Eleonora stood silently before the mirror in her quiet apartment, her reflection meeting her with weary, unfamiliar eyes. Tonight was the school reunion — a milestone after forty years. Forty years separating this fifty-seven-year-old woman, whose once jet-black hair had turned grey, from the spirited schoolgirl with a glowing gaze and a braid reaching down to her waist.
“How did you become so old?” her lips murmured silently, while her fingers swept across her temples with a mixture of tenderness and revulsion. “The skin isn’t the same anymore, the eyes have dimmed, no longer shining like on graduation day. And the hair … faded and thinning, as if life has sapped all its strength.” She reached for an expensive jar of cream bought especially for this evening, moving her fingers in gentle, circular strokes — a ritual of self-reassurance.
Then she straightened her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and smiled at her reflection, deliberately making her eyes gleam. “No, Elea, there’s still fire inside. Sure, the figure changed, the body softened into a maternal form, but there’s beauty in that. And the dress fits perfectly.” The new plum-colored garment flowed along her silhouette, concealing what she wished hidden while highlighting fragments of former elegance. Her makeup was subtle — just mascara to emphasize her lashes and a gentle pink lipstick. Bright colors were no longer appropriate; age sets its own tone.
With a final encouraging nod to herself, she left the apartment. The door clicked softly behind her, as if sealing away her ordinary, solitary life.
The restaurant hall buzzed like a disturbed beehive, filled with voices, laughter, clinking glasses, and music threading through the general murmur. Almost the entire tenth-grade “B” class had gathered, thanks to their class teacher Nina Nikolaevna — an energetic woman with silver hair who once united them as a close-knit family. From the parallel “A” class, only a handful — five at most — were present.
Eleonora scanned the faces, trying to identify traces of youthful features beneath their wrinkled and sagging expressions. There was the stout, balding man—could that really be thin, perpetually hungry Kolya who used to race motorcycles? And the elegant lady with a perfect haircut — studious and modest Galya? Life had ironed some out, crippled others, and seemed to have left a few untouched.
“Life’s touch is unpredictable — it can smooth or scar us, yet some wear their years lightly like feathered cloaks,” she reflected silently.
Her heart clenched with familiar, quiet pain. Beside her should have been Andrey. Her Andrey. Her husband, classmate, love. But he had been gone for three years. His heart had stopped. The workload and worries had been overwhelming. She remained alone in their spacious apartment, cluttered with memories.
Her mind involuntarily drifted back to their school years — to Vera. Vera Stepanova, who followed Andrey devotedly like a shadow. People mocked them then: his sufferings and her obsessive, blind affection. Andrey was too kind to reject her harshly, too gentle by nature. Then came that unfortunate trip during the May holidays after which Andrey returned withdrawn and strange. Nobody knew the truth — a secret buried under the tent in the young May forest.
After graduation, their paths diverged. Yet, unexpectedly, Eleonora and Andrey enrolled at the same university in a large city. Away from home and prying eyes, they discovered kindred spirits in each other. Andrey emerged not merely as a charming fellow but as reliable, intelligent, and honorable. He assisted with studies, accompanied her home, and looked at her with eyes that melted her heart. They married soon after graduating and chose to remain in the city, building a new life far from memories of poverty and loneliness. Both hailed from modest, broken families.
Occasionally, Andrey traveled on business to their hometown factory. His parents were long deceased; only a grandmother remained, who had passed away years ago. Eleonora never wished to visit those places — her own mother, chronically ill, had also passed, and the childhood apartment was sold. There was no reason, nor anyone, to return to that past.
The dinner gradually shifted into dancing. Then Konstantin approached her — from the parallel “A” class. In school, he was an unnoticed mouse, a shy C-student ignored by girls. Time transformed him into a man: solid, calm, confident in his movements, with sharp, intelligent eyes. He introduced himself, saying he worked in Saint Petersburg at a major automobile plant, managing a department.
“Eleonora, you can’t imagine how happy I am to see you,” his voice was low and velvety. “Since ninth grade, I carried the image of you — the girl with the long braid and a laugh like the gentlest bell. But I could never muster the courage to approach. I was too awkward and shy.”
He invited her to dance repeatedly. As slow, lyrical music played and her cheek almost touched his shoulder, Eleonora realized that for the first time in three years of solitude, she did not feel alone. She felt desired—like a woman.
- Konstantin’s surprising transformation from invisible boy to confident man
- The rekindling of warmth after years of loneliness
- The healing power of unexpected connections
Near the evening’s end, Konstantin leaned close:
“Elea, let me walk you home. I’ve dreamt about this for years. Where are you staying?”
“At a hotel two streets away. I’d be glad to.”
“What about you? At your father’s?”
“Yes, the old man is still lively. Come visit us tomorrow. He’ll be pleased. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow evening, by bus.”
“Cancel that ticket. I’m driving to your town along the highway. I’ll give you a ride. You’ll travel comfortably.”
Flattered and curious, Eleonora agreed immediately. Something about this man awakened long-forgotten warm feelings.
The next day he picked her up from the hotel, driving them to the outskirts where his father, Petr Ilyich, lived. Despite eight decades of age, the elder man was vigorous. He lived alone in a sturdy home surrounded by a large garden, chickens, and even a goat. He adored his son and welcomed the guest warmly.
