The on-duty doctor, worn out after a long shift, stretched, yawned, and gazed out at the season’s first snowfall — soft, silent, and almost magical. Inside the hospital, the chaos remained.
Lighting a cigarette, he turned to his assistant, Viktor. “She’s cold already. Call the morgue. It’s too late.”
Viktor approached the stretcher. A faint pulse. He pushed aside wet hair—and froze. The gaunt face triggered a memory: Yulia? No, it couldn’t be. Yulia had dimples, warmth. This woman was unrecognizable.
The morgue attendants arrived, efficient and wordless. As they wheeled her away, the doctor handed Viktor her soaked documents. On the landing, he read: Saar Yuliya Gennadyevna, born 1994. The photo confirmed it — Yulia, his childhood friend, once like family.
They had grown up across the hall, inseparable. School tried to part them, but they fought back. In adolescence, she drifted away, married a popular athlete, and disappeared. He felt betrayed but never forgot her.
Viktor chased down the morgue team. “Stop! She’s alive — barely. And she’s not just anyone. She’s Yulia. My Yulia.”
He rushed her to intensive care. Despite her condition — hypothermia, weak pulse — he fought to save her. When the doctor objected, Viktor confessed: “She’s my cousin.” That lie earned her a second chance.
Later, Yulia stirred and whispered, “Why did you save me? I don’t want to live…” Viktor comforted her.
Off-shift, he visited her mother. She hadn’t spoken to Yulia in days but felt something was wrong. That night, the nurse called — Yulia had tried to jump out the window. Viktor rushed back.
In the ward, Yulia finally opened up: her marriage failed, she was abused, broke, and hiding her shame. She lied to her family and ended up on the streets. Drowning seemed easier. But the river spared her.
Viktor offered to call her mother. At first, she resisted. Then: “Let her see me like this, not in that coat.”
Anna Petrovna came, embraced her daughter without judgment. Recovery began.
Weeks later, Yulia’s color returned, her dimples too. When a doctor flirted, Pavel Sergeyevich stepped in: “Back off — she’s my fiancée.” Another small lie, this time from Viktor, now ready to make it real.
On discharge day, Yulia walked out smiling, bouquet in hand. The morgue workers gave her a respectful nod, confused but glad. For the first time in years, she wanted to live — and to love.
Because Viktor had just asked her to be his wife.