— My God, who is this out in such a snow storm? — Anna follow the blanket and shivered as a cold gust ran across her bare feet.
The knock on the door came again. The wind outside wailed like a wounded beast, battering snow against the windowpanes.
— Ivan, wake up, — she touched her husband’s shoulder. — Someone’s knocking.
Ivan sat up, blinking sleepily:
— In this weather? Maybe you’re overthinking it?
— No, I’m not imagining it,
The electricity had left last night—winters in Ustinovo were always harsh, and 1991 had brought not only political upheaval but unprecedented frost.
The door had trouble opening. On the threshold stood a girl, fragile as a reed, wearing an elegant dark coat.
— Please help me, — her voice trembled. — You must hide him. Take care of him… They want to ki** him…
Before Anna could respond, the girl moved forward and placed the baby in her arms.
— Who are you? What’s happening?
But the girl had already vanished into the storm, Anna stood on the threshold, feeling surprised.
— What the… — Ivan trailed off at the sight of the baby.
— Look at him, — Anna said.
He was a boy, perhaps six months old.
On a delicate chain around his neck glinted a small pendant carved with the letter “A.”
— My God, who could abandon such a child? — Anna felt tears pricking her eyes.
Ivan said nothing, simply stared. Over all their years together, they had never had a child of their own.
— She said they want to ki** him, — Anna looked up at her husband. — Ivan, who would want to refuse a newborn?
— I don’t know, — he murmured. — But that girl was clearly not from here—her accent was city, and that coat… it must have cost a fortune.
— Where could she have gone in a storm like this? — Anna shook her head. — No car, no other sounds…
Abruptly the baby opened his clear blue eyes and stared at her. He neither cried nor flinched—just gazed, as if measuring his new fate.
— We have to feed him. We still have some milk left from last night.
— Anna, — he said at last, — we’ll have to tell this to the village council. Maybe someone’s seeking him.
She froze, clutching the child to her breast.
— What if they really do want to abandon him? What if we put him in danger?
Ivan ran a hand through his hair.
— Let’s wait until morning. If no one looks for, then we’ll decide what to do.
Anna nodded gratefully. The infant quietly slurped from a little bowl of warm milk sweetened with a spoonful of sugar.
— What do you think his name might be? — she asked.
Ivan leaned in, touching the pendant.
— A… Alexander? Sasha?
The baby smiled a toothless grin, as though agreeing.
— Sasha, — Anna repeated.
Outside, the storm continued on.
Seven years later, a tall, bright-eyed boy raised porridge in a pot by the stove.
— You’ll be a master chef yet, — Ivan chuckled. — Soon you’ll outdo me.
Anna watched her son with a heart full of happiness.
— Mom, can I have some sour cream? — Sasha said.
— Of course, dear, — Anna replied — Just be careful, it’s hot.
A knock came at the window. Anna flinched.
— Anyka, come on! Time to drive the cows out! — called their neighbor, Zinaida.
— I’m coming! — Anna said
— Can I go with you? Then I’ll run down to the river, — Sasha asked.
— Did you finish your homework? — Ivan asked
— I did it yesterday, — Sasha replied proudly.
— Maybe one day we’ll save enough to bring you to the district school, — Anna mused.
Years passed, and that little boy became Alexander K.
— You’re our son in every way that matters, — Ivan would say.
— Like a dream, — Sasha would grin.
— Real life is sometimes more astonishing than fairy tales, — Anna would reply.
On his graduation day, Sasha stood tall on the stage of the village club, receiving a gold medal for best graduate in ten years.
— To you, son—and to your future!
That very evening, the appearance of an unfamiliar car at the gate annoyed them. A black SUV—shiny, imposing—pulled up. A well-dressed man got out, briefcase in hand.
— Good evening, — he said, introducing himself as Sergey Mikhailovich, a city lawyer. — I’m here for Alexander Kuznetsov.
In the cramped kitchen he showed documents and photographs, telling them that Alexander’s real name was Belov—that his parents, Nikolai Antonovich and Elena Sergeevna Belov, passed away in 1991, and that the child had been hurried away by the family nurse to save him.
According to his late grandfather’s testament, Sasha was now heir to a vast fortune.
But Sasha said loudly:
— My real family is right here. I won’t abandon you.
Three days later, Sasha met his dy:ing grandfather—blind, frail. Then he listened the full story of his birthright and sacrifice. Months later, Ustinovo itself was changed: new roads, power lines, a sports field, a modern school. Sasha, newly arrived home on a holiday weekend, prepared a party to thank the villagers who had raised him.
For Anna and Ivan, he constructed a simple, sturdy house with wide windows and a modern stove, surrounded by a rose garden and a woodworking shop for Ivan. Anna tended her flowers; Ivan worked at his bench.
— I always thought fate would bring you to us and then carry it, — Anna said
— Instead, I chose you, — Sasha replied. — The heart knows best.
On his twentieth birthday, he established a charity for orphaned children, named for Anna and Ivan Kuznetsov—despite their ashamed protests.
