Their daughter Lena disappeared in 1990 — on the day of her graduation.
It was a warm June night. The sky was sprinkled with stars, and the house smelled of lilacs and fresh baking — her mother had baked her favorite vanilla cake. Lena was twirling in front of the mirror in a blue dress, laughing, and her father, Nikolay, watching her, suddenly thought: «This is true happiness…»
But no one could have known that this would be their last evening together.
After the graduation party, Lena never came back home. Not that night, not the next day, not even a week later. The search went on for a long time, but it was all in vain. The police shrugged their shoulders, witnesses’ statements contradicted each other, and the only lead — stories about a girl on the highway — turned out to be false.
Years passed. Olga, her mother, almost stopped leaving the house. Nikolay aged prematurely. Hope, like a small flame in an old lamp, gradually faded.
And then — the year 2012.
One rainy October day, Nikolay was going up to the attic to tidy up. The air was full of dust; around him were boxes with books, old toys, and junk. Suddenly, he found a photo album. The very one — with childhood photos of Lena: school performances, summer trips, first grade…
Opening it, he felt his heart tighten with memories. Here she was in her school uniform, there with friends in the yard. But one photo looked unfamiliar. It definitely hadn’t been there before.
In the picture — an adult Lena, about thirty years old, standing by a wooden house against a mountain backdrop. On the back was written: “2002. I am alive. Forgive me.”
Nikolay almost dropped the album. His hands shook.
From that moment, a new chapter in his life began — the search for answers. Who put this photo there? How did it get into the album? Where had Lena been all those years?
Coming downstairs, Nikolay silently handed the photo to his wife. Olga took it with trembling hands, looked closely — and froze. A cautious, painful hope ignited in her eyes.
“This is her… This is Lena…”
They sat for long hours in silence, unable to look away from the photo. The color was a bit faded, but the details were clear: the little house, the mountains, and in the background — a sign: “Gostinica ‘Zvezda’” (Hotel “Star”).
Nikolay brought a magnifying glass. With difficulty, they read: “2002. I am alive. Forgive me. L.”
“She was alive…” he whispered. “For twelve years… and said not a word. Why?..”
The next morning Nikolay started searching. On the internet, he found a hotel with that name — in Kyrgyzstan, in a small mountain village. Without hesitation, he packed, withdrew money from his account, and set off.
The journey was long: train, transfers, bus, and finally an old minibus winding through the mountains. The higher he climbed, the colder the air became. When he was almost there, Nikolay’s heart pounded as if it wanted to burst out.
The hotel was there. An old sign, a familiar facade. Inside smelled of wood and time. Behind the counter sat a middle-aged woman.
“Excuse me,” Nikolay began with a trembling voice. “Do you know a woman named Lena? Lena Nikolayeva. Maybe she lived here about ten years ago…”
The woman looked at him intently.
“Wait. You’re Nikolay? Her father?”
He froze.
“Yes…”
She approached, opened a drawer, and took out a worn envelope. On it was written in large letters: “To Dad. Only if he comes himself.”
Nikolay’s hands trembled as he tore open the envelope.
“Dad.
If you are reading this — it means I was wrong. I ran away then, in 1990. Not from you — from fear. I fell in with a bad crowd. And then it became too late to come back. I was ashamed.
I am alive. I have a son. His name is Artyom. He has never known you.
Many times I planned to write, but I didn’t dare.
If you came — find me. I am not far.
Forgive me.
L.”
Nikolay read the letter several times until tears began to drip onto the paper. He didn’t even notice his hands shaking.
“She lives in a nearby village,” the woman said. “If you want, I can take you there.”
And so he stood at the doorstep of a small village house. In the garden, a boy about ten years old was playing. A tall, dark-haired woman appeared nearby. Their eyes met.
Lena.
She froze. So did he.
“Dad?”
He couldn’t say anything. Only nodded. And in the next moment, he was holding her in his arms — tightly, just like back then, many years ago.
“Forgive me…” she whispered. “I will fix everything. I promise.”
Several more years passed. The house once again echoed with laughter. The boy named Artyom called Nikolay “grandpa,” and Olga, for the first time in twenty years, planted flowers by the porch again.
The pain of the past sometimes reminded them of itself. But now the photo album stood on the shelf, open. On the last page — a photo of the whole family: Lena, Artyom, Nikolay, and Olga.
