Sonya moved silently, slipping through a break in the ce.me.tery fence.
A month ago, her friends Vanka and Mishka had been caught and sent to a shelter. Natasha had gotten punished for being here. But now Sonya, trembling with fear, ventured in alone.

The ce.me.tery was crowded in the morning—people left food and especially candies, which Sonya loved. In the older section, nothing stood out. She was about to move on when a voice stopped her.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

A guard rushed toward her. She bolted, slipping back through the fence and running deep into unfamiliar parts of the graveyard. To her amazement, she found herself in a much neater area—ornate tombstones, clean gravel paths. She had stumbled into an elite cemetery.

There, she forgot about the candy. Piles of sweets in shiny wrappers lay neatly at several graves, but her attention was caught by a small voice.

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“Mommy… Mommy…”

Sonya turned toward the sound and found a freshly dug grave. Inside was a boy, no older than five, covered in dirt and terrified.

“How did you get down there?” she asked.

“I was hiding from my mom. Get me out!” he cried.

“Stop crying, or I’ll leave,” she snapped. The boy fell silent, sobbing softly.

“I need something to stand on,” she explained. “Hold on. I’ll get a bucket.”

She returned quickly, climbed down, and struggled to push the boy up.
On the third try, he managed to grab the grass at the top.

“Kostya!” a woman’s voice called.

“Here! She helped me!” the boy shouted.

The woman ran over, hugged Sonya, and said warmly, “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re all dirty—come home with us. I’ll clean you up and give you something to eat.”

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In the car, Sonya sat carefully, afraid to stain the seats.

“Sonechka, do you live alone?” the woman asked gently.

“Sort of… My mom died when I was born. My aunt took me in, but she drinks all day now. I ran away when they tried to send me to a shelter.”

“How long have you been on your own?”

“This is my second autumn,” Sonya whispered.

The woman—Anastasia Alexandrovna—nodded and said no more. Back at her home, Sonya marveled at the warm bath and delicious food. She ate quietly, aware that Anastasia kept watching her.

“You think I’m staring because I begrudge the food?” Anastasia said softly. “It’s not that. You just look so much like someone I used to know…”

Later, Sonya fell asleep wrapped in warmth she hadn’t felt in years.
Anastasia’s husband, Oleg, arrived soon after. Kostya whispered the story of his rescue. Oleg followed Anastasia to the living room, where Sonya slept on the couch. The sight sh0cked him—she looked just like his late brother Timofey.

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Ten years ago, Timofey had di.ed in a motorcycle crash after a bitter fight with their parents over a girl from a troubled area. The crash broke the family. Their mother di.ed shortly after, and their father soon followed.

Now, here was a girl with Timofey’s face.

“What do we do?” Oleg whispered.

“Don’t tell her anything yet,” Anastasia said. “But find the aunt. She’ll talk for a bottle. And we’ll do a DNA test.”

Two weeks passed. Sonya looked healthier, her skin brighter, her hair trimmed and braided. She wore clean clothes and felt a growing affection for Oleg, who was stern but kind.

Then one day, Sonya awoke to see Oleg approaching with documents, and Anastasia quietly wiping away tears.
Fear clutched her chest.

“I should go,” she said. “Call the authorities. I don’t want to be on the street again.”

“No one’s sending you anywhere,” Oleg said, sitting beside her.

“But I won’t go back to my aunt.”

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“You don’t have to. She’s in rehab now. You’re staying with us. You’ll go to school. And Kostik will be your brother.”

Sonya blinked in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you know anything about your father?”

“My aunt said he left my mom when she was pregnant…”

“He didn’t,” Oleg said gently. “He di.ed. And I think he was on his way to your mother when it happened. He was my brother. A good man. And Sonya… if you ever want to call me ‘dad’ or Anastasia ‘mom’—we’d be honored.”