– Why do you need this headache? – grumbled the neighbor, Aunt Grace, indignantly. – You’re city folks, you have no idea what a house in the countryside is like! Hauling water, chopping firewood, stoking the stove.
– Aunt Grace…
– Shoveling snow in winter, cleaning up mud in spring…
Irene only smiled. Aunt Grace was a straightforward, no-nonsense woman. She had spent most of her life in the countryside, intimately familiar with the charms of rural, labor-intensive living. After her husband’s passing, she moved to her daughter’s place in the city and couldn’t stop marveling at the ease of urban life. Hot water flowed straight from the tap, radiators reliably warmed the home, and even the floors were heated! Keeping an apartment tidy was so much simpler! It wasn’t a house where cleaning dragged on for an entire day. And repairs? No need to patch a roof or fix a sagging porch. Pure bliss!
How could you explain to someone like that that a country house was a dream? From their earliest childhood, as far back as Irene could remember, she and her brother had wanted a house. A big, cozy one, absolutely with a fireplace and a massive library. They imagined it so vividly, down to the smallest details! Every evening, they added new touches, making plans for how they’d set it up…
– And in the attic, – Victor would say, tucking his three-year-old sister into a blanket, – we’ll put a telescope so you can look at the stars.
– And you’ll do carpentry, – Irene would mumble sleepily.
After those conversations, she’d fall into a sweet sleep, dreaming of a vast starry sky, hearing the crackle of logs in the fireplace, and breathing in the scents of old, beloved books.
This autumn was breathtaking: blue and gold. The sky was so piercingly clear, a vivid azure, that it seemed if you stared too long, your eyes would start to water. The trees had swapped their summer green for luxurious red and gold attire.
Irene wandered through the colorful carpet of fallen leaves, hardly believing that their childhood dream had finally come true. They had bought a country house! It was exactly as they, still children, had imagined it! With a fireplace, a spiral staircase to the second floor, a spacious veranda, and apple trees in the garden. Victor had stumbled upon this miracle by pure chance: at work, someone was moving abroad and hurriedly selling off their property.
– I went to see it, – Victor told his sister, – and I couldn’t believe my eyes! It’s not just some similar house—it’s *the* house from our dream! I didn’t even haggle. Honestly, Irene, I’d have paid extra just to make it ours. It was already ours, you know? It was just waiting for us.
Irene laughed: Victor, her dear, beloved older brother, was still the same romantic he’d been as a child! Nothing changed him—not the harsh years in the army, not having to learn a new trade after his degree became obsolete, not an early marriage, nor the painful, devastating divorce that left him penniless and disillusioned with family life. Maybe a romantic soul was like DNA? Fixed for life…
Regardless, the joy of their dream coming true was overwhelming! Victor, like a man possessed, shuttled between the city and the countryside, bringing back a new rocking chair one day, huge boxes filled with books the next, or patchwork quilts and fluffy rugs.
Irene suddenly discovered that, more than anything, she loved baking pies with fragrant apple filling, making jam, and drying aromatic herbs for evening tea.
– You know, – she confessed to her brother one day, – I keep thinking I’ll move here when I retire. I feel so good here! It’s… I don’t even know how to put it…
– Life makes sense? – Victor suggested.
– Yes. I know it’s silly to think about retirement at twenty-five, but I do. Because I don’t want to leave this place.
Her brother winked playfully. He understood Irene perfectly. How could he not? They’d been the closest of friends their whole lives.
– I brought you a telescope, – Victor mentioned casually over dinner.
– No way! – Irene dropped her fork in surprise. – You’re serious… Victor!
– I promised you back when we were kids, – he smiled. – Did you think I’d forgotten? No way. Let’s finish our tea and go set it up, alright?
Irene nodded eagerly and rushed to heat the kettle.
– Vic, I dried some lemon balm for the tea. I’ll grab it—it’s in my nook upstairs, hang on.
Irene’s bedroom was on the second floor. It had a huge window overlooking a field of daisies. She’d fallen in love with the room instantly. On a large oak table, she laid out herbs to dry: oregano, lemon balm, mint, currant leaves. Breaking off a sprig of mint, she paused, thinking she heard noises from the attic.
“Maybe mice? No, that can’t be… Victor checked everything.”
She listened again, more carefully. The sounds were like soft footsteps, mixed with other noises. Quiet, but distinct…
Voices!
– Victor! – She flew down the stairs faster than the wind.
Victor, not waiting for the promised lemon balm, was finishing his tea. Seeing his breathless sister, he frowned.
– What’s wrong? Why are you so pale?
– Vic, I think there’s someone in the attic! It sounds like footsteps, and voices too. Like people talking quietly…
– Alright, – Victor stood up. – You sure it’s not your imagination?
– No, I’m sure! I’m telling you, voices and footsteps…
– Stay here. I’ll go check.
He quickly climbed the stairs, and soon Irene heard the creak of the heavy attic hatch opening.
