Autumn winds swirled fallen leaves along the garden paths, forming playful little whirlwinds. Victoria stood by the window, gazing at the overgrown mess outside. What had once been a well-manicured haven had turned into an unruly tangle of weeds and wild shrubs, something between a forgotten forest and an abandoned lot.
“This can’t go on,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
Sitting at her desk, she opened her laptop and skimmed through her emails. One caught her attention—a message from Elena Sergeevna, an old acquaintance from her business circles. Elena was raving about a young gardener. “Kirill is a true professional. He brought my neglected garden back to life in just a few months.”
Victoria hesitated. The garden did need attention, but for years, she had pushed the task aside. When she bought this house three years ago, she had envisioned a fresh start, yet she never quite managed to touch the land outside.
Her gaze drifted toward an old photograph on the bookshelf. A picture of her and Alexey, taken years ago when they had just returned from their honeymoon. They looked so young, so happy. She frowned and turned the frame face down.
“Enough living in the past,” she told herself firmly.
Fifteen years had passed since Alexey disappeared from her life. No warnings, no explanations. One morning, he had kissed her on the cheek and casually said, “I’ll be home late; don’t wait for me for dinner.” And that was it. His last words. After that, he vanished. At first, she had been frantic, calling every friend, every possible connection, but no one knew anything. It was as if he had never existed.
Weeks later, divorce papers arrived. Handled through a lawyer, without so much as a meeting or a phone call. Only then did she begin to realize how little she had truly known about him. He had swept into her life suddenly, courted her with unwavering charm, yet never spoke much about his past. She had been too in love to question it.
A phone call pulled her back from her thoughts. It was Elena, reminding her about the gardener.
“Yes,” Victoria said after a brief hesitation. “Let him come tomorrow at ten.”
The next morning, at exactly ten, the doorbell rang.
Victoria opened the door to find a tall, fit young man standing there. He had a confident stance, an air of quiet composure.
“Good morning. My name is Kirill. Elena mentioned you might need a gardener,” he said with a polite nod.
She led him outside, showing him the sprawling, overgrown garden. Kirill walked through it methodically, inspecting the neglected beds, making notes, and asking precise, thoughtful questions.
“There’s a lot of work to be done, but it’s not impossible,” he concluded. “In two to three months, we can restore it completely.”
His quiet confidence was contagious, and Victoria found herself trusting him. They agreed on the details, and Kirill started work the very next day.
From her office window, she often watched him. He worked with deliberate movements, never rushing, never making unnecessary gestures. It was almost as if he understood the garden, as if he could hear what it needed.
Gradually, the wildness faded. The weeds disappeared, the old paths reemerged, and neat flower beds took shape. Day after day, Kirill worked from morning to evening, stopping only for brief breaks. Over time, Victoria grew accustomed to his presence. Occasionally, they talked—about plants, about the changing seasons, about books. He was more than just skilled; he was also easy to talk to, full of quiet intelligence.
Yet something about him unsettled her. His voice, his expressions, even the way he moved—it all seemed strangely familiar. At first, she brushed it off as coincidence. But as the days passed, the feeling only deepened.
One afternoon, she saw Kirill standing by the old gazebo in the far corner of the garden, almost completely hidden beneath a curtain of vines.
“It’s a beautiful structure,” he said when she approached. “A shame it’s abandoned. Would you like me to restore it?”
“No,” Victoria answered, too quickly, too sharply.
Kirill tilted his head slightly, surprised by her tone, but didn’t press the matter.
That evening, as she sorted through old papers, her eyes landed on a photograph of Alexey. She picked it up, studying it carefully. And then her breath caught.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
The same sharp features. The same eyes. Even a small mole in the exact same place.
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
The next morning, she went outside, determined to see him up close, to make sense of the thoughts racing in her head.
“Good morning,” she greeted him, bringing out a thermos of tea. “It’s chilly today.”
“Thank you,” Kirill said with a smile—a smile that sent her heart pounding.
She watched him as he sipped the tea. “How long have you been gardening?” she asked.
“Officially, a little over a year. But really, about three,” he answered.
“And why did you choose this work?” she pressed.
“I love nature. I like seeing the results of my labor. My father taught me about gardens when I was a kid.”
“Your father?” Victoria forced herself to keep her voice steady. “What’s his name?”
Kirill didn’t hesitate. “Alexey.”
Victoria felt the ground shift beneath her feet.
“Are you all right?” Kirill asked, concern in his voice.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Just a little dizzy.”
She barely made it back inside before collapsing into a chair, her mind spinning.
Alexey had disappeared fifteen years ago.
Kirill was nineteen.
Which meant that, while he was still married to her, Alexey had already fathered a child with another woman.
Fifteen years of guilt, of wondering if she had driven Alexey away, of questioning what she had done wrong—when all along, he had simply been leading a double life.
In the days that followed, she watched Kirill more closely. The way he walked, the way he smiled, the little mannerisms that reminded her painfully of the past. It was all there, written in his movements, in his presence.
One morning, he brought her a bouquet of freshly cut roses.
“The first blooms,” he said. “A gift.”
Victoria recoiled. Alexey had always brought her roses.
“Take them away,” she snapped. “I hate roses.”
Kirill’s face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” she muttered.
That evening, she sat in her office, flipping through an old photo album. The images, once filled with warmth, now felt like pieces of a cruel joke. How much of her past had been a lie?
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Victoria Andreevna, may I come in?” Kirill stood hesitantly at the threshold. “I wanted to apologize about earlier. And… I have a question.”
She nodded slowly, bracing herself.
“I’ve noticed something,” he began. “Ever since I mentioned my father, something changed. You look at me like you’ve seen a ghost. Did you know him?”
Victoria’s heart pounded. She took a deep breath.
“Tell me about him,” she said. “About your father.”
Kirill sighed. “I barely remember him. He died when I was four.”
Victoria’s world tilted.
“What?” she whispered.
“My Uncle Lesha raised me. My father’s twin brother. He became like a father to me.”
Twin brother.
Alexey had a twin.
The realization crashed over her in waves. All these years, she had believed Alexey had betrayed her, abandoned her. And yet, the truth was something else entirely.
The next day, Alexey walked into her house, older, grayer, but still unmistakably him.
They stood in silence, years of pain hanging between them.
“I should have told you,” Alexey finally said. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Victoria’s voice trembled. “You should have given me a choice.”
That night, they talked for hours. About the past. About the choices that had led them here. About the future.
And when morning came, she looked at him and at Kirill and knew—this was her family now. The one she never expected to have, but the one she was willing to rebuild.
Together.