The air in their apartment was heavy — thick with the dust of unfulfilled hopes. Veronika and Andrey moved around like ghosts, afraid to touch each other, afraid even to speak, lest a careless word open the old wound that never healed.

For years they had lived in the shadow of one dream — a child. Dozens of doctors, treatments, prayers, and a pile of negative tests had slowly drained the light from their faces. The nursery they once prepared with such excitement remained empty, and that silence screamed louder than any quarrel.

They still loved each other — deeply, achingly — but their love had turned into a cage lined with grief.

A Faint Hope

It happened suddenly, on an ordinary weekday. Veronika was at work, finishing a financial report. The numbers began to blur, turning into gray smudges. Her head spun. She barely managed to grab the edge of the desk before everything went black.

Her boss rushed her home, ignoring her protests. When Andrey came home and saw her pale and trembling on the couch, fear clenched his chest.

“Nika, what’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

“I think it’s food poisoning,” she murmured. “Just dizzy…”

But her skin was cold, clammy. He didn’t believe her excuses — not anymore.

“This isn’t food poisoning,” he said, helping her sit up. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“Andrey, really, I’ll be fine—”

“No,” he cut her off, already holding out her coat. His voice trembled, not with anger, but with terror — the terror of losing her.

A Miracle Declared

Hours later, in a sterile white office, the gray-haired doctor looked over her test results. Andrey paced back and forth, too anxious to sit. Then the doctor smiled — a warm, almost fatherly smile.

“Well, young lady, it’s not food poisoning,” he said. “But I can congratulate you — you’re pregnant. About six weeks.”

For a moment neither of them moved. The words hung in the air, unreal, glowing. Then Veronika burst into tears — the kind that come from too much pain suddenly melting into joy. Andrey gripped her hand, pressed his face into it, and sobbed silently. They cried together — tears of release, of hope resurrected after years in the dark.

Nine months later, the dream they had carried so long was about to be born.

The Night of Birth

The contractions began past midnight. Sharp. Unrelenting.

Andrey drove through the empty streets like a man possessed, gripping the steering wheel with one hand, her icy fingers with the other. “Hold on, my love,” he whispered, his voice cracking with fear.

At the maternity ward, an indifferent nurse slowly filled out forms while Veronika gasped in pain. The pen scratched the paper with unbearable calm.

“Can’t you hurry?” Andrey finally shouted. “She’s in agony!”

“Young man,” the nurse said coolly, “everyone here is in pain. It’s a maternity ward.”

Then a tall woman appeared in a white coat — eyes sharp, voice firm.

“Andrey? Veronika? What are the odds?”

It took Veronika a second to recognize her. Margarita. A friend from years ago — Andrey’s best friend’s ex-girlfriend, long gone from their lives.

“I’m a doctor here now,” Margarita said, turning briskly professional. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you personally. Looks like we’ll need a C-section — better, actually. Safe, quick. You’re in good hands.”

But something in her tone — too smooth, too cold — made Veronika uneasy. Still, through the haze of pain, she could barely form thoughts.

Loss

When Veronika awoke, the world was empty. Cold. Too quiet.

Andrey sat slumped by her bed, his face gray with exhaustion and grief. She knew before he spoke.

“Our little girl…” His voice was hoarse, foreign. “She didn’t make it. There were complications. They tried…”

The words shattered her world. She screamed — a raw, animal sound. Andrey gathered her in his arms, and they cried until nothing was left.

But then, between sobs, he whispered the words that finished the destruction:

“Nika… I’m filing for divorce.”

Her mind couldn’t grasp it.

“What?” she choked out. “Why?”

“I can’t… I’m broken,” he said. “I waited too long. I can’t bear this. I’ll die if I stay.”

That night they held each other one last time — two people mourning not only their child but their entire life together.

Exile

He left quietly, taking two suitcases. The sound of the door clicking shut was like a gunshot.