She couldn’t stay put for more than two minutes. Worry for her brother outweighed her fear, and, arming herself with a rolling pin just in case, Irene headed to the attic. The hatch was open. Victor’s voice, calm and questioning, reassured her. Everything was fine. No danger.
– Irene! Come down, we have guests!
Victor entered the kitchen, leading two small girls, about five or six years old, by the hands.
– Have a seat, – he offered the guests, turning to his stunned sister. – Irene, is there any of your pie left?
– We didn’t mean to scare you, – the older girl said hurriedly. – The house used to be empty; no one lived here. The attic’s nice, no drafts at all. And there are apples in the garden…
The girls were sisters: the older one was Anna, the younger Nina. Watching how quickly they devoured the pie, Irene realized they hadn’t eaten properly in a while. Without a word, Victor brought bread, sausage, cheese, and made sandwiches.
– Where’s your mom? – Irene asked.
The younger girl’s eyes filled with tears. Anna patted her sister’s shoulder.
– Mom drowned in the river. She went swimming and didn’t come back. Dad found her later.
– So you have a dad? – Victor said, relieved. – Where is he?
– Dad’s at home. He’s really nice, but when he drinks, it’s scary, – Anna said quietly.
– Does he drink often? Eat, eat, – Irene pushed the plate of sandwiches closer.
– Not often, – little Nina piped up. – Only when he starts…
– It’s for three days, – Anna finished.
Victor looked at Irene.
– I’ll go check on their dad, – he said grimly.
Irene gently touched his sleeve.
– Don’t. You might lose your temper, and it’ll end in a fight. Let me go, and you wait by the gate. If anything happens, you’ll hear.
– Fine, – Victor agreed after a moment’s thought. – But we’ll go in the morning. Let their dad at least sober up.
The door wasn’t locked, but Irene knocked anyway. She was nervous about entering, unsure what she’d find. No answer came. Gathering her courage, she knocked harder. Finally, shuffling footsteps approached, and a moment later, Irene saw the owner: a sullen, sleepy man in his forties. He stared at the floor, barely noticing the stranger.
– Hello, – Irene said loudly.
The man, without replying, turned and shuffled into the room. Irene followed. He was already sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the wall.
– I came to tell you your children are at our place… in case you’re worried.
At those words, a flicker of awareness appeared in the man’s eyes.
– Children? My kids are asleep. It’s early morning. What nonsense are you talking about, lady? Who are you?
– Your daughters, Anna and Nina, were hiding in my attic, – Irene said, struggling to keep her anger in check. – Hiding from your drinking. My brother found them, and they spent the night with us. They’re not asleep—they’re in my kitchen, drinking cocoa and eating. Because they were cold and hungry while you, their father, were drunk.
– Lady…
The man stood, swaying but staying upright. He rubbed his forehead wearily.
– Come with me, lady.
– Where? I’m not going anywhere…
– To the kids’ room. You’ll see they’re home, asleep.
Irene followed reluctantly. She noticed the house was tidy, except for the kitchen, where broken dish shards littered the floor. Otherwise, it was cozy and clean.
“He was probably a good homeowner… until he started drinking,” Irene thought.
The man flung open the door to the children’s room and froze, seeing the neatly made beds. Irene, peering over his shoulder, noticed the room was bright and spacious. The girls’ beds had stuffed animals, and there were small desks and a large, clearly handcrafted bookshelf filled with books, colored pencils, sketchpads, and paints. The man turned to her, horrified.
– Where are my kids? – he asked, his voice hoarse with fear. – Did you take them? What do you want? Take anything, just give them back!
– Calm down! You should be ashamed! You’re a grown man, a father of two, reduced to this pathetic state. What are you doing? Drowning your sorrows while your daughters hide in attics!
– God…
The man clutched his head, a stifled groan escaping his lips.
– Stop it, – Irene said, softening. – Come to our place. You’ll see the girls.
– Anna! Nina! – The father hugged both girls and broke into sobs.
– Papa, don’t cry! Please don’t cry!
– I’ve failed you, – the man said, pulling himself together. – I promise, I’ll never touch a drop of alcohol again. Never! And we’ll live happily again.
Victor, who had been silently watching, approached the man and offered his hand.
– If you need help, just ask, – he said briefly.
…
The city greeted Irene with rain and gloom. The gray, slushy weather had dragged on for a week, and Irene envied Victor, who stayed in the countryside. He was on vacation and decided to spend it settling into the dream house.
– I’ll come for the weekend, – Irene promised. – I’ll take a week off to help you out.
For some reason, she didn’t want to admit that, besides helping her brother, another reason drew her to the countryside: the neighbor girls. How were they doing now?
On Saturday, loaded with bags, she stepped out of the car to meet Victor.
– What’s all this? – Victor asked, surprised, taking the heavy bags from her.
– You know, Vic, I brought some treats for the girls. Anna and Nina. I keep thinking about them.
– They’re doing fine. Their dad, Oliver, turned out to be a decent guy. Guess grief just broke him for a while… He’s sober now, the girls are fed and clothed. They come by often, waiting for you.
