— Hello, this is the ‘Femida’ notary office. A registered letter has arrived for you from a citizen named Elena Borisovna Lebedeva. You can come and pick it up.
— What kind of letter? — Irina was surprised.
— We do not know the contents. Our job is only to deliver it. Please come at any convenient time.
The next day after her shift, Irina went to the notary office. The notary, an elderly woman in glasses, handed her an envelope.
— Sign here. That’s all, you may go.
Irina went outside and stopped under a streetlight. She opened the envelope. Inside was a letter, handwritten in an old, trembling script.
“Dear Irina.
I am writing you this letter because I will probably be gone soon. My heart is old, the doctors say I don’t have long. But while I still have the strength, I want to tell you something. You helped me then, carried my bags, you didn’t just walk by. And I warned you about the trouble. We are even, but still, there is a weight on my soul.
You see, Irochka, I wasn’t entirely honest with you. My prediction was not magic, not a gift of clairvoyance. I simply saw your husband. The day before we met, I was at the bank, finalizing the sale of my apartment. And I saw him there. He was sitting with some man, a manager, probably. They were talking about a loan. I was sitting on a chair nearby, waiting for my turn, and I overheard snippets of their conversation.
Your husband was saying that his wife must not know. That she would be at work on Friday morning, and he would get everything done quickly. He also mentioned the signature, that he would sign for her himself. The manager was hesitant, but your husband said, ‘Don’t worry, she will never find out.’
I remembered his face. And when you helped me with the bags, I saw that you were from the same apartment building. I put two and two together. And I decided to warn you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth right away. But I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me, that you would think I was some gossip. It was easier to say it was a prediction. The main thing is that you listened. You saved yourself.
Live long, be happy, take care of yourself.
Elena Lebedeva.
P.S. If you are reading this letter, it means I am already gone. Don’t hold any grudges.”.
Irina stood under the streetlight, holding the letter, tears streaming down her cheeks. So, there was no gift. No magic. Just an observant old woman who overheard a conversation at the bank and decided to warn a stranger. How simple it all turned out to be. And how brilliant.
If Lebedeva had said, “I heard your husband at the bank planning fraud,” Irina might not have believed her. She might have been offended, angry. But this way—a mysterious prediction, unsettling, mystical. It stuck in her memory, forced her to act.
Irina wiped her tears and carefully folded the letter back into the envelope. Elena Borisovna. A smart, kind, cunning woman. It was a shame she was gone.
The next day, Irina bought flowers and went to the cemetery. She found the grave using the information from the notary’s office. A fresh fence, the headstone not yet placed, only a plaque: “Lebedeva Elena Borisovna, 1948–2025.” She had died at the end of December, right around New Year’s.
Irina laid the flowers and stood in silence. Thank you. Thank you for the warning. For the cunning. For the kindness. This woman had essentially saved her from a catastrophe. With a simple but brilliant deception.
February came, cold and snowy. Irina worked, lived her life. Sometimes she thought about Andrey, but less and less often. He had become a part of the past, like childhood, like school years. It was, and it passed.
One day in late February, Galina Vasilyevna approached her at work:
— Irochka, I have something for you. Do you remember Sergey Ivanovich from surgery?
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