The crisp autumn wind stirred the fallen leaves, sending them skittering across the old stone path, their soft whispers like echoes from a life long past. Victoria stood at the window, gazing out at what once had been a garden, now overtaken by nature’s unrelenting grip. The chaos of overgrown vines and wild weeds felt like a mirror to her own life—abandoned, lost in the tangle of things unsaid, untended.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. It can’t go on like this.
She opened her laptop and began to scroll, her fingers idly tracing through emails until one in particular stopped her: Elena Sergeevna’s message. A young gardener named Kirill had worked wonders on Elena’s garden in just three months. Victoria hesitated, then clicked the reply button. Perhaps this will be the fresh start the garden—and I—need.
The garden had been a silent reminder of the life she tried to leave behind the moment she moved in, three long years ago. She’d promised herself a clean slate. But some parts of her past clung to her, just like the creeping ivy strangling her flowerbeds. Especially the garden. Especially him.
Her eyes drifted to a photo frame on her desk, the image of a young Victoria and Alexey, arms around each other, their smiles radiant as they embraced on their honeymoon. She turned the photo face down, unable to look at it any longer.
Fifteen years had passed since Alexey had walked out of her life without a word. One day, he kissed her goodbye and never returned. She searched for answers, begged for closure, but the only response came in the form of divorce papers—cold, final, faceless. No explanation, just an ending. She had been married to a man who spun stories, but never the truth.
Her phone rang, snapping her from the past. Elena.
“Yes,” Victoria replied. “Let him come tomorrow, ten o’clock.”
The following morning, Kirill arrived, punctual as promised. Tall, calm, his presence soothing yet filled with an air of quiet confidence.
“I’m Kirill,” he said softly. “Elena sent me.”
He followed her as she led him through the wild, tangled garden. He asked insightful questions, kneeling to test the soil, brushing the leaves aside with a gentle reverence.
“It will take a couple of months,” he said, “but we can restore it.”
Restore it. Her heart skipped a beat at the word “we.” She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do whatever you need to.”
And so, he did.
Victoria watched him from her office every day. He worked with a kind of quiet understanding, as though he knew the garden’s very soul. With each passing day, the chaos began to retreat. The old brick paths reappeared, flowerbeds regained their shape, and the air began to feel alive again.
They exchanged occasional words—about roses, the rain, and books. Kirill had a surprising depth, a soft spot for poetry that Victoria couldn’t help but admire. But there was something about him that unsettled her. His mannerisms—his posture, his half-smile, the tilt of his head as he thought—felt so familiar, it gnawed at something deep inside her, something she wasn’t ready to face.
One afternoon, she found him near the old gazebo, buried in vines and dust, a forgotten place where Alexey had once knelt, offering her a ring.
“It’s a shame this has been forgotten,” Kirill mused. “Shall I restore it?”
“No,” she answered sharply. “Leave it.”
He was quiet for a moment, then nodded, sensing the weight behind her words.
That evening, as she sorted through a drawer, her fingers brushed against an old photograph of Alexey from their early days. Her breath caught in her throat—the resemblance was impossible to ignore. Same eyes. Same smile. Same mole by his jawline.
The next morning, Victoria found herself sitting with Kirill under the cherry tree, offering him tea.
“How long have you been gardening?” she asked, her voice betraying her nerves.
“About a year, professionally. My father taught me,” he answered, his gaze soft.
Victoria’s heart skipped. “What’s his name?” she asked, though she already feared the answer.
“Alexey.”
Her blood ran cold. She turned her face away, her throat tight. “Are you alright?” Kirill asked, concern filling his voice.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, hurrying inside, the world spinning around her.
The pieces fell into place. Kirill was nineteen. Alexey had left her fifteen years ago. The timeline made sense. Kirill had been born during their marriage. A child she had never known, never even imagined. Every dream they had of a family had been a lie.
That night, sleep eluded her. Should she confront him? Should she confront Alexey? Could she?
A few days later, Kirill presented her with roses—the first blooms from the garden he had restored.
“They’re beautiful,” he said with a proud smile.
Her eyes fixed on the flowers, and something inside her snapped. “Take them away. I hate roses.”
He froze, taken aback. “I didn’t know…”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” she muttered, retreating into the house.
That evening, she found herself staring at Alexey’s photo again. His eyes—those same eyes—stared back at her from the pages of her past, and now from the young man who worked in her garden.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. Kirill stood at the door, his expression hesitant.
“Victoria Andreevna, may I speak with you?”
With a heavy heart, she let him in.
“It’s about my father,” Kirill began, his voice uncertain. “Ever since I mentioned him, something’s felt… strange.”
Victoria nodded, urging him to continue.
“I don’t remember much. I was only four when he and my mother died. My uncle, his twin, raised me. I call him Dad now, but…”
Victoria’s heart dropped. “His twin?”
Kirill’s lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “Identical. People say I look just like him.”
Her legs went weak beneath her. Identical. It all made sense now. Alexey hadn’t just vanished—he had made a choice. A choice she hadn’t known about. Her anger, her grief, had been misplaced, aimed at a ghost.
“I want to meet him,” she whispered.
A few days later, Alexey stepped into her home, older, graying at the temples, but still undeniably the man she had once loved—and lost.
They stood in silence for what felt like hours, the weight of years and unspoken words between them.
“I’m sorry,” Alexey said quietly. “I made the wrong choice.”
“You made it alone,” Victoria replied, her voice a mixture of sorrow and resolve.
“I thought it was the right thing to do. His parents died, and I couldn’t let him grow up without someone. I didn’t think I could ask you to give up everything for a child who wasn’t yours.”
“You should have given me the choice.”
He lowered his eyes, a silent admission. “I know.”
They talked through the night—about their love, their pain, and the pieces of themselves they had never shared. There was healing in their words, and in the space between them, a fragile thread of hope.
The next morning, Kirill found them sitting together on the couch—Victoria asleep on Alexey’s shoulder, a quiet peace between them. He stood in the doorway, watching them with a mix of uncertainty and understanding.
“Is everything different now?” he asked quietly.
Alexey looked up, his smile soft, almost wistful. “Now things can be the way they should have been.”
Victoria stirred, her eyes fluttering open to meet both of their gazes. She saw Alexey, the man who had returned, and Kirill, the son she had never known but could now embrace.
“Stay,” she whispered. “Both of you.”
And in the garden, the roses bloomed once more—not as symbols of betrayal, but as symbols of healing—delicate, resilient, and full of life. Just like them.