– Really? – Irene asked suspiciously. Victor smiled.
– Want to go see them now? They’ll be thrilled.
This time, the door opened immediately.
– Aunt Irene, you’re here!
Nina and Anna ran to her, ready to hug. Their father followed, looking sheepish.
– Hello, Irene, – he greeted.
Today, he was completely sober, and it was clear he’d sworn off alcohol. Irene noticed his neat clothes, fresh haircut, and even caught a pleasant whiff of cologne.
– Hello, Oliver. I brought something for your daughters.
– Would you like to come in? We were just about to have lunch. Join us?
– I’d love to! – Irene replied sincerely.
– Oliver, where did you learn to cook so well? – Irene asked after the girls, delighted by their kind aunt’s visit and gifts, ran off to play in their room.
– I’m a chef, – he laughed. – I work at a restaurant.
– A restaurant? But here in the countryside…
– We’re city folks, – Oliver explained. – Our apartment’s under renovation, so I brought the family here temporarily. We’ll be back in the city soon.
Irene soaked in the calm, warm atmosphere around her. Oliver was indeed an excellent cook. A vase of fresh wildflowers sat on the table. The girls looked peaceful and happy.
– You can’t imagine, – Irene admitted, – how glad I am that you’re all doing well! You’re incredibly strong to have turned your life around! Your girls are happy—it’s obvious!
– Thank you for the kind words, – Oliver replied modestly. – But if it weren’t for you…
– Please, let’s not, – Irene’s voice was gentle but firm. – You went through grief, but seeing the consequences, you pulled yourself together. I had nothing to do with it. If it were enough to just talk to people… No, Oliver, this is your achievement, and yours alone.
All week, Anna and Nina came over first thing in the morning. Victor had returned to the city after finishing the remaining house projects. Irene had plenty of free time to spend with the girls: they read books together, drew, and Irene taught them to bake cheesecakes and apple pie. Around noon, Oliver would come for his daughters, often taking Irene along. The afternoons were spent at their house, playing board games or looking through family photos. Irene only returned home after dinner.
Victor came to pick up his sister that evening. She had already said goodbye to the neighbors and, as she got into the car, took one last look at Oliver’s house. The windows glowed brightly. They were probably cooking something fun together in the kitchen or sitting around the table drinking tea. Or maybe getting ready for bed, with Oliver sitting on the floor between the girls’ beds, reading *The Moomins* aloud. Oliver…
Oliver and his little daughters had become so dear to her, almost like family.
She didn’t want to leave at all.
– You’ll see them again, – Victor said, noticing her sadness.
– Yeah, – she sighed. – I just feel like I’ll miss them.
Victor didn’t reply. He knew his sister and saw that it wasn’t just neighborly affection. She’d grown attached to the girls—and to Oliver, too.
“Let them figure it out,” he thought.
He didn’t know what to advise Irene. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have. Other people’s children were a huge responsibility: spending a fun week with them was one thing, but accepting them as your own, raising and nurturing them, was entirely different.
“Let them figure it out.”
“Autumn is gold, and winter is silver,” Irene thought, gazing at the snow-covered garden.
…
Victor’s life had changed significantly: he’d met a woman he planned to marry soon. Lively, cheerful Jane was perfect for him. Irene was certain his family life would now be a success. The happy couple was busy with pleasant tasks, decorating the house for the New Year.
Victor brought a Christmas tree from the forest, and Jane wove beautiful wreaths from pine branches and rowan berries.
– I think, – Victor confided to his sister, – if Jane and I celebrate New Year’s here, everything will be alright. But, Irene, don’t you dare think you’ll be in the way! We’re celebrating together, and that’s final.
Irene had no choice but to agree. She felt a bit sad. She’d hoped to see Oliver and his girls, but their house had a large lock on the door, and the snow-covered path suggested they’d been gone for a while. The apartment renovation must have finished. Where were they now? Irene pictured Oliver decorating a Christmas tree with his daughters. Gifts “from Santa,” of course, were bought in advance and waiting for their moment. The girls were excited for the holiday, and Oliver watched them fondly.
“I hope they’re doing wonderfully.”
A loud knock came at the door. Irene hurried to open it.
– Who is it, Irene? – Victor called from the kitchen.
– Aunt Irene, it’s us!
Anna and Nina burst in, their cheeks rosy from the cold. Oliver, holding a huge bag of gifts, stepped onto the porch with a smile.
– Will you welcome Santa Claus and his two Snow Maidens? – he asked.
– Happy New Year! – the girls shouted.
Victor whisked them off to the garden to set off fireworks. Jane stood nearby, clapping her hands. Oliver and Irene watched the merriment from the window. They had much to say to each other, though the most important things had already been said without words. Oliver, Irene, the children… Family.
– We’re a family, aren’t we? – Oliver asked, offering Irene a velvet box.
– Yes, – she replied with a smile.
Embracing, they watched the girls delight in the fireworks on that joyful New Year’s night. Everyone was happy, each in their own way.
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