Marina stared at the cover for a long time, then she remembered. Her father had left when she was ten. Her mother was yelling in the kitchen, throwing cups. He was standing in the hallway with a bag, zipping up his jacket.
Marina clung to his sleeve, and he knelt down, quickly slipping something into her pocket. — This is yours. Don’t show it to anyone, — he whispered. — When you grow up, you’ll understand. Then he left. She never saw him again.
Her mother used to say: he abandoned us, found another woman, to hell with him. Marina believed her. But she never threw the jacket away, even though she had long outgrown it. She stood up. There was nowhere to go. Her friend lived far away and was celebrating with her family. No money. Her phone was left in the apartment.
But the bank—a 24-hour branch—was two blocks away. The one on duty, for urgent matters. Marina knew where it was; she passed it every day on her way to the bread factory. She went out into the street barefoot.
The frost bit at her feet, and she walked quickly, almost running. Music blared from the courtyards, someone was laughing on a balcony. Marina clutched the little book in her fist and thought of nothing, just putting one foot in front of the other.
It was warm and empty in the branch. The clerk on duty—a woman of about twenty-five, with her hair in a sleek ponytail—looked up and froze. — Are you unwell? Should I call an ambulance?
— No, — Marina placed the passbook on the counter. — I need to check the account. The clerk took the document, opened it, turned it over. — This is an old format. Haven’t used it in a while? — Twenty years. — Do you have your passport? — No.
The clerk sighed, looked at Marina’s bare feet, at the housecoat under her jacket. — State your date of birth. Marina did. The clerk tapped on the keys, frowning. Then she froze, staring at the screen.
— The name matches, — she said slowly. — But I can’t give you any money without a passport. Only information. — Just tell me what’s there. The clerk paused. — The account is active. It has been receiving monthly deposits from Kryvyi Rih. The last deposit was a month ago. — How much?
— With interest, the account has… — the clerk looked at the screen again, and her voice dropped, — more than twelve million. Marina didn’t understand at first. She asked again. The clerk repeated it—clearly, syllable by syllable.
— There’s also a message from the sender. Do you want to know what it is? Marina nodded. The clerk turned the monitor. On the screen was an address—in their city, a district of old five-story buildings—and two lines: “Forgive me. Come if you can”…
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