For weeks Veronika drifted through the apartment — their once-cozy home turned mausoleum. Every corner screamed of him, of her, of the baby that never cried.

One morning, staring at the pale sky, she decided: I can’t breathe here.

She sold everything, bought a small house on the edge of a forest reserve, and disappeared.

Five Years Later

Time reshaped her. The fragile woman became a hardened ranger. Her hair cropped short, face tanned and lined, rifle slung over her shoulder. She patrolled the forest alone, fought poachers, chopped wood, planted a garden.

The locals called her the hermit woman. She didn’t mind. The forest became her sanctuary — its wind and birdsong dulling her pain.

Only twice a year did the past reach her: a call from Andrey, short and awkward. “Hi. Happy birthday. How are you?” “Thanks. I’m fine. And you?” Each time, after hanging up, she sat staring into space, the old wound throbbing again.

The Call

Early spring. The earth smelled of thaw and new life. Veronika was turning the soil when her phone rang. Andrey. Not his birthday. Not hers.

“Nika, sorry to bother you,” he said, voice tight. “I had to warn you. Do you remember Margarita?”

The shovel slipped from her hands.

“I remember,” she said faintly.

“She found me. Asked for your address. Said she needed to apologize, wanted to clear her conscience. She was… insistent. I finally gave her the name of your village. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Just—be careful.”

Silence stretched. Then he added bitterly, “After our divorce, she tried to get close to me. Said we were both lonely. I brushed her off. But now—it all feels strange.”

Something icy coiled inside Veronika. A suspicion too monstrous to speak aloud.

The Knock at the Gate

That night the wind howled through the pines. Veronika sat reading by the fire when her dog, Gray, lifted his head — alert but silent. Then she heard it too: a faint sobbing, a knock at the gate.

She grabbed her rifle and flashlight and stepped outside. The beam caught a tiny figure — a little girl, soaked through, trembling.

“Where did you come from, sweetheart?”

“My aunt brought me,” the girl whispered through tears. “She said my mom lives here. She told me to go straight through the forest.”

Veronika’s heart stopped.

“What’s your aunt’s name?”

The girl looked up, her voice barely a breath. “Aunt Rita.”

The world tilted. Rita. Margarita.

Veronika stared at the child’s face — the wide hazel eyes, the stubborn curve of her mouth. Her heart clenched. She knew those features. Her features. Andrey’s features.

Her hands trembled as she dialed the number she’d avoided for years.

“Andrey,” she whispered. “Come. Please, come right now. I think… our daughter has come home.”

Reunion

He arrived at dawn, ready to deal with what he thought was madness.

But when he entered the house, words died in his throat.

On the couch, wrapped in a blanket, lay a little girl — their little girl.

He didn’t need a test. Her face was a mirror of their love — and their stolen years. He sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

The DNA test later only confirmed the impossible truth: the girl, Anya, was theirs.

The investigation uncovered the horror — Margarita’s obsession with Andrey. During the C-section, she had switched the babies, declaring theirs stillborn. Later she adopted the child herself, under a false name. Her plan: destroy their marriage and win Andrey for herself. When that failed, her guilt and madness turned deadly. She abandoned the girl near Veronika’s village, whispering poison in her ear before driving away.

The courts ruled Margarita insane.

Homecoming

Veronika and Andrey returned to the city — to the apartment once filled with grief. They renovated it, filled it with laughter and toys. The empty nursery finally had a little mistress.

One evening, as Veronika tucked Anya in, the child looked up with serious eyes.

“Mommy, is it true you didn’t want me? Aunt Rita said so.”

Veronika pulled her close, tears falling silently into her daughter’s hair.

“That’s the biggest lie in the world, my sunshine,” she whispered. “You were stolen from us. But we never stopped loving you. Not for one single day. And now—you’re home. Forever.”

And that night, for the first time in six years, Veronika dreamed not of loss, but of lullabies.