The bus hissed to a stop at the edge of the village. Olesya stepped into the drizzle, her coat tight around her pregnant belly. The orphanage, the factory, Andrey—his laughter, his hands, his love—all memories now. He had promised to return after visiting his family. Instead, he was gone, murdered in a random mugging.

Now, kneeling at his grave, she sobbed until her vision blurred. Seeking shelter in a crypt, she found a buzzing phone. The voice on the other end—Dima, Andrey’s brother—found her collapsed inside.At the clinic, Andrey’s mother, Nina, listened as Olesya unraveled her grief. “You were enough for my son,” Nina said. “That’s all I need to know.”

Months passed. Olesya stayed in Andrey’s childhood home, surrounded by his ghost. Dima was always there—quiet, steady. When the baby came, Karina, with Andrey’s eyes, Nina called her “sunshine.”Dima never pushed. But one day, Olesya whispered, “I’m ready.”At their small wedding, Andrey’s photo watched from a candlelit table. Years later, Karina asked, “Did Papa Andrey love me?”Olesya kissed her forehead. “Yes. And so do we.”Grief had carved space for new love—not replacing, but growing beside it.