“— Miss, may I help you?” the man offered, noticing the woman struggling with two heavy bags.
“— Thank you, are you sure they’re not too heavy?” she smiled.
He lifted the bags easily, striding ahead with confidence. The woman—plump, charming, and short—hurried to keep up, her curls bouncing as she took two steps for every one of his.
“— Please, slow down,” she gasped.
“— Sorry,” he said, snapping out of thought.
“— What were you thinking about?”
“— Just life… myself.”
“— Life’s hard?”
“— Not really. I just think a lot.”
“— You don’t drink, do you?”
“— No, never.”
“— Good. I’m Galina—call me Galka.”
“— I’m Vaska… it’s a nickname.”
“— You don’t know your real name?”
“— No. I lost my memory. They found me on the highway, bruised, barely alive. I woke up in a hospital, then ended up in an orphanage. They called me Vasiliy.”
He explained he now worked odd jobs to get by.
“— That’s a hard life. But memory can come back. Want a job?”
“— I’d love that.”
“— Come with me. My employer might need help.”
They arrived at a large house behind iron gates. Jasmine bloomed nearby, and something about the place stirred a memory in him, but it slipped away.
“— Come on, don’t be afraid.”
In the cozy kitchen, Galina served him warm, delicious food. For the first time in years, he felt comfort and strange familiarity.
Galina went to ask her employer, Rimma, about hiring him.
“— He’s a good man, but has no documents. A tough story.”
“— Bring him,” Rimma said quietly.
When Rimma saw him, she turned pale and almost fainted.
“— What’s your name?”
“— Vasiliy… I don’t know my real one.”
She stared at him.
“— Klim…” she whispered. “— Your name is Klim. I’m your mother.”
Shocked, Galina watched as Rimma pulled out an old photo album. She told the story of their son who ran away after clashing with his father and was presumed dead. They had buried someone they thought was him.
“— You were a kind boy. We named you Klim after your grandfather…”
Tears fell as Rimma recounted the past. Vasiliy looked at the photo of the boy—so familiar.
Memories flickered: laughter, warmth, a mother’s touch.
“— Mom…” he whispered.