Almost three weeks had passed since he left. The first days had slipped by in a fog so thick it felt as though time itself had frozen, as if the world itself couldn’t decide how to move on without him. Then came the ninth-day memorials, the hushed prayers, the black veils, and words that fell flat—because nothing could ever match the emptiness that had taken residence in her chest.
The apartment, scrubbed until it gleamed, felt completely alien. Cold. Lifeless. It was as if all the life had drained out of the walls along with him, as if something invisible inside it had been horribly broken.
Oleg arrived with his wife, Sveta. Not just to check on her, but because they knew grief could eat a person slowly, silently, in ways no one could see until it was almost too late.
“Mom… how are you feeling?” Sveta asked, setting down bags of groceries on the kitchen table.
Katerina Ivanovna shrugged. How could she feel anything? Forty years beside one man, and now… he was gone. Gone were the quiet sighs, the small grumbles, the familiar footsteps in the hallway. Nothing. Stepan. Her Stepan Petrovich. The soft-spoken, reserved man who had shared her life.
“Mom… we should probably start going through his things soon,” Oleg said cautiously, eyes fixed on the floor. “I know it’s hard… but the forty days will be here before we know it.”
They began with the wardrobe. Carefully folded, rarely worn suits, worn work trousers, slightly fuzzed-over sweaters—they emerged one by one. Each carried the same scent: home, mothballs, the quiet, simple peace that had lingered for decades.
Katerina sorted them automatically: these for donation, these for the summer house, these… could go.Then Oleg moved the bed, and there was a metallic *clunk*. He pulled out an old, iron chest. Heavy, rusted, thick with dust.
Katerina had forgotten it existed. Perhaps she had never opened it.“What’s this?” Oleg asked, straining to lift it. The bottom scraped against the parquet.“Oh… nothing important,” Katerina said, averting her gaze. “Some old tools. He said they were left over from the factory. Or some army junk. ‘Don’t touch it, Katyusha,’ he’d always say. ‘It’s all dusty and worthless.’”
But the padlock was formidable, thicker than one would expect for a simple chest.“Where’s the key?” Oleg asked.“I have no idea. It was always on his keyring.”Oleg stepped into the hallway and returned with a toolbox. After a few minutes of clanging metal, the padlock gave way. A soft *click*, and the chest opened.
And then the smell hit them.Not dust. Not mildew. Something sharp, alien, unsettling—a mix of cheap cologne, old leather… and gun oil.Oleg let out a long, drawn-out sigh.Sveta covered her mouth with her hand, stunned.
Katerina leaned closer.On top of the chest lay a thick bundle of papers, tied carefully. Oleg lifted it. Beneath it, stacks of bills, neatly bundled with rubber bands—too many. Disturbingly many.
“This… Mom… how much is this?” Oleg whispered, disbelief in his voice. “And why didn’t you know? With a category-six worker’s salary? This… this could buy an apartment.”
“There’s more,” Oleg murmured, pulling out several passports. Katerina grabbed the first. Maroon cover, Soviet design. The photo showed Stepan—but younger. The name, however… Jegorov. Jegorov Jegor Nikolayevich.
The second passport: the same face, different name.Szinitin Pavel Andreyevich.The third… the fourth… Oleg went pale.“Mom… these are fake passports,” Sveta whispered. “A regular man wouldn’t keep these.”
But that was not the worst part.At the bottom of the chest was a black leather-bound notebook, and a bundle of letters, yellowed with age, tied with faded ribbon.Oleg opened the notebook. His eyes darkened as he flipped through it.
Katerina reached for the letters. The handwriting was feminine, slightly slanted, in large letters.“My dearest Jegor!”Jegor. Not Stepan. Jegor—the name on the passport.
“…I am so glad you came. Valerka could hardly wait to see you. He looks just like you, always fixing something… just like you.”
“…I received the money, thank you, darling. But please, be careful with the other job. I pray for you every day.”
Signed: “Your Veronika.”Katerina nearly dropped the papers. She held up a photograph.
There he was—her husband—or rather, Jegor—smiling, young, happy, standing next to a woman she had never seen. Between them, a boy, about ten years old. A face almost identical to Stepan’s in his youth.
Oleg closed the notebook.“Mom… is this… another family?” he asked quietly. “Another life?”Sveta brought water, but Katerina barely tasted it. The world suddenly felt grayer, colder, more alien.
The notebook contained names, addresses, sums of money, and notes:“Delayed.” “Need to talk to him.”One name was familiar: Nikita. The son of her old friend Vera.Six months ago, someone had brutally attacked him outside the house.The police never found the perpetrator.
Her husband had only said then: “Whoever asks money from the wrong place… will pay for it.”Now she understood. Everything.Her heart slowly broke.Oleg paced back and forth.“Mom, this is crime. Dirty money. Fake documents. God knows what else. We have to go to the police!”Katerina only said:“No.”
Oleg almost shouted:“Why not?”“He’s dead,” Katerina said quietly, but with a hard edge. “And I… I don’t want this to be his legacy.”Oleg grabbed his coat.“If you won’t do it, I’ll call them tomorrow. I can’t live like this.”
And he left.Katerina rose hours later. The shock had passed. Something new had taken its place: curiosity. She had to see the other woman. The other life.The next morning, she set out.
The monotone hum of the bus drowned out her thoughts. The city passed in a gray blur, but she saw nothing. She only knew one thing: she had to go.The address led to a quiet five-story building. The hallway smelled of cooking mingled with detergent and old linoleum.
On the third floor, she rang the bell.A woman opened the door. Slightly younger than her. Tired, but with striking eyes. And when she heard the name…
…she froze.“You… you’re his wife?”“Yes,” Katerina said. “And he was Jegor to you.”The woman silently stepped aside and let her in.Family photos hung on the walls of the foyer. There he was—her husband—beaming, hugging, alive in a life she had never shared.
And the boy… the same eyes. The same gesture when he removed his backpack and entered the apartment.Katerina felt as though she had stepped into a stranger’s life. A life in which her husband had been happy.And in this life… she had never existed.
