The child remains in institutional care and needs a family. The law does not prohibit this man from becoming his father. The courtroom was quiet.
The judge looked at Cherepnova. “Does the child welfare office have anything further?” Cherepnova opened her folder, looked inside it, and closed it again.
“The child welfare office maintains that the living conditions and the child’s medical condition require…” The judge interrupted her gently but clearly. “Specific legal grounds for denial. Are there any in the record?”
A long pause. “No new grounds,” Cherepnova said quietly. The judge made a note and turned pages.
For a long time. No one in the room moved. Victor watched her hands as she shifted the papers, stopped, read.
He knew how to wait. Seven years in prison had taught him there is waiting that crushes you and waiting that simply passes. This was the second kind, heavy, but without panic.
He had done everything he could do. The rest was no longer in his hands. The judge looked up.
“I reviewed all submitted materials this morning,” she said evenly. “There are no legal grounds to deny the petition of Victor Nikolaevich Savelly to adopt Artyom Dmitrievich Sokolov, born 2001.” A short pause.
“Petition granted.” Barsukov let out a quiet breath beside him. Victor did not move.
He just sat there and looked straight ahead. There was a faint ringing in his ears, like after a long day welding when you take off the mask and the world suddenly feels too loud and too bright at the same time. Cherepnova gathered her folder, stood, and left the courtroom without looking his way.
In the hallway Barsukov shook his hand. Firm, brief. Said only, “Congratulations.” Victor nodded and walked outside.
The February air was sharp and cold, with a trace of smoke from the boiler plant a few blocks over. Victor stopped on the courthouse steps, took out a cigarette, then put it back. He wanted one, but not now.
Right now he just stood there breathing. He couldn’t go to the children’s home yet, not until the paperwork was finalized, a few more days of signatures and stamps. He knew that.
But he stood on those courthouse steps and thought about one thing only. Walking into that hallway with the peeling walls and squeaky linoleum, sitting down on the bench beside the boy who looked at him without fear, and saying the thing he had not said out loud once in all those months. Just saying it, plain and simple.
The paperwork took four days. Barsukov stayed with him through every step. County records office, child welfare for the final protocol, the children’s home for the transfer documents.
Cherepnova was not there for the transfer. Her deputy came instead. A younger woman who looked only at the papers and never once raised her eyes to Victor.
She signed everything in silence and left. Marina Sergeyevna packed Artyom’s things herself. Through the open doorway Victor could see her folding each item into a bag.
Carefully, one by one, as if she were sending him not to a family but somewhere very far away. Then she came into the hallway and handed the bag to Victor. She looked at him for a second and said quietly:
“He’s a good boy. He’s just gotten used to not being chosen.” She said nothing else.
Victor took the bag. Artyom stood in the hallway in a blue jacket, a little too big for him, clearly handed down from someone else. He was holding his knit cap in his hands instead of wearing it.
He looked at Victor with that same steady look, calm, no showy excitement, no tears. Like someone who had long ago decided not to rush to conclusions. Victor crouched down in front of him and looked him in the eye.
“Ready?” Artyom was quiet for a second. “Where are we going?”
“Home.” The boy put on his cap himself, without asking for help, and stepped toward the door. At the exit Marina Sergeyevna stood holding the heavy door open.
Artyom walked past her, then suddenly stopped, turned, and hugged her quickly, tightly, the way you hug when you know you should but don’t know how to make it last. Then he let go and kept walking. Marina Sergeyevna watched them go.
Victor looked back once. She was standing on the porch, watching until they turned the corner. They walked to the apartment.
Not far, about fifteen minutes. Artyom walked beside him, looking around. Asked about everything he saw.
“Why is there steam coming from that pipe?” “Is there a river in this town?” “How far is the factory where they weld metal?”
Victor answered briefly and exactly, as always. Once Artyom slipped on an icy patch. Victor caught him by the sleeve and steadied him.
The boy regained his footing, looked down at the ice, then at Victor. Said nothing. He just took Victor’s hand and kept walking…
