Anyone can stumble. Anyone can fall. But not everyone manages to reclaim, to restore—however harsh it may sound—their human dignity afterward. Examples are a dime a dozen. Just look at the homeless. This story is about one such person. And the way it ends does credit to this particular man, who, due to circumstances, found himself homeless and jobless.
—
He got himself into a mess: he lost everything. Through his own foolishness. He grew up in an orphanage. An orphan. But at first, he made plans, convinced that everything in his life would work out. Alas! He fell in with bad company. When his girlfriend found out, she left him. Then he got fired from his job. Automatically, he was evicted from the workers’ dormitory. While he still had money for booze, he kept up his bravado, thinking he’d pull through. But no, it didn’t work out. The life of a homeless man sucked him in. He stopped caring about what he wore or who he drank with from a shared glass. Whether he slept on the roadside or in a basement. Sometimes, he had moments of clarity. But he hated them. Because they forced him to admit that he had dragged himself to rock bottom.
In the orphanage, they didn’t let him sink too low: they didn’t just feed and clothe the orphan. They cared for him, taught him right from wrong. And they taught him so well that neither the director nor the teachers doubted: of all people, Paul would surely get into university. He was worthy. And he had the knowledge to back it up. He submitted his documents, copied down the schedule for consultations and exams. He even reviewed some material, lying on his bunk in the dormitory where other applicants like him stayed.
But one evening, when Paul went to the supermarket for a bottle of water, he crossed paths with a lively group of young people. They spoke to him as if they’d known him forever and invited him to join them by the riverbank, promising a grand night. And Paul went. Maybe because he had no idea what a “grand night” entailed. But the fact remains: he went. And that night stretched into a week—Paul spent the entire time with his new acquaintances.
They went to one of their dachas and stayed there until the liquor ran dry. Then, stocking up on more booze, they cruised around on another guy’s motorboat. And drank. Paul couldn’t recall the name of the alcohol. But he remembered the freedom, the thrill that came with every sip.
When Paul finally snapped out of it, he realized he’d missed all his exams. He’d been evicted from the dormitory. This shook him up. He went looking for work. He found a job as an apprentice machinist at a factory. It came with a workers’ dormitory. An advance. And even a girl he met in the factory cafeteria. He fell head over heels for her. He knew she liked him too. They spent every evening together. Finally, she invited Paul to her home to meet her parents.
How he prepared! And why wouldn’t he? He was going to a real home, something he’d never had. And to the home of the girl who meant everything to him. Paul ironed his clothes and polished his shoes. He ran a comb through his red curls several times. Finally, he calmed down: everything seemed fine. And it would have stayed fine.
It could have been good. But Paul stumbled again: he didn’t refuse the drink offered by two scruffy men outside a liquor store. If only he’d known, he would’ve taken another route back to the dormitory. He’d walked that way so many times without issue. But this time, the two men seemed to be waiting for him. They said the magic words:
— Hey, kid! Wanna be the third? Drop anchor. We’re not stingy. We know the rules. We drink as three…
And he became the third. Paul listened to their slurred life stories, each interrupting the other. He even got a kind of masterclass: he’d never heard such intricate strings of profanity before.
The stories dragged on. The men took turns going back to the liquor store four more times, demanding the same bottle be refilled. When Paul remembered he was supposed to pick up his girlfriend to go to the movies, it was too late. And he knew he couldn’t show up at the dormitory in that state. The men, as if reading his mind, said:
— Nowhere to crash? No big deal! Come with us! Deluxe suite. All-inclusive. Plenty of room for everyone.
And he went with them to the park, deep into its heart. There, he spent the night on the grass.
He woke up, and the day was already in full swing. Naturally, so was his work shift. He imagined how his girlfriend would look at him. His supervisor? His foreman? He wished the ground would swallow him whole! No, he wasn’t going anywhere. These two wouldn’t ask him anything or lecture him on how to live. He’d rather stay with them.
