Autumn winds chased fallen leaves along the pathways, forming swirling patterns. Victoria stood by the window, gazing at her overgrown garden. Over the years, it had become a tangled mess of shrubs and tall grass, caught somewhere between a wild forest and an abandoned lot.
“Something has to be done,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
She opened her laptop and scrolled through her emails. One message caught her attention. It was from Elena Sergeevna, an old acquaintance from her business circles, who was praising a young gardener. Kirill, she wrote, had transformed her neglected garden in just a few months, restoring it to its former beauty.
Victoria hesitated. The garden certainly needed work. She had bought this house three years ago, determined to start a new chapter in her life, but the landscaping had always been a project for another day.
Her eyes drifted to a framed photograph on the shelf. In it, she and Alexey were young, happy, and full of plans, captured just after their honeymoon. With a sharp breath, she turned the frame facedown. It had been fifteen years since Alexey had vanished from her life without explanation. One morning, he left for work as usual, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “I’ll be home late today, don’t wait for me for dinner.”
Those were his last words. He never came back. She searched, called everyone they knew, but it was as if he had disappeared into thin air. No trace, no clues, just an empty space where he had been. Then, months later, she received divorce papers. He had handled everything through a lawyer, never bothering to meet her in person.
Over time, she realized how little she had truly known about her husband. He had appeared in her life suddenly, swept her off her feet, and had been nothing but attentive and caring. But he had rarely spoken about his past, deflecting serious questions with jokes. She had been too in love to notice the warning signs.
A phone call pulled her from her thoughts. It was Elena Sergeevna, reminding her about the gardener. After a moment’s pause, Victoria agreed. He could come tomorrow at ten.
The next morning, she waited in her home office. Right on time, the doorbell rang.
A tall, fit young man stood at the doorstep. His posture was confident, his expression calm yet observant.
“Hello, my name is Kirill. Elena Sergeevna mentioned you might need a gardener,” he said with a polite nod.
Victoria led him through the property, explaining what needed to be done. Kirill moved at an unhurried pace, carefully examining every corner, taking notes, and asking thoughtful, professional questions.
“There’s a lot to do, but nothing impossible. In two or three months, we can bring everything back to order,” he assured her.
His confidence was reassuring. They discussed the details, and he began work the next morning.
Victoria often found herself watching him from her office window. There was something about the way he worked—each movement deliberate, efficient, without waste. It was as if he understood nature, not just controlled it.
Gradually, the garden changed. The tangled weeds disappeared, pathways reemerged, and neatly arranged flowerbeds replaced the unruly shrubs. Kirill worked from morning until late evening, taking only a short break for lunch. Over time, his presence became familiar. They spoke occasionally—about plants, the weather, books. He was not just a skilled gardener but an engaging conversationalist.
Yet something about him stirred a strange sense of familiarity. His voice, his gestures… They reminded her of Alexey. She dismissed it as coincidence.
One afternoon, she noticed Kirill examining an old gazebo hidden beneath overgrown grapevines.
“It’s a beautiful structure,” he said. “Would you like me to restore it?”
“No,” she answered sharply.
The gazebo held too many memories. It had been where Alexey proposed, where they spent countless evenings dreaming of the future. Kirill looked surprised by her reaction but didn’t press further.
That night, while sorting through old papers, Victoria found a photograph of Alexey. A chill ran down her spine. The resemblance between Alexey and Kirill was striking—the same features, the same eyes, even a mole in the exact same place.
The next morning, she went outside on purpose. Kirill was already at work, pruning bushes.
“Good morning,” she said.
He turned to her, and again, her breath caught. In the morning light, the resemblance was even stronger.
“It’s cold today,” she said, handing him a thermos. “Have some tea.”
“Thank you,” he replied, offering a familiar smile.
“How long have you been a gardener?” she asked casually.
“Officially, about a year. Unofficially, closer to three.”
“What made you choose this profession?”
He shrugged. “I love working with nature. And my father taught me when I was young.”
“Your father? What’s his name?”
“Alexey,” Kirill said without hesitation.
The ground seemed to shift beneath her. She gripped a nearby tree to steady herself.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.
“Yes… just a little dizzy,” she managed, then quickly walked back into the house.
Slamming the office door, she sank into her chair. If Kirill was nineteen, and Alexey disappeared fifteen years ago, there was only one possibility. During their marriage, he had already fathered another woman’s child. The life they had planned together, the dreams of having children—it had all been a lie.
For years, she had blamed herself, wondering if she had done something wrong. But the truth was different. Alexey had been living a double life.
Each time she looked at Kirill now, every movement, every smile, reminded her of Alexey. And the young man had no idea who she was to him.
One morning, Kirill brought her a bouquet of freshly cut roses.
“The first bloom,” he smiled. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Victoria froze. Alexey had always brought her roses, saying they reminded him of her.
“Take them away,” she said sharply. “I hate roses.”
Kirill hesitated, lowering the flowers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” she murmured.
That evening, she sat in her office, staring at an old photo album. Each happy memory with Alexey now felt like a cruel trick.
What should she do? Tell Kirill the truth? Send him away? Pretend nothing had happened?
She picked up her phone, thinking of calling Elena Sergeevna. But just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Victoria, may I come in?” Kirill stood there, looking hesitant. “I wanted to apologize about the roses. And ask you something.”
She nodded, letting him in.
“I’ve been meaning to talk about my father. Ever since I mentioned his name, something changed between us,” he said.
Her heart pounded. “Why do you think that?”
“I see how you look at me. Like you’ve seen a ghost. Did you know my father?”
Victoria took a deep breath. “Tell me about your parents,” she said.
Kirill sighed. “I barely remember them. I was four when they died.”
“What?” Victoria stiffened.
“My uncle Lesha—my father’s twin brother—raised me,” Kirill continued. “He legally adopted me, and I called him Dad.”
Victoria pressed a hand to her chest, her mind reeling.
All these years, she had lived believing Alexey had betrayed her. But in reality, he had disappeared to raise his brother’s orphaned son.
Days later, Alexey arrived at her house. He had aged, but his presence was the same.
“I should have told you,” he said. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“You should have given me a choice,” she replied.
They talked late into the night—about the past, about forgiveness.
By morning, Kirill found them together in the living room.
“Does this mean everything is different now?” he asked.
Victoria looked at them both—the man she had never stopped loving and the boy who now felt like family.
“Stay,” she said. “Both of you.”