Olga froze by the stove. Steam from the boiling water rose, fogging the window. Through the haze, she saw the silhouette of her husband carrying two bundles.
“What are you saying?” Olga slowly set the cup down on the table. “What children? Where from?”
The door flew open. Artem entered the kitchen—his hair tousled, wearing a jacket covered with pine needles. In his arms, he held two boys wrapped in his old woolen blanket. One tightly hugged a worn plush rabbit to his chest; the other seemed asleep. “They were sitting under the oak, as if waiting for someone,” Artem sank onto a chair, eyes fixed on the boys. “No one nearby, just adult footprints leading north, toward the swamp.”
Olga stepped closer. One of the boys opened his eyes—dark, clear. His forehead was hot, but his gaze was thoughtful.
“What have you done, Tyoma?” she whispered.
A rustle came from the bedroom. Varenka, their six-year-old daughter, appeared in the doorway, rubbing her sleepy eyes. “Mom?” She stopped, noticing the strangers. “Who are they?”
“They are…” Olga hesitated.
“They’re Timofey and Saveliy,” Artem said firmly. “They will live with us.”
Varenka approached, cautiously stretching her neck to examine the boys.
“Can I hug them?” she asked, raising her hand.
Olga just nodded, unable to utter a word.
The following days blurred into an endless chain of chores. The boys turned out to be younger than Varenka—around three or four years old.
They were afraid of loud noises, refused to eat meat. One was scared of the dark, the other hid behind the stove.
“We need to inform social services,” said Nina Stepanovna, the nurse who came to examine the children. “Maybe someone is looking for them.”
“No one’s looking for them,” Artem cut her off. “I followed their tracks. Do you know where they led? To the swamp. Understand?”
Nina pursed her lips.
“Rumors will spread, Tyoma. Why do you need extra mouths? You already have…” She glanced at Olga.
“Finish,” Olga’s voice was steel. “‘You already have’ what?”
“You don’t live by the sea,” Nina finished, looking away.
At night Olga stood by the window. Outside, the pine tops swayed, whispering secrets to each other. In the children’s room, three slept—Varenka hugged both boys as if protecting them.
“Not asleep?” Artem came up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
“Remembering,” Olga said quietly.
She didn’t say what. Artem knew. Four years ago, when they first moved into this house on the edge of the forest, she lost a child—so quickly she didn’t even have time to be scared.
The doctor later said it was stress from moving. There were no more pregnancies.
“If you could pick them up,” Olga turned to her husband, “I have to keep them.”
Artem didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed somewhere toward the forest, dark and dense beyond the window. There, under the huge oak, a new story of their family began.
Within a week, the boys stopped hiding. Timofey, the one with the rabbit, showed Varenka how to make little sand cakes. Saveliy gently petted the neighbor’s dog who came by with a curious visit.
“They look like you,” the neighbor chuckled, looking at the children. “Especially this one, with the dimple on his chin. Like he’s your own.”
Artem remained silent. In the evening, for the first time, he sat next to the boys and began telling a story about a bear and a fox. Olga watched from behind the door—his voice was calm, like the murmur of a forest stream.
There were now three children in their home. More noise, more fuss and care. But also more life—the very kind that never stops flowing, even when it seems everything has ended.
Six years flew by like a single breath. Autumn once again painted the forest in copper and gold tones. The house was overgrown with climbing hops; near the bathhouse, a sea buckthorn patch grew green.
Varya stood by the stove, her hair tied in a tight bun. At her age, she already knew how to cook cabbage soup and fold laundry into neat stacks.
“They’re teasing again,” Timofey threw his backpack onto the bench. “They say we’re not real.”
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