He didn’t move for a long time. Then he quietly asked:

— And you… why are you alone?

Maria sighed. Her eyes turned glassy.

— My husband died a long time ago. My son… he was gone before he was even born. Then life followed — work, retirement, a cat, knitting. Everything on repeat. You’re the first person in ten years I’ve had tea with who wasn’t just myself.

They sat there for a long while. The passersby thinned out, and the snow fell softly, as if trying to hush their pain.

The next morning, Nikolai didn’t wake up on a bench, but in a cozy room with daisy-patterned curtains.

Days passed. Then weeks. Nikolai seemed to come back to life. He fixed chairs, helped around the house, told stories about work — how he once saved a colleague from a gas explosion. And Maria listened. Cooking him childhood soups, washing his socks, knitting a scarf — she gave him something he hadn’t felt in a long time: care.

But one day, everything changed.

Maria was coming back from the market when she noticed a car at the gate. A man got out. It was Valery, his son.

— Hello… Excuse me… Do you know if Nikolai Andreevich lives here?

Maria felt her heart clench.

— And who are you to him?…

“I’m his son. I… I made a terrible mistake.“

Maria studied him for a moment before inviting him in. Inside, father and son faced each other, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I let someone come between us.“

Nikolai looked at his son, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and hope.

“It’s never too late to make things right.“