Under a sprawling apple tree in the garden, he laid out a table. Konstantin, skilled at many tasks, kindled the barbecue swiftly, filling the air with the savory aroma of grilling shashlik. The atmosphere felt simple, cozy, and genuine. They reminisced about school days and teachers while Petr Ilyich showed keen interest in the previous night’s celebration.
Then, almost casually while chewing a juicy piece of meat, he asked:
“Was my neighbor Vera at the reunion? She studied with you, didn’t she, Eleonora?”
Eleonora stiffened. A shadow flickered inside her soul.
“Vera? Stepanova? Yes, she was there, sitting aside, barely talking to anyone. Why?”
“Oh, just that … she lives nearby, alone. In her youth, she drank a lot, probably out of despair. Now she seems to have quit. Her son, Pashka, is a good lad, took after his father. Your classmate Andrey often visited him; I saw it. Though Andrey had his own family in another city, he never abandoned them.”
Time inexplicably froze. Konstantin’s laughter, insect chirping, and rustling leaves all drowned into overwhelming silence. Eleonora felt the ground fall beneath her, and inside, everything tightened into a frozen, suffocating knot.
“What… which Andrey?” Her voice sounded distant, alien, and hoarse.
“Andrey Sokolov. Father of Pavel. Pashka is his spitting image. I saw him here every year; they used to drive away somewhere by car. He even attended his son’s wedding! I was there too, modest but joyful. About ten or twelve people came.”
A chilling wave washed over Eleonora. She stared at Petr Ilyich, speechless. All the pieces snapped savagely into a monstrous truth. The business trips. Twice a year. Here. To his son. To Vera. Thirty years of marriage. Thirty years of lies. He knew. He had always known. And she, blind and trusting, had believed him. Had stayed faithful to his memory. But he… he had another family. Another life.
In a panic, she rifled through her purse, her trembling fingers finding an old photo on her phone — Andrey smiling, with crow’s feet near his eyes. Her Andrey.
“Is this him?” She whispered.
Petr Ilyich brought the phone closer, studied the image, and confidently nodded:
“Indeed. Father of Pavel. He was a good man, sadly taken too soon.”
Konstantin, seeing her pale face and trembling hands, hurried to support her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
“Eleonora, breathe. Calm down. It’s over. He’s gone. Don’t torment yourself.”
He sat her on a bench, offered water, and, looking into her eyes, spoke softly:
“Life is always more complicated than it seems. Two years ago, I learned my wife of twenty years was cheating on me with our neighbor. A friend accidentally sent me a video. I had no idea. Everything seemed fine — money, respect, comfort. But she fell for some drunk. Now they’re together at that very dacha, wasting all I left her. So I understand your pain. We all carry hidden wounds.”
Yet Eleonora barely heard him, sinking into a black, sticky void. Her entire life, all memories, had been a sham, a house of cards collapsing with one careless word. Thirty years with a man she never truly knew.
Later, as Konstantin drove her back through the highway to her empty apartment haunted by ghosts of deceit, he noticed her silent gaze fixed on the window, tears silently tracing down her cheeks. The sorrow of a strong, beautiful woman broken by merciless truth struck him deeply.
As familiar city lights appeared in the distance, he suddenly made a firm, decisive choice.
“Elea,” he said in a steady voice, “why don’t you come with me? To Petersburg. You can’t be alone now. You’ll get distracted, see the city. You mentioned your daughter lives near there. Let’s visit. Come on? I can’t leave you by yourself. I feel like that boy again, in love with the girl with the braid. Let’s escape somewhere they don’t know us, away from these shadows.”
Eleonora slowly turned to him. Pain and confusion clouded her eyes, but deep within, a spark glowed — a defiant flicker against the past, sorrow, and solitude. She shook off numbness, and her lips curved into a genuine smile for the first time that day.
“You know what? Let’s go! Why not? That’ll surprise my daughter.”
Konstantin, beaming with joy and relief, pressed the accelerator. Instead of turning towards her town, the powerful car surged northwards, heading to a new horizon. He joked and told funny factory stories; gradually, Eleonora’s laughter, initially quiet and hesitant, grew louder and clearer. She threw back her head, laughing freely — a release. She shed the weight of the past like a snake sheds old skin. Ahead lay the road and a man who saw her as she deserved — unique and cherished.
Five years passed. Five years illuminated by fresh light, new travels, and a warm, reliable feeling — the steady hand of Konstantin in hers. Together, they often visit their children and grandchildren — his and hers — forming a large, lively family. Sitting on the terrace of their suburban home near Petersburg, they sometimes recall that reunion evening, that painful, shattering conversation with Petr Ilyich. They understand now that the harsh truth revealed that night was a catalyst, a point of departure that offered them a chance — a chance at happiness that might have slipped away if they hadn’t chosen to turn the wheel and speed away from the shadows of the past into a shared, new life. Fate, strange and unpredictable, sometimes cruel, invariably guides you to exactly where you belong.
In essence, our past holds us captive, but facing its shadows can liberate us, offering the potential to find renewed joy and belonging.