Blood travels from the heart to the lungs and back in 6 seconds,
the round trip to the brain takes 8 seconds.
He hadn’t slept for a while now—just lay in bed, mulling over plans for the upcoming weekend. He longed to escape the noisy city, ideally somewhere in nature. To be alone, recharge his batteries, and sort out the clutter in his mind.
It wasn’t that he had anything or anyone to run from. Most of his free time, Vladimir spent alone anyway (unless he was visiting his mother or at work). Still, he craved a change of scenery.
The silence of the room was shattered by the ring of his phone. Vlad lifted his head and glanced at the wall clock. It read 5 a.m.
“Too early for business calls and way too inconvenient for bad news,” he thought, the notion jolting him out of his warm spot. He swung his bare feet onto the cool hardwood floor.
The phone was on the dresser by the door, still vibrating and blaring the voice of Rodrigo Armante, crooning about love and heartbreak. The lyrics echoed painful memories that stirred deep in Vlad’s soul.
Grabbing the smartphone, he exhaled in relief. Not his mother. That was a weight off his chest. If something had happened to her while he was so far away, he’d never forgive himself. But what could he do? He hadn’t managed to convince stubborn Vera Vasylivna to move from the village to the city—not the first time, nor the tenth. Even a comfortable two-bedroom apartment with easy access to all the city’s perks (like the shopping mall, a beauty salon, and a bookstore) hadn’t swayed her.
“I’ll move only under one condition,” his mother had declared.
“And what’s that?”
Vladimir was ready to do anything to please her.
“If I have something to keep me busy there. Like looking after grandchildren.”
Grandchildren. Vera Vasylivna’s favorite topic and her go-to argument in any disagreement with her son. You couldn’t pay this relentless woman to stop nagging her dear child about it—she lived for the chance to ruffle his feathers.
The modern gadget buzzed in his hand again, reminding its owner to answer the call. The screen displayed the name of the new intern at the shop—Sasha Tkachenko.
Tkachenko? Odd.
Within a few minutes of talking to Sasha, Vladimir learned a lot of interesting but irrelevant details about the tough life of a student intern. He also realized that the kid’s nerves had cracked under the fear of his boss.
Only toward the end of the conversation did Vlad finally hear the real reason for such an early call.
This genius, heaven help him, had managed to lose the one thing entrusted to him—and in his very first week of the internship, no less. Right now, Vladimir was angrier with himself than ever. He’d known the kid was irresponsible and clueless, yet he’d hired him anyway. Took pity on the poor guy. Gave in to his pleading. And now… Ugh!
“I’m so-o-o sorry…” Sasha mumbled on the other end of the line. “I-I-I didn’t mean to,” he whined pitifully, though it didn’t sound sincere. At least, to Vladimir, Sasha’s half-hearted apologies rang hollow.
“Instead of whining, he should be out looking for the part,” Vladimir fumed silently, mentally running through solutions to the problem that had dropped on him like an unexpected late-March snowfall.
With a frustrated huff, Vlad ended the call, sending the hapless kid to pound the pavement at the courier service’s main office. The cursed spare part was supposed to have been delivered two days ago.
What irritated him even more was that he’d only just found out about the issue.
“Tomorrow’s already Friday, and then the weekend,” he muttered through clenched teeth, pulling on sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a warm hoodie.
Running half-naked in late November, like some of the guys at the club did, wasn’t his style. You could not only catch a chill and get sick but also pick up something worse than the flu—like pneumonia. Nasty stuff, that. It’d wear you out and knock you flat on your back, no less than a right hook from Matviy. And Matviy, a world champion in mixed martial arts, sure knew how to throw a punch. Those hands of his were a lethal weapon.
Memories of his last sparring session with Kropyvnytsky made Vladimir’s body ache. Not just his wrists and forearms, but his back and leg muscles too. Plus, he’d taken a few champion-level blows to the head. Probably because the break between training sessions had been too long, and his warm-up before the spar was half-hearted. The result? Exhaustion and a couple of minor injuries.
“I’ll heal up like a dog—everything mends on me,” Vladimir had reassured his mother, who’d greeted him with a disapproving look after one such bout with the champ. Then she’d lectured him all evening, wailing and dragging out her words, blaming his bachelor lifestyle for all his troubles.
“You need a wife, son,” Vera Vasylivna had cast her line once again, eager to matchmake her boy with one of the neighborhood girls. She’d probably already held auditions for the role of her daughter-in-law. Wouldn’t put it past her.
Clearly, this was her way of trying to persuade him, to soften his hardened heart.
But Vladimir didn’t bite. He was tired of repeating the same thing over and over. His mother, more than anyone, knew there had been only one true love in his life. Sadly, it was unrequited and doomed.
