After serving fifteen long years in prison, Vadim stepped into the world a free man—but there was no joy in his heart. Time hadn’t healed the wounds of his past. If anything, it had deepened them. He carried only one thought: visit the grave of the woman he had loved more than life itself—Polina.

Polina had been everything to him. They were young and deeply in love, planning to get married when life tore them apart. One tragic night, a fight broke out at a bar. Vadim, trying to defend her, struck a man who later died. He was sentenced to prison, and while he sat behind bars, word reached him that Polina had died in a car crash. The news shattered what was left of him.

Now, finally free, Vadim found himself at the gates of the cemetery, gripping a single red rose in his calloused hand. The wind rustled the leaves as he walked past rows of tombstones, until he found her name carved in cold stone: Polina Ivanova, 1987–2009.

He knelt, heart pounding, tears burning behind his eyes. He whispered her name. Just then, a soft voice behind him broke the silence.

“She’s not there.”

Vadim turned, startled. A young boy, no more than seven or eight, stood a few steps away. His hair was messy, his clothes a little too big for his frame, but there was a strange calm in his eyes.

“What did you say?” Vadim asked.

“She’s not there,” the boy repeated, his tone gentle, almost sad. “I know where she is.”

Vadim felt a chill crawl up his spine. “Who are you? What do you mean?”

The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and began walking toward the cemetery gate.

Something in Vadim—call it instinct, or desperation—urged him to follow.

They walked in silence through winding streets, the boy leading with quiet certainty. Eventually, they stopped in front of an old psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of town.

“She’s here,” the boy said.