—
A few days later, he mustered the courage to meet his girlfriend at the factory gate. When she saw him, she ran toward him, ready to throw her arms around him. But then she stopped short:
— Have you been drinking? You’ve been drinking this whole time? I looked for you in hospitals. I even went to the morgue. And you were just drinking? Get out! I don’t want to know you anymore. Get out!
But it wasn’t he who left. She did. She walked away quickly, without looking back. Only by her trembling shoulders did Paul guess she was crying. But he just stood there. And he felt his burning shame turn into anger. At her. So what, she didn’t want to know him anymore? Fine, he didn’t want to know her either. Or his supervisor. Or his foreman. Or any of those self-righteous types. He’d get by without them…
He returned to the park. And suddenly realized the park was as much a derelict as he had become in those few days. Once well-kept and bustling, it was now abandoned. There were remnants of a playground. Skeletons of carousels, lopsided slides. A climbing frame missing half its bars. A sandbox filled with trash. Peeling tires that kids used to jump on. And there, a summer theater. All the wooden benches had been ripped out. The stage was warped. Weeds grew between the rows. Not a single drinking fountain, the kind that adults and kids alike used. Not a single trash can. So the garbage had free rein.
And what was that behind the trees? No way! The park caretaker’s cabin had survived. Sturdy, it seemed. He approached. It wasn’t locked. He peeked inside. Spacious. With an intact roof. And a few makeshift beds covered in rags. He understood: this was a homeless shelter. Well, there’d be a spot for him too. He stepped out and looked at the cabin again. Yes, it had once been a fairy-tale cottage. Someone had built it with such care. It must have blended so perfectly into the park’s overall charm…
And a thought flickered: what if he restored the cottage? But it flickered and vanished…
—
Paul was, of course, already at rock bottom. But he wasn’t ready to become a beggar. So he went and found work at a nearby construction site. For pennies, just enough for bread and cigarettes, he was hired to clear debris. It was tough. Mountains of rubble. But, mocking himself, he thought: you got what you fought for.
While sorting through one pile of debris, Paul came across parquet planks, scraps of wooden baseboards, pieces of laminate, and linoleum. An idea struck him: what if he used these scraps to restore the caretaker’s cottage? He didn’t even know the word “restoration.” But he felt what it meant. And he began, like an ant, hauling the chosen scraps to the cottage. Then he found nails and screws. At the bottom of cans—some leftover glue. That was something. When the work at that site ended, he moved to another. There, he found plenty of metal. He was especially thrilled by unused parts of a wrought-iron fence. An image of the fairy-tale cottage’s exterior began to take shape. Paul didn’t ask for help. He enjoyed the work, the crafting. No blueprints or sketches. He didn’t even have a measuring tape. He adapted a sturdy piece of wood to serve as his ruler. The work wasn’t fast. Paul first pictured where each scrap would go. Then he tested it. Only then did he secure it. There was no electricity. So he relied solely on daylight.
But soon, the cottage took on a new shape. Truly fairy-tale-like. When its exterior came to life, Paul hauled water from the park’s little river and scrubbed the cottage from foundation to roof. Then he dared to craft a intricate geometric figure from wrought-iron rods for the roof, visible from afar. He didn’t notice that, engrossed in this work, he forgot about drinking. He didn’t want to drink. He wanted to finish the cottage. Then it was time to tidy the interior. Paul had never attended art school. But his instincts told him the inside needed to match the outside in style.
—
And then it was done. Paul flung open the door and two windows with carved shutters to air out the smell of paint and glue. The weather was perfect—late summer’s end. The sun and a gentle breeze did their job: the smell of paint and glue faded quickly. Paul sat on the porch and lit a cigarette. Then he heard a girl’s voice:
— Wow! It’s like a cottage from a fairy tale! Take my picture!
A young couple had wandered into the abandoned park and stumbled upon the cottage. He didn’t want to disturb them and slipped behind the corner. The pretty girl in a playful baseball cap, worn backward, stood in front of the cottage. Her boyfriend, with a fancy phone, snapped photos, suggesting different angles. After taking their fill of pictures, including a trendy selfie together, the couple wandered deeper into the park. And Paul suddenly felt good. For those kids. And for himself. It had turned out pretty well. But he had no idea this was just the beginning. Or that the good deed he’d done would rub the city’s mayor the wrong way.