A sharp pain squeezed his chest, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Shaking his head, he shoved wireless earbuds into his ears and left the apartment. He didn’t bother calling the elevator, wanting to loosen up his muscles before his run.
***
Morning workouts had long been his key to a good mood. They kept his body in shape and his weight where he wanted it. More than that, exercise was the best way to relieve stress and tension—whether from the grind of workdays or the gray monotony of lonely days.
And then there was work, his true salvation. It helped Vladimir when memories, like uninvited guests, barged into his life and threw a party. It wasn’t fatal, but it always triggered bursts of anger—mostly at himself. Damn conscience!
Vladimir loved his work (his small company), took pride in it, and was even grateful for the workload he had. From a tiny auto repair shop on the outskirts of town, his business had grown into a full-fledged company. And that was without millions in assets, family backing, or ever winning the lottery. Everything Vladimir owned now was earned through hard work, sweat, and blood.
In a few weeks, he planned to expand his chain of auto shops and open a new branch outside his hometown. He’d already assembled and hired a team, sent out contracts, purchased and installed equipment, and even built a small client base among the residents of the area where the new shop would open.
With the business expansion, Vlad’s worries multiplied, and his free time dwindled. But in pursuit of his dream, he was willing to make that sacrifice. Because at the top, success awaited him.
In a month or two, Vladimir planned to open a studio for restoring and customizing vintage cars, mainly models from the ‘70s to ‘90s. Why those cars? Because there was always demand for retro vehicles, and in recent years, it had grown noticeably—among both wealthy clients and classic car enthusiasts.
Such models hadn’t been produced in ages, and their uniqueness and rarity were highly valued. If restorers could not only revive the car’s appearance but also source original parts, they could hit the jackpot.
Restoring a few such cars was how Vladimir had earned his first real money. With it, he expanded his business and opened a second auto shop. Then a third, and a fourth. What started as a hobby, a dream, became the work of his life.
At thirty-eight, Vlad could boast significant professional success—something he couldn’t say about many of his classmates or fellow villagers, who never dared to leave their hometowns.
Sometimes, he wondered what his life would have been like under different circumstances. What if he’d stayed in the village with his mother? Would he be farming, driving a tractor, harvesting rye? Most likely. There wasn’t much to do in the village, nor many ways to make a living.
He probably would’ve married young, too. Why wait? Eighteen rolls around, and it’s time to start a family. Especially since, in every village, weddings are one of the biggest events for locals. A chance to have fun, eat, drink moonshine, dance, and, if the occasion calls for it, throw a few punches.
His mom and Grandma Zina would’ve arranged a bride inspection. They’d have picked out candidates themselves and matched him with some Hanna or Olena—a rosy-cheeked, plump girl with a big plot of land and an endless stream of relatives always needing help.
Would he have been happier then than he is now? Maybe. He couldn’t answer that question, not even to himself. But one thing he knew for sure—if he’d stayed in the village, he’d never have known what true love felt like. He wouldn’t have experienced its gentle, warm touch, and he probably never would’ve done something so foolish.
He didn’t want to think about that last part. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. It would be so much easier if that day and his shameful act could just vanish from memory. Not just his, but everyone else’s who witnessed his disgrace. Though…
The thought of an unattainable dream made his heartbeat quicken. His pulse spiked, and the fitness tracker on his wrist emitted its signature modern-gadget beep. A faint vibration rippled through his arm.
He stopped. Caught his breath. Checked the distance he’d covered and pulled out his smartphone. No messages or calls from Tkachenko, which meant the kid was still on the hunt for the holy grail.
Damn it!
Looking around, he spotted an empty bench as far as possible from the main path and prying eyes. He settled in, resting his head in his hands. Sweat trickled down his broad back, bringing a slight chill.
But he wasn’t cold. On the contrary, his heart burned, and his chest seared with the weight of a heavy memory.
He wanted to forget but couldn’t. It was like a curse. Or maybe a hex? More likely, it was guilt gnawing at him.
And the tearful gaze of those beloved eyes didn’t lessen the gravity of his crime.
“Grandma, Grandma!” a voice called from somewhere, and Vladimir slowly lifted his dark head.
A little girl was running toward him.
***
“Mister, you need our help,” a sweet, clear voice rang out, sending a warm ripple through his chest.
The girl came close—very close—and studied the big man with childlike curiosity. She looked at him sincerely, peering into his soul, waiting for his words like they were a gift from heaven, shifting from foot to foot. Her shoulders were hunched, her tiny hands clenched into fists.
So delicate, vulnerable, small.
“Mister, are you okay?” she babbled, reaching out her little hands toward him.
Mister? He’d never been called that before! It made him chuckle. He smiled, straightened up, and stood.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hold her back.”
