Now we have two more children, I found them in the forest under the oak tree, we will raise them as our own!”

“Did you punch them?” Varya turned to her younger brother.

“Savka did,” Timofey smiled. “Then he sat under the tree until evening.”

Artem entered the kitchen, shaking raindrops from his jacket. Over the years, his shoulders had broadened, and silver streaks appeared in his beard. “Saveliy got into a fight again?” he asked, pouring himself some fruit drink.

“He beat up Sanya Volkov,” Timofey nodded. “He said we don’t have a last name.”

Artem was silent. Every morning he drove the children in the old car five kilometers through the forest to school.

In winter, they often got stuck in snowdrifts, pushing the car out together, laughing when it finally broke free. In spring, they sank in mud; in autumn, fought with the rain.

“School hardens you,” he finally said. “Like iron in fire.”

“I’m tired of watching him being hardened,” Olga appeared in the doorway. Over the years, she had become thinner but stronger—like a forest vine. “That’s not hardening, that’s bullying.”

Saveliy came last—he sat quietly at the table, folding his hands. His knuckles were bruised.

“I won’t do it anymore,” he said without looking up.

“You will,” Artem put his hand on his head. “If they hurt you—you defend yourself.”

In the evening, Artem took the children to the forest. Under the drizzling rain, they walked mossy paths he knew like the back of his hand.

“Look,” he pointed to a tree cross-section. “See the rings? Each year—one ring. Outside is the bark; it protects. Without it, the tree will die.”

“Am I bark?” Saveliy asked.

“We’re all bark,” Artem nodded. “And roots too. They’re underground, unseen, but they hold everything together.”

At home, Olga combed Varya’s hair. The girl winced as the comb caught knots. “Mom, did you love them right away?” she suddenly asked.

“Who?” Olga froze.

“Timka and Savka. When Dad brought them.”

Olga put down the comb and sat opposite her daughter. Varya’s eyes, gray like her father’s, looked serious.

“No,” she answered honestly. “At first, it was scary. Then—worry. Then I realized they were always ours. Just born somewhere else.”

Varya hugged her mother, burying her nose in her shoulder.

“I was scared at first too, that they’d take you and Dad away from me. But now I can’t imagine life without them.”

At school, the children had different destinies. Varya was the top student, the teachers’ pride.

Timofey was a dreamer, a sketch artist, always somewhere in his own world. Saveliy was quiet, skilled with his hands, a master at fixing everything—from birdhouses to school desks.

“You have an unusual family,” a teacher once told Olga. “But strong. It shows.”

“The forest teaches,” Olga replied.

One morning Artem took the children to a clearing. There stood a structure made of branches and logs—something between a hut and a treehouse.

“This is where we’ll learn,” he said. “The forest isn’t a secret, it’s a mirror.”

They spent every weekend there. Learning to listen to birds, read tracks on damp earth, understand the wind’s scents. Varya drew a map of the forest, Timofey crafted a bow, Saveliy kept an observation diary.

“We’ll have a day of silence,” Artem once suggested. “A whole day without words—only gestures and glances.”

That day became a family tradition—the last Sunday of every month.

They learned to understand each other without words—by hand movements, head tilts, the wrinkle between the eyebrows.

At the end of the school year, the children brought drawings home. One showed a large family under a tree, all five holding hands. Another showed the forest with sun rays breaking through. Below was written: “Our home.”

The boys and Varya turned fourteen. Autumn again colored the forest copper and gold, scattering fallen leaves along the paths.

“What’s this?” Olga pulled an old wooden box from the attic chest. Dust rose into the air, making her sneeze.

Inside she found a faded photo. Artem, young and clean-shaven, stood next to another man about his age. They smiled, raising mugs. On the back, faded ink read: “Sanya. Summer on Olkhova.”

That evening the postman brought a letter. Olga didn’t immediately notice the return address, but when she saw it—she froze. The sender’s last name seemed vaguely familiar.

“Artem,” she called to her husband, chopping wood in the yard. “You’ve got a letter. From Marina Petrovna Kalinina.”

Artem’s face twitched. He took the envelope but didn’t open it—put it on the table and returned to the woodpile. Only at night, after the children had fallen asleep, did he sit by candlelight and tear open the edge of the envelope. Olga watched him, not daring to approach. She saw his shoulders tense, how he slowly lowered his head.

“What is it?” she finally asked.

Artem handed her a sheet:

“Artem, my son has gone to the Heavenly Beyond. He couldn’t tell you himself back then… His heart weakened, but his shame was stronger than words. The children are his. Their mother left even earlier. No relatives remain, I am ill and can’t care for myself. He knew you would give them life. Forgive me for writing only now. I needed time to accept it myself. Marina.”

Artem’s hand trembled as he put the letter down.

“Sanya,” he whispered. “Alexander Kalinin. We worked together at the reserve, then he left. I thought forever.”

“He… is the father of Timofey and Saveliy?” Olga sat beside him, putting her hand on his shoulder.

“Looks like it.”