And the caption:
“Family is when you find each other. Even after twenty-two years.”
The autumn of 2013 was especially warm. Leaves fell slowly, and the air was filled with the scent of apples, dry grass, and something new — hope.
Olga sat on the veranda peeling potatoes, holding an old knitted blanket on her lap. From inside came the voice of her grandson:
“Grandpa, did you really work on a tractor?”
“Really!” Nikolay laughed. “And not just worked — I was the best driver in the district!”
Artyom, a cheerful boy with lively eyes, loved grandpa’s stories. Especially those times when there were no smartphones, and life seemed like a movie.
Lena came out to the porch.
“Lunch!” she called. “Artyom, call grandpa.”
Nikolay came closer, looked carefully at his daughter.
“You know… every day I’m afraid I’ll wake up — and you’ll be gone again.”
Lena lowered her eyes.
“I was afraid too. That you wouldn’t accept me. Wouldn’t forgive me.”
“Silly girl,” he said softly. “How could anyone not forgive their own daughter?”
One day Olga was taking winter clothes from the attic and came across an old box. Inside lay a leather diary — worn, with Lena’s handwriting.
At first, she wanted to close it. But then she opened it at random.
“I worked as a cleaner, then in the kitchen. I lived in a corner with an old woman and cats. Sometimes it felt like I was long dead. I wanted to come back. But I didn’t have the strength…”
“When Artyom was born, I felt needed again. I swore: if fate gives me a chance — I will return. Explain everything. Even after twenty years.”
Olga sat with the diary for a long time. Then went to the kitchen, made tea, and silently hugged her daughter.
“Don’t disappear anymore, do you hear?”
Lena nodded, unable to speak.
A few months later, a man appeared at the doorstep. Tall, with graying hair, eyes full of the past. Nikolay opened the door and immediately understood: this was a part of their family’s pain.
“Hello. My name is Stanislav. I… knew Lena. In 1990. I… apologize.”
They sat on a bench. Lena came out later, saw the visitor — and paled.
Stanislav told how he was the guy Lena fell in love with at the graduation. He promised her freedom without rules. Then he abandoned her. Disappeared when things got hard. Only many years later did he find out she had a son.
“I don’t ask for forgiveness. I just wanted you to know: I didn’t forget either.”
Lena was silent for a long time. Then calmly said:
“Now we can move on.”
“I forgave long ago,” Lena said quietly. “But not for you. For myself. To live on.”
Stanislav left. And with him, it seemed, vanished the last ghost of the past.
The New Year brought warmth, laughter, and again that same album. Now it had new pages — Artyom himself glued in photos: school pictures, walks, fishing with grandpa.
On the last one, he wrote:
“Family is not those who stay nearby always. It’s those who return.”
Seven years passed. Artyom turned fifteen. He grew taller than his mother, started wearing glasses, and got interested in photography. He often went into the forest with a backpack, camera, and notebook.
He loved photographing places where memories remained: abandoned houses, rusty swings, campfire traces. He called it “traces of life.”
Nikolay could no longer run after his grandson like before. His heart grew weak, his legs failed him. But every morning he still sat by the window with a cup of tea, watching Artyom leave the gate with his camera.
“We have a real artist growing up,” he said proudly. “Only instead of a brush — a camera.”
Olga grew calmer over the years. Her smile remained the same, but now her eyes held something deep — as if she had found inner balance.
Lena began teaching literature at the local school. The students respected her. Life finally found meaning, rhythm, and a place to stay for a long time.
But time went on. And with it — everything inevitable.
One spring day, Nikolay did not wake up.
He left quietly, as he had lived in recent years. On the bedside table, they found an old photo: Lena in her graduation dress, with Olga next to her — young, laughing.
Artyom stood in the garden for a long time, holding his grandfather’s album. He opened it to the last page and inserted a new photo — Nikolay in his chair, with his grandson on his lap.
The caption read:
“You taught me to remember. Thank you, grandpa.”
Five more years passed.
Artyom entered a university in Moscow, in the photography and journalism faculty. He often wrote home. Each letter started the same way:
“Hi Mom. I miss you. I remember.”
A year after Nikolay’s death, Olga passed away. Lena remained alone in the house — but not lonely. She had books, memories, and a son who came every holiday, bringing stories and photos from around the world.