A kind-looking woman in her sixties appeared behind the girl. She grabbed the little whirlwind by the hand and pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her thin shoulders, eager to protect her from the stranger. Caring.
“No need to apologize,” he smiled again, looking at the girl.
She was well-dressed, neat. Her long, dark hair was braided into two pigtails, each adorned with a bright, pretty bow.
Petite, slender. A button nose, rosy cheeks.
Dark eyebrows, brown eyes…
It came back to him.
For a moment, it felt like it wasn’t just some stranger’s sweet child before him, but her—the one whose image still haunted his dreams. There, she reproached him, grew angry, cursed him, tearing at his weary heart each time. Yet she always looked at him with hope. Just like this little girl did now.
His heart skipped a beat. But it didn’t stop—it pounded harder, louder, more stubbornly.
Vlad shook his head, banishing the illusion. He inhaled deeply through his nose and directed his gaze elsewhere. He scanned the park, spotting a few familiar figures among the early visitors, remembered his morning meeting, and glanced at his watch to make sure he wasn’t running late. He noted to himself that it was time to head home. And not to forget breakfast.
His thoughts swirled like a storm and soared far away, upward. He got lost in them.
When he realized the silence had stretched on too long, he spoke:
“It’s commendable that the child is so kind and polite. And already learning to help others at such a young age.”
He didn’t need help, but he appreciated the little girl’s gesture. He even felt a strange pride for someone else’s child. Such care was rare these days. Usually, people walk past the elderly, the sick, the needy. And it’s not just about people—sometimes, heartless folks won’t even spare a dog or a kitten, tossing them out on the street like trash.
Maybe in a thousand years, this era will be called the age of indifference and apathy.
“Oh!” the woman clapped her hands. “Sofiyka is an incredibly kind child. She wants to hug and love everyone.”
The little girl lowered her gaze, focusing on her shoes.
“Just yesterday, she brought home another stray. I nearly fainted when I saw her pink coat and dress covered in mud, and that black, shaggy bundle in her hands.”
He burst into contagious laughter, picturing the scene. As a kid, he’d done similar acts of charity himself, often earning scoldings from his mom and grandma. You can’t save everyone, even if you really want to.
“I wanted to feed him,” Sofiyka mumbled barely audibly, her cheeks flushing crimson. Clearly, she felt shy when her grandma scolded her in front of a stranger.
“And that’s why you got covered in mud? Were you planning to feed him dirt?” the woman asked quietly but sternly.
“I wanted to catch him, but he started running away. So I jumped after him, and he went into a puddle. Splash—and my dress was dirty. And Grandma got mad, and Mom…” The girl looked up guiltily from under her brow, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “And Mom said I did a good job. So there!”
“Oh, your mom…”
The woman shook her head with reproach. Yet she looked at the child with tenderness and love, as a true grandmother would.
Vladimir relaxed and grinned like a teenager, reminiscing about his own childhood.
The village. A red fence wrapped in grapevines. A narrow path leading from the gate to the porch. On it, flowerpots, dried fruit preserves for winter, and a fluffy orange cat named Pete. And in Grandma Zina’s little house, it always smelled of baking and fresh milk. Pure milk, without additives or the chemicals they sell in stores nowadays.
His childhood smelled of happiness.
Grandma Zina ran a small homestead. She kept one cow, one goat, a dozen or so chickens, and two enormous pigs that looked like bears. Lucy and Daisy—those were the names Vlad gave the two chubby creatures the moment he saw the new residents of Grandma’s kingdom.
He loved staying with Grandma Zina. Every summer vacation, and sometimes winter ones too, Vlad lived in the village. He helped around the house: fed the animals, cleaned the yard, painted anything that needed a touch-up, and lent a hand in the garden. The last one he truly hated, but he couldn’t say no. He owed Grandma Zina, just like his mother, everything. These two women raised him single-handedly, supported him, and protected him in their own way.
Grandma, of course, loved him more. Though he got his fair share of scoldings from her. Sometimes she’d throw a broom or a towel at him. Other times, she’d toss a sharp word laced with biting reproach. But still, she loved him above all else. She’d always dote on him, hold him close to her heart, and tell incredible stories about her youth. How she walked five kilometers to school in snow and rain. How she worked in the fields with her parents harvesting beets. How she sneaked off to her first dance and how she fell in love for the first time.
But most of all, Vlad loved the stories about his grandfather. He’d survived famine, war, and the cursed communists. He built his own house with his bare hands after returning from Siberia (where he’d been exiled to a labor camp). Yet he never gave up. He was honest, responsible, brave.
He passed away just before Vlad was born, never getting the chance to hold his grandson in his arms.