Here’s how it happened. That same evening, the young couple posted photos of themselves and the fairy-tale cottage online. Likes and questions poured in: where is this? The couple didn’t hide the address—it’s in the abandoned park. Go, take your selfies! And people flocked. There wasn’t a day when someone wasn’t photographing themselves in front of the caretaker’s cottage. Short videos were made too. The fairy-tale cottage, set against the gold of autumn maples, was worth being the star of those clips.
Then a local, influential blogger got involved. He checked it out himself and posted a nostalgic yet accusatory piece. He vividly recalled how, in his childhood, this park thrived. How kids played here. How music filled the dance pavilion, how the summer stage hosted weekend concerts. How all the rides worked. How eagerly everyone awaited the traveling amusement park. He remembered swans gliding on the park’s little river, and rowboats bustling all day. At the end, he asked who else remembered this. And in a postscript, he posed another question: who’s in favor of bringing the park back to life?
It turned out hundreds of locals remembered the park as a true place of rest for kids and adults. And that was just those active on social media. How many more were out there, one could only guess. But there was another effect: people started suggesting what else needed to be done. Two serious entrepreneurs even offered to build a year-round children’s café and a mini fast-food restaurant. The blogger revisited the fairy-tale cottage. He managed to get its restorer to open up. He even took a few photos of him. From the interview, the blogger learned the first thing to do was repair the park benches and install trash cans. He wrote about that too, including a photo of Paul.
Within a couple of days, philanthropists replaced nearly two dozen old benches. Others brought and installed ten trash cans, designed to blend with the cottage’s aesthetic. But events unfolded on another front: the homeless, who had previously ruled the abandoned cottage, banded together against Paul. Now that townsfolk kept coming, they could no longer drink and carouse freely. The homeless tried to rebel against Paul. Once, they even barred him from entering the cottage. But park visitors came to his defense—they called the police. A squad of young officers put the homeless in their place. They even warned, somewhat recklessly, that the police would now patrol daily. And heaven help them if they were caught drinking alcohol, let alone using drugs. The officers, as their chief later scolded them, had overstepped: the park had long been off the city’s books. The blogger, through his sources, learned of this. And he unleashed a post that unflatteringly depicted the local authorities. But the local authorities were all-powerful. And it was on their orders that the homeless drove Paul out. All because a few key city figures had their eyes on the abandoned park. Specifically, the abandoned park: they planned to jointly build a paid entertainment complex with a parking lot. A surefire way to rake in profits. No free rides or playgrounds! Come to the entertainment complex, pay up, and you’ll get your attractions.
The city authorities, perhaps for the first time, faced resistance from their own people. Not only did the park issue refuse to die online, but for three consecutive weekends, residents gathered outside city hall with signs exposing the authorities’ plans to line their pockets while depriving citizens of their rightful place of rest. Other signs offered well-reasoned proposals for immediate action. People knew what they were suggesting: restoring electrical grids, repaving paths, cleaning the river and reinforcing its banks, updating the playground, and replacing outdated rides. Plus, vendor stalls like before: ice cream, water, lemonade, and, of course, cotton candy—because what’s a park without cotton candy! Those who had set their sights on destroying the park wavered: the residents’ demands were logical. And, frankly, they fit within the city budget. Plus, there were volunteer philanthropists. At an emergency session, the park was granted the right to be revived.
And then all the media rushed to find the man who had unwittingly sparked this much-needed revival for the townsfolk. But they couldn’t find him. After being driven out by the homeless, he vanished. Chance came to the rescue. Paul hadn’t vanished. He found a job as a security guard at a new residential complex, in a small caretaker’s house. A simple, no-frills house. But what if he spruced it up a bit? He’d need permission first. He asked the property manager. Admitted that the fairy-tale cottage in the old park was his handiwork. He clarified he didn’t need payment for the interior work. Nor materials—he’d already spotted usable scraps in a pile of construction waste nearby. That sealed it: he got the go-ahead.
