She left me with the child and ran off. Oh, you… Overslept, stupid old…” Mary groaned, shaking her head from side to side.
The ancient, rattling bus was stifling. Through the open windows poured air heated to thirty degrees, but instead of relief, it brought only road dust. The passengers dozed, sluggish from the heat.
Ahead, the golden domes of a small church appeared, huddled among wooden houses, with the roofs of brick flats just visible beyond. The passengers stirred, gathering their things. The quicker ones were already crowding the aisle, eager to escape the suffocating bus.
Only one woman remained still, staring out the window, her hands—blue veins like delicate branches—resting on her lap. Her hair, bleached at the ends with dark roots peeking through, hung in uneven strands around her thin, pale face. The corners of her mouth drooped, her eyelids lined with fine wrinkles. She looked like someone life had battered, expecting nothing good ahead.
The bus lurched to a final stop on a quiet square before the church. The passengers pushed impatiently toward the open doors, desperate for fresh air.
“Miss, we’ve arrived—last stop,” called the burly, balding driver, peering over the divider.
The woman glanced around. The bus was empty save for her and the driver.
“Time to go,” he repeated.
She lifted a small bag from the floor, stood, and walked down the aisle.
“Goodbye,” she murmured at the door, not looking back.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, the bus doors hissed and clanged shut behind her. Slowly, she walked toward the row of wooden houses. Then—suddenly—a single bell tolled from the church, followed by a cascade of ringing. The woman froze, lifting her face to the sky. Then she turned and walked toward the church.
She followed a narrow path lined with wildflowers and stepped inside. Cool, incense-laden air washed over her. A shaft of evening sunlight, dust motes dancing in its beam, slanted across the wooden floor.
Her heels clicked on the floorboards, startling the silence. She hesitated, then sat on a bench near the door.
“Are you unwell? Would you like some water?”
A young woman in a long skirt and a scarf tied loosely around her neck appeared beside her. Her blue eyes held sincere concern.
“Just a moment,” the girl said, vanishing—only to return with a glass of water.
“Here. From the spring nearby—it stays cold even in summer. Drink.”
Anastasia took the glass. The water was clear, icy—so cold it made her teeth ache.
“If you need anything, just ask,” the girl said softly, then retreated behind a wooden counter cluttered with church wares.
Anastasia finished the water and approached the counter, careful not to click her heels.
“Thank you… Are you from here? Do you know everyone?”
“It’s a small village,” the girl replied. “Who are you looking for?”
“Mary… Cullens. Do you know her?”
The girl stilled. “She was my grandmother. But she passed a year ago. And you are…?” She stepped out from behind the counter, studying the stranger.
“You’re Anastasia, aren’t you?” she whispered. “I’m Pauline…”
***
Eighteen years earlier
Mary sat on the bench outside her cottage, squinting against the setting sun.
“Mum,” came a voice beside her.
Mary turned, shielding her eyes with her hand. Before her stood her daughter, Annie, a baby swaddled in a thin blanket pressed to her chest. A black duffel bag hung from her shoulder.
“Back, are you? Knew this was how it’d end. Here for good, or just passing through?” Mary said coldly.
A curtain twitched in the neighbour’s window. Mary heaved herself up.
“Inside. No need to give the gossipers a show.”
Annie hesitated, then followed. Inside, she set her bag down, then carefully laid the sleeping child on the iron-framed bed.
“Boy or girl?” Mary asked flatly.
“Girl. Pauline.”
“Figures,” Mary muttered. “Life in the city not what you dreamed, eh? And now what?”
“Not now, Mum. I’m exhausted.”
Mary’s gaze flicked to Annie’s sunken chest. “No milk, I suppose. Fine. I’ll fetch some from Nina—she’s got goats.”
“I brought formula,” Annie said quickly.
“Poisoning the child with chemicals,” Mary snapped, waving a hand before shuffling off.
She returned with a jam jar of milk, set it on the table, then left without a word. When she came back, Annie was asleep beside the baby. The child fussed, cheeks puffing as she wriggled free of the blanket. Mary watched them—her wayward daughter and the tiny stranger—until the baby let out a cry.
“Now, now, what’s all this?” Mary scooped her up. “Your mum’s right here—though you wouldn’t know it, dead to the world.”
She changed the nappy, warmed the milk, and fed the child, who drank greedily before drifting off.
That night, mother and daughter argued in furious whispers—Annie weeping, begging for understanding; Mary spitting years of bitterness. They collapsed into sleep near dawn.
A shrill cry woke Mary. She rushed to the baby.
“Annie! Look at the state of her—soaked! And starving, no doubt. Annie!”
No answer. Only the baby’s wails grew louder.
“Oh, Lord…” Mary sagged onto the bed, clutching her chest. Then she understood.
“Gone. Left me the bairn and ran. You… stupid old fool. Slept right through it…” She rocked back and forth, groaning.
***
Pauline grew up under Mary’s stern hand—fed, clothed, but never coddled. Whippings came swift for any misstep. When she asked about her mother, Mary’s answer never wavered: *”Dead. You’ve no one but me.”*
The threat of Mary’s looming death haunted Pauline. She’d cling to her grandmother, begging her not to leave.
“Pray I live, then,” Mary would say, crossing herself before the darkened icon on the shelf.
When Mary found Pauline looking at her mother’s photos, she snatched them and tossed them into the stove—save one, hidden and worn from secret handling.
Time passed. Mary fell ill, then worse—her legs failed. She refused the hospital and died within weeks.
Father Paul, the village priest, found Pauline alone.
“Help me in the church,” he said. “The old sacristan’s gone blind. The folk aren’t rich, but they’re kind—bread here, tins there.”
So Pauline stayed—singing hymns, tidying the church, and lighting candles for her mother’s health, not her soul.
“Your grandmother called her dead,” Father Paul said. “But I think she’s out there… afraid to return. Pray for her.”
And so she did.
***
One evening, as Pauline locked the church, a woman waited outside—gaunt, trembling.
“You’re…” Pauline whispered.
Anastasia nodded.
At home, Anastasia fell to her knees, weeping. “I don’t deserve mercy… I left you.”
Pauline, trembling, touched her shoulder. “God forgives. So do I.”
But the next morning, the bed was empty. Pauline’s heart plunged—until the door creaked open.
Anastasia stood there, damp-haired, fresh from the river.
Pauline burst into tears.
A mother’s love, flawed or fleeting, is irreplaceable. Forgiveness isn’t easy—but with grace, it’s possible.
