And because I wanted you to know… I lived. I didn’t come for revenge. I just wanted to look you in the eyes.”
Vera covered her face with her frail hands and sobbed. Years of guilt, finally breaking.
“I was a coward,” she choked. “I was young, selfish. I thought I had no choice. But that’s not true. I did have a choice. And I chose wrong.”
Lisa said nothing. The silence was heavier than any words.
Then, after a long pause, Lisa stood up.
“I forgive you,” she said quietly. “Not because you deserve it. But because I need to.”
And then she turned, walked to the door, and disappeared into the storm.
Vera remained motionless, staring at the white roses, breathing in their scent like salvation. She would die soon. That could not be changed.
But in the final chapter of her life, someone had come back. Not to punish her. But to let her see what could have been—and what, miraculously, still was.