“And then a new day comes. Always. No matter what happens, a new day always comes.”
He remembered those words now. And he smiled.
“Let’s go home,” he said. “Mom’s waiting.”
A year passed. Daria opened her own design studio, the very one Artem had talked about. Only now it was her studio, her dream, her life. Without him. She no longer painted portraits. Only landscapes: bright, sunny, full of hope.
At one of her exhibitions, a man approached her. Not handsome, not charming, not perfect. Just ordinary. With kind eyes and a warm smile.
“I like your paintings,” he said. “They have so much light in them.”
Daria looked at him carefully, assessing him. The way her father had taught her. And she saw no emptiness. Only light.
“Thank you,” she replied. “My name is Daria.”
“Mikhail. You can just call me Misha.”
They shook hands. And for the first time in a long time, Daria felt that everything was going to be okay.
Stepan sat on the porch of his house, watching the sunset. Nadezhda brought him some tea and sat down beside him.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“About Dasha.”
“About that guy she brought over last week? Misha? He’s nice.”
“He’s nice,” Stepan agreed. “But I’m still going to run a check on him.”
Nadezhda laughed.
“Stepa, you’re incorrigible.”
“I’m cautious. It’s a different thing.”
He sipped his tea and looked at his wife. Thirty years together. Thirty years, and he loved her just as much as on the first day.
“You know,” he said, “I thought retirement would be boring. But it turns out, the most interesting part is just beginning.”
“I hope it’s without any chases and murderers,” Nadezhda snorted.
“I hope so.”
They sat side by side, holding hands, and watched the sun disappear below the horizon. The day was ending. But tomorrow—tomorrow a new one would begin. A new day always comes.