Paul set to work on the new interior. He didn’t know what was happening in the park where he’d debuted as a creator of park architecture. But there, things were in full swing. Major work. Everything was updated. New rides were added. They built what the residents wanted—a Ferris wheel. A special lane was set aside where horses from the local stables gave rides to kids and adults. A funhouse opened, instantly popular, with laughter spilling out constantly. And finally, they secured a deal with a traveling amusement park from the Czech Republic: it would stay an extra month to operate in the revived park. And one detail the locals warmly welcomed: the park was now officially patrolled by police. With lights on all night, it was no longer dangerous.
While all this was happening in the park, Paul worked on what the property manager called his “project.” He transformed the small caretaker’s house: it now resembled a miniature medieval castle, like those still found in Scandinavia. Metal was the dominant material. Paired with artificial granite cladding, used throughout the residential complex, it created a cohesive look: the small building impressed with its solidity, exuding calm without being intimidating. Paul liked what he’d created. He still knew nothing of architectural styles or classic versus avant-garde material and color combinations. He didn’t even suspect he had an innate talent. If Paul secretly praised himself for anything, it was that he no longer craved a drink. And he discovered what it was like to live in an apartment.
The property manager tripled Paul’s salary, promoting him to head guard. He also tipped him off about a small but decent apartment for rent, fully furnished. Paul moved in immediately. And when the manager gifted him an old but working computer, Paul dove headfirst into architecture. He discovered small architectural forms—elements that, despite their name, could transform a space dramatically. The residential complex where Paul now worked had enough space and suitable landscaping for sculptures. Against the backdrop of green lawns styled like English gardens, small abstract metal sculptures were the perfect fit. Paul made a few sketches. His first ever. And they weren’t a flop—when he showed them to the manager, the man whistled in delight. He gave his approval, saying Paul could count on new materials, which he’d cover. Paul got to know nearly all the residents of this upscale, modern complex. Moreover, they showed their guests how a residential courtyard could look, with sports and playgrounds, green relaxation zones, all harmonized with small, evocative metal sculptures.
One guest was the head of a local TV station. He got excited about producing a series on how a standard residential complex could look. Filming began. First, the caretaker’s house, now almost a replica of a Danish castle in Elsinore. Then the courtyard, with its green zone and varied sculptures, was filmed in detail. Naturally, they needed the creator. Paul refused to be filmed.
What had he done that was so special? But TV folks know how to persuade. And they did. Though they tried to figure out why Paul wanted to stay anonymous. He couldn’t tell them it was shame: what if the girl he’d treated so badly saw him? In the end, the entire segment featured Paul’s narration, explaining what was made and from what. And at the close, the camera lingered on his face until the credits rolled.
As soon as the documentary about Paul and his work aired, the blogger instantly recognized the man who’d transformed the park’s cottage. He went to the TV station’s editor-in-chief. He argued that Paul had done far more than create a stunning complex interior and revive a park. Paul, likely without intending to, had reminded people that they, not the mayor, are the true stewards of their city.
Another documentary followed. A half-hour piece. And this film opened a new chapter in Paul’s life: he gained recognition. With it came a flood of work: orders poured in, not just from his city. Neighboring towns asked him to design landscapes. Paul opened his own studio. Found like-minded collaborators. Then he visited Pittsburgh. He couldn’t tear himself away from its grand fountains and cascades. Nor from its historic gardens. He soaked up the remarkable culture of outdoor sculpture, marveling at how long people had mastered this art…
But another chapter opened in Paul’s life. One he hadn’t dared dream of: one day, the girl he’d never forgotten walked into his studio. He recognized her instantly but didn’t know how to act. She did. She said she was genuinely happy for how his life had turned out. Wished him luck and success. That was all she said before turning to leave. Unexpectedly, even to himself, he approached her, looked into her eyes, and said:
— Please forgive me. And know that I loved you and still do.
She replied, equally unexpectedly:
— And know that I love you too…
Thus ended one dramatic part of this story. But it continues. Without drama now: it’s the story of two good people who’ve made it, raising a son. Though he’s only five, he’s already got a knack for architecture. Both parents are immensely proud.
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