Marina fell to her knees on the floor and gave thanks. She thanked God, the saints, the universe—anything that could have brought her son back. Misha just cried. Cried with relief. It was official now.
Now no one could say he was an impostor. He was Mikhail Tarasov, son of Roman and Marina. And he was home. The investigator called the next day. “Roman Alexandrovich, I’ve received the DNA result.”
“I apologize for my suspicion. I’ll forward the case to the prosecutor’s office. They will investigate the hospital, the morgue, everyone involved in the mistake.” “And the body? The boy who is buried?” Roman asked.
“We’ll exhume it tomorrow and try to identify him. We’ll see if we can find any clues as to who he was.” “I want to be there,” Roman said firmly. “Sir, it’s not a pleasant sight. After six months in the ground…”
“I know, but I need to be there. That boy died in my son’s place. The least I can do is give him some dignity.” On the day of the exhumation, Roman went alone. He didn’t let Marina or Misha go.
It was not for them to see. The cemetery was empty, except for the workers, a medical examiner, a few police officers, and Roman. They opened the grave slowly, carefully removing the earth and lifting the small coffin to the surface. Roman stepped back when they opened it.
The smell was terrible, and the sight… The sight would remain in his mind forever. The remains were in an advanced state of decomposition, but it was clear that it was a small, thin child in old, torn clothes.
“I’ll take a DNA sample, see if there’s a match in the database,” the medical examiner explained as he worked. “But I doubt it. Homeless children usually aren’t registered anywhere.” “So what now? What will happen to him?” Roman asked.
“If we don’t find a family, he’ll go to the city cemetery, to a common grave.” “No,” Roman said firmly. “I will give this boy a proper burial. With a new coffin, his own grave.”
“A headstone with his real name, when we find it. Or at least with the name Vanya, as the teacher called him.” The medical examiner looked surprised. “You don’t have to do that.” “I know, but I want to. He saved my son without even knowing it.”
“His life was exchanged for Misha’s. It’s the least I can do.” And Roman did just that, paying for everything. A beautiful wooden coffin, flowers, a priest for the service, and a simple headstone. “Vanya, a boy who was not forgotten. Amen.”
Few people came to the new funeral. Roman, Marina, Misha, Aunt Masha, teacher Anatoly who had survived the crash, and a few neighbors. Misha insisted on going, despite the pain in his leg.
“I need to say goodbye properly. He died, and I lived. I don’t know why, but I can’t forget him.” As the coffin was lowered, Misha tossed a white flower and whispered, “Thank you for existing. I will live for myself and for you, I promise.”
The following weeks were a time of adjustment. Misha went to physical therapy every day. It was very painful, but he didn’t complain. He knew it was necessary. The story leaked to the news; journalists called constantly, wanting interviews.
They wanted photos, they wanted everything. Roman refused them all. The family needed peace, time, healing. Misha went back to school, but not his old one. The memories were too painful. Many of his friends had died in that accident…
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