In the spring, she took out that very photo from 2002 — where she stands by the mountain house with the inscription “I am alive. Forgive me.”
Turning the back, she added:
“Now I really live. And, it seems, I have finally forgiven myself.”
The year 2025.
Artyom, grown up, returns to his native home. With a camera, notebook, and one big idea — to write a book. About family, about memory, about the girl who came back after twenty-two years.
He opens the old album. On the first page — Lena as a child. On the last — himself, with his mother under a blooming apple tree.
On the last spread, he writes:
“The story doesn’t end if someone remembers it. This is our story. The story of return.”
Artyom often returned to the house where his childhood was spent. He didn’t move back for good — he left city life, work, shoots, festivals. But every time he crossed the threshold, he felt like he was returning to something important, something close.
The house stood. The blooming apple tree blossomed every spring as before. Artyom cared for it — trimmed branches, whitewashed the trunk. He called it “the tree of memory.”
Lena’s books, albums, Nikolay’s thermos, Olga’s herbs — everything remained as it was. Once, sorting old things, he found an envelope without a signature. Only a date: 1990.
Inside — a letter from Lena, written on the day she disappeared.
“If you are reading this — it means I have left. Don’t look for me. I need another life. Forgive me if you can. I will return when I deserve your forgiveness.”
Artyom held the letter for a long time. Then placed it next to the one Lena wrote in 2002. They seemed to reflect each other — fear and regret. Flight and return.
He photographed them and carefully put them back.
Lena aged beautifully. Without complaints, with dignity. Something deep appeared in her eyes — like those who have been through a lot and understood the main thing.
She no longer blamed herself. Forgave — not immediately, but truly. Everything she could give her son, she gave. The rest — let time take it away.
They often sat on the porch in silence. Artyom asked questions about the past — about grandmother, about school, about the guy she left with in 1990.
Lena didn’t always answer right away.
“I thought then I was running to freedom. But later I realized — I was just running from myself. But… if I hadn’t run away, you wouldn’t exist. And without you, I wouldn’t have survived. That’s all.”
Artyom listened. Sometimes turned on a voice recorder. These conversations were to become part of his book.
In 2026, Artyom’s book was published. It was simply called: “Photo Album.”
It included photos, letters, Lena’s monologues, Olga’s diary entries, stories about Nikolay. It was all true. Pain, regret, love, forgiveness. Family — not perfect, but alive.
The book unexpectedly found thousands of readers. Because it was real.
Lena was invited to presentations. She was afraid of public speaking, but once went on stage and said just one thing:
“Thank you for remembering us. Because when we are remembered — we are alive.”
Autumn 2030.
Lena left quietly, as her father once did. Artyom found her — sitting in a chair by the window, with a book on her lap and the first photo in her hands.
He buried her next to her parents, under the apple tree.
Then he sat there for a long time. In silence. Without tears.
He took his camera and took one last shot: the tree in the autumn light, the inscription on the tombstone:
“Nikolay, Olga, Lena. The Nikolayev Family.”
Underneath, he added:
“They found each other. And I — found them.”
He stood up. And walked on.
With memory in his heart. With a camera in his hands. And with a story that now only he kept.
Years passed.
Artyom lived in St. Petersburg. He had his own studio, students, exhibitions. He never called himself a photographer — he said:
“I just catch the breath of time.”
In the corner of his studio was a locked cabinet. There were old things: the album, letters, a voice recorder with his mother’s voice, grandmother’s herbs in paper bundles. He rarely opened it. Only when he missed them especially.
One spring day, he came back to the village again.
The house had changed — a new roof, an open veranda. But the garden remained the same. And the apple tree — blooming, alive.
Artyom walked through the garden. Took off his shoes. The ground was cool, like in childhood. He stood under the tree, raised his camera — and took one last shot. Not for an exhibition, not for a book. Just because he wanted it.
The photo remained in the camera. Artyom no longer printed those pictures.
Because he knew: the main thing was already captured. Everything that needed to be said — was said. Everything that needed to be found — was found.
He sat on the bench and closed his eyes.
And suddenly heard — light footsteps. As if his mother came out of the house. As if grandmother was carrying tea. As if grandpa was laughing somewhere near the shed.
And at that moment he understood:
No one really leaves. They just become silence, wind, light between the leaves.
And if you truly remember — you are with them. Always.
