It had been nine months since Artem last made contact. At first, Elena Ivanovna counted the days, marking them in an old kitchen calendar. Then she switched to weeks. Eventually even that stopped, for each new day without word cut deeper than the bitter December wind. Still, she checked the postbox—each dawn, as light brushed the windows, and each dusk, long after shadows filled her small flat on the outskirts of a northern town. The postwoman, Nina, no longer met her gaze, as if silence might soften the emptiness. Yet the box remained still. Again and again.
Artem had left for Canada four years earlier. A contract job. He’d promised it wouldn’t be for long. That he’d settle, earn, help. Return. He’d gone with little more than a suitcase, a smile, and bright-eyed dreams. The first months, he wrote often—brief messages, calls at night. Then less, until finally, nothing. As though someone across the ocean had erased his past, crossed out home, street, mother.
She clung to excuses like a lifeline. *He’s busy. Learning the language. Building a life.* She whispered it at the stove, smothering the urge to scream, to admit the fear that he was gone for good. Memories surfaced—his childhood footsteps down the hall, laughter as he’d burst in from play, muddy and breathless, shouting: *Mum, look what I found!* Now, silence—thick as the snow burying their tiny town.
The excuses ran dry. Only the void remained, cold and unyielding, widening between them like a wall of ice, severing past from present.
Their town held many such mothers—women whose children had left behind empty mailboxes and unfinished words. They recognized one another by the look in their eyes—alive yet clouded with grief. Her neighbor, Agnes, would mutter: *At least he’s alive. Take what you can, love.* Elena Ivanovna nodded, guilt pooling inside. Knowing wasn’t enough. She wanted his voice, his *Mum, how are you?*—not for money or gifts, but to feel her heart settle again.
Life was simple. A small garden, a tabby named Whiskers, endless soap operas flickering on the old telly. Fridays for cleaning, Saturdays for the market, where vendors greeted her like an old friend, and the greengrocer teased: *Still no shopping bag, Mrs. Carter?* She knitted. First, gloves for Artem, tracing the memory of his broad hands. Then, just to keep busy—piling them in the drawer as if someone might still claim their warmth. Sewed cushions for the cat shelter. Anything to steady her hands, to stop the days from spiraling into the abyss.
Then, one raw November evening, the doorbell rang. She assumed it was the neighbor—borrowing sugar, or a courier with the wrong address. But when she opened it, the world seemed to pause. On the doorstep stood a boy of eleven, in a worn jacket and small backpack. His eyes—gray, sharp—held a quiet knowing, as though he’d already learned life could throw anything his way.
*”Are you Mrs. Carter?”* he asked softly, his voice wavering—from cold or nerves, she couldn’t tell.
*”Yes—”* she breathed, her heart tightening with something like premonition.
*”I’m Tommy. Mum said I could stay with you. Said Grandma’s house is always safe.”*
The world tilted, like an old bridge groaning under the wind. It took a moment to grasp his words. She noticed first his wind-bitten cheeks, then the way he fidgeted with his sleeve. And then—his eyes. Just like Artem’s as a boy. That same steady gaze, that same quiet resolve.
*”Hungry?”* she asked, clinging to the question like a rope.
*”Could I have tea? With honey, if you’ve got?”* A faint smile.
He stepped in, set his bag down, and sat at the table as if he’d been there a thousand times. Took off his shoes, folded his scarf, smoothed his gloves. She noted the frayed sweater, the barely-tied shoelace.
Her phone buzzed. Artem. First time in a year.
*”Mum, sorry—it’s been mad here. I’ll call back, alright?”*
The line went dead before she could reply. She stared at Tommy, now stroking Whiskers with careful fingers, as if afraid to startle him.
*”Can I feed him?”* he asked. *”I know how. We had a cat at home.”*
*”His name’s Whiskers,”* she said, still half-convinced she was dreaming.
*”Can I read to him? I always do at bedtime. Mum said it makes dreams kinder.”*
At first, he was a shadow—eating neatly, cleaning up, clutching the blankets with a nightlight on, as if darkness might steal him away. Asked permission for everything—bread, the lamp, a walk outside. As though afraid to overstay. But then, slowly, he smiled. Asked for seconds. Brought in pebbles, pinecones, tales of neighborhood dogs. Once, a sparrow with a hurt wing, bundled in his scarf, fed crumbs from his palm.
She fought against hope, whispering each night: *He’ll leave soon.* Yet mornings found her listening for his steps, his questions, his laugh. Until surrender came. He became her dawn, her dusk, her reason—like a lamp left burning in the window.
Tommy stayed four months. Artem rang thrice—short, clipped. Work. Problems. *”It’s complicated.”* Not a word about the boy. Not a word about her. Just: *”Mum, don’t ask yet.”*
She didn’t. Even as questions burned like embers. She stayed silent. For Tommy. For the home that had woken again with his voice.
The day he left, winter had iced the town stiff. At the station, he hugged her so tight she felt his heartbeat. No tears, no words—just a grip that made her wonder who was clinging to whom. She didn’t cry. Only smoothed his hair, as though letting go of some part of herself. Watched until the train vanished into the blizzard. Then into the hollowness.
Ten days later, a letter arrived. Real paper, uneven script. Tommy wrote that he was well, that he missed her, that school was fine and Whiskers *”listens even when I’m quiet.”* At the bottom:
*”Now I know where people don’t get lost.”*
She reread it, fingers shaking, as though holding something fragile. Gazed out the window where slow snow covered roofs, fences, the old bench by the house. Then fetched her yarn. Another pair of gloves. Not for anyone in particular. Just in case. In case someone out there needed warmth—even if they didn’t know it yet.
