And that day, in a matter of seconds, Zinaida Petrovna lost what she had only just begun to protect. The street returned to its noise, as if nothing had happened. That’s what hurt the most. The same distant horn. The same barker from the market. The same sun beating down on the sidewalk. And Zinaida Petrovna’s stall, empty inside. The pot was off, the stools were set out for no one, the pan was cold. The children had been taken away in a white van, into protective custody. A word that sounded clean but felt like a robbery.
Zinaida Petrovna tried to catch up with them that same day. She went from office to office, asking, begging, giving her name, her address, her story. They told her, “Come back tomorrow.” They told her, “The system is down.” They told her, “It’s under review.” They told her about protocols. And one day, casually, she heard the phrase she already knew in her heart:
— If you’re not a relative, we cannot give you any information.
Zinaida Petrovna left that place like a person who has just lost a part of their body. Walking, but incomplete. The stall kept operating because need doesn’t allow for long grieving. The next day, she lit the pan again, poured the broth, heated the pot, but every time she heard small footsteps approaching the stall, a spark would ignite in her chest. And then it would die out, because it wasn’t them.
Matvey, Gleb, Denis. The names were stuck in her like three sweet splinters. Weeks passed, then months. Zinaida Petrovna created rituals for herself to keep from going crazy. Sweeping the same patch of sidewalk, scrubbing the same stain on her cart, setting aside three extra napkins—just in case they came back. Sometimes, without noticing, she would place three stools next to each other, and when she did notice, she would quickly move them apart, ashamed of her own hope.
In the neighborhood, people talked for two days, then forgot.
— It’s good they were taken, — some said. — At least there’s less filth.
Others whispered:
— Zinaida Petrovna got too attached.
And that was the worst part—that they called what was protection “attachment.”
Rogov once passed by the stall and dropped a phrase like a stone:
— See, — he said, smiling, — everything works out in the end when you do the right thing.
Zinaida Petrovna looked at him with silent hatred.
— Go away, — she said.
Rogov shrugged.
— You got yourself into it, – he muttered and left.
Over time, Rogov became more important on that street. He started collecting “fees,” saying he handled issues with permits. Sometimes he would stop two meters from her stall, as a reminder that he could ruin her life whenever he wanted. Zinaida Petrovna endured. She always endured. For years.
Her hair turned whiter, her back bent more, her hands grew even rougher. Her regular customers aged with her. Some no longer came. Others would say, “Petrovna! You should rest already!” But Zinaida Petrovna didn’t rest, because rest was silence, and in the silence, she heard voices. Sometimes she dreamed that the children were standing outside her door, and she couldn’t open it. Sometimes she dreamed she was looking for them under the bridge, full of shadows, and only found the three-star pendants, thrown on the ground.
In a box in her small room, she kept the few things left of them. A folded napkin with a sauce stain, a cheap spoon Gleb had used, and a drawing Matvey had left for her one morning: a food stall and three stick-figure children. She treasured it like gold. One day, many years later, a woman who sold flowers nearby said to her:
— Zinaida Petrovna! Are you still thinking about those children?
Zinaida Petrovna didn’t answer with words, only looked at the street. Because yes, every day.
The neighborhood changed, the corner filled with new stalls, the market grew, better phones appeared, newer cars, people in a hurry. But Zinaida Petrovna’s stall remained the same. Old, modest, clean. A fixed point in a world that never stopped. And she became part of the landscape. Just another elderly woman.
Until one ordinary Friday, when the sun was high and the air smelled of oil and pancakes, Zinaida Petrovna heard a sound that didn’t belong on her corner. A roar. Not a motorcycle, not a truck. A refined, expensive roar, like a beast from another world. Those nearby turned first. She didn’t. She continued serving out of habit, until the sound got so close that the sidewalk trembled. Zinaida Petrovna looked up and saw three gleaming cars. Low, predatory, like beasts from another world. Three Lamborghinis screeched to a halt in front of her stall.
The street fell silent. Zinaida Petrovna felt the ladle tremble slightly in her hand, because at that moment, without understanding why, she felt that life was about to collect an old debt. Three black Lamborghinis stood frozen in front of her stall, as if the world had stopped with them. The street filled with eyes. People who used to pass by without a glance now stopped, pulled out their phones, whispered, fragments of phrases could be heard:
— Did someone die?
