Before Vadim could ask another question, the boy had vanished, as if swallowed by the wind.

Inside, the place smelled of antiseptic and loneliness. The nurse at the front desk looked up with mild suspicion as Vadim explained himself. At first, she refused to answer his questions, but when he showed a photo of Polina—faded, worn from years in his pocket—her expression changed.

“She’s… still here,” the nurse said hesitantly. “Room 207.”

Vadim’s heart thundered as he made his way down the sterile hallway.

There, by the window, sat a woman. Her long hair had grayed, and her frame was thinner, frailer, but when she turned, the spark in her eyes ignited something in his soul. It was her.

Polina.

She stared at him for a long time, confused, then slowly began to cry. “Vadim They told me you died,” she whispered.

The truth unraveled painfully. After Vadim was imprisoned, Polina had suffered a mental breakdown. Her grief consumed her. She attempted to take her own life but survived. Her family, ashamed and desperate, committed her to the hospital and forged a death certificate. They buried an empty coffin and cut all ties with the past.

And the boy? No one at the hospital had ever seen him.

Epilogue

Vadim visited Polina every day after that. Slowly, she began to return to herself. They laughed again. Cried again. Held hands like they once did as young lovers with dreams.

The past had stolen years from them. But in that quiet hospital room, they found something even time couldn’t erase—love, still alive, waiting patiently for its moment to be reborn.

And sometimes, in the evening light, Vadim would swear he saw a small boy standing at the end of the hallway, watching over them with a smile.