— What are they going to buy here?
— Do they know Zinaida Petrovna?
Zinaida Petrovna held the ladle with a trembling hand. Not from excitement yet, but from fear. Because in her life, when something shiny appeared suddenly, it almost always brought bad news. One of the cars turned off its engine, then the second, then the third. The silence that followed was strange, heavy, like in a church. Zinaida Petrovna didn’t move. She looked at the cars as one looks at a thunderstorm, waiting for the strike.
And the strike wasn’t a noise; it was a memory. Because at that moment, the black gleam of the cars reflected her own image back at her. A thin old woman, bent over, in a stained apron, her face marked by the sun and years. A woman who had swallowed her words for too long just to keep living. The past crashed down on her without asking. It wasn’t just the children. It was everything Zinaida Petrovna had learned to hide to survive.
Once, she had been young. She had a small house with a yard. She had a husband who smelled of earth and laundry soap. A hard worker with strong hands. His name was Nikolai Ivanovich. Not rich, but one of those men who come home, even when they’re tired. Until one day, he didn’t come home. An accident. The ambulance was late. The hospital admitted him when it could. Zinaida Petrovna watched him fade away, unable to buy a miracle. And she was left alone with her life in her hands.
Then there was her son, her only son, Stepan. Stepan was her pride and her fear. He grew up watching his mother work and swore that one day he would take her off the street. He studied a little, worked a little. And one day he left for the big city to find opportunities. Zinaida Petrovna would wrap food for him in a napkin when he came to visit, as if he were still a child. But the city doesn’t forgive those who come without support. Stepan got involved in bad work, with bad people.
— Just for a little while, — he said on the phone. — Just to save up and come back.
Zinaida Petrovna didn’t understand those worlds, but she understood his tone. The tone of a person who is scared and doesn’t want it to show. One day, Stepan stopped calling. Zinaida Petrovna searched for him with what she had: her feet, her voice, and her shame. She went to train stations, to institutions, to churches. They told her the same thing they would say years later about the triplets: “If you are not a relative with documents, we can’t help.”
Zinaida Petrovna was left with an emptiness in her home. And then the worst happened. People, the street, the neighborhood began to talk. Her son had run away. Her son was a thief. Her son had left her for another woman. Zinaida Petrovna never learned the full truth. She only knew that when loneliness settles in, it bends you from the inside. That’s why, when she saw Matvey, Gleb, and Denis that hungry evening, it wasn’t just kindness. It was one wound recognizing another. It was a mother without a son seeing three children without a mother. And that’s why she got too attached, as people said. Because in them, Zinaida Petrovna felt a second chance to do something right, even if the world told her she was worthless.
The gleam of the cars brought her back to the present. A door opened, then another, then a third. Three men got out almost simultaneously. All tall, all with a presence, all with that quiet elegance that doesn’t need to shout. These weren’t guys from the neighborhood. They seemed to be from another world. Zinaida Petrovna looked at them and felt a strange jolt, like when something familiar is hidden inside the impossible. And yet, her first reaction was human. She lowered her eyes. Because the first thing that welled up inside her was shame. Shame for her old stall, for her apron, for her burned hands, for her whole life that fit into one pot.
She wanted to hide behind the cart, but she couldn’t. The three men walked toward her slowly, not rushing, not mocking, as if each step was a sign of respect. Zinaida Petrovna gripped the ladle.
— What? What do you want? — she asked in a quiet voice.
The man in the middle looked at her with a restrained emotion, as if it was painful for him not to break down right there.
— Zinaida Petrovna, — he said quietly.
She looked up, and in that gaze, something opened up—an invisible thread, because those eyes were the same ones she had seen on three dirty faces many years ago under her awning. Zinaida Petrovna felt her chest fill with air, and then empty. She said nothing, she couldn’t.
The three men stopped in front of the stall, and the one in the middle, his voice trembling as if he finally allowed himself to feel, said the phrase that broke her world in two:
— We didn’t forget you…
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