Lyuba woke up from the icy cold. Her old jacket, a rag long since lost its shape, could no longer keep her warm. Autumn was confidently taking hold: the nights were growing longer, the wind harsher, and even under the roof of the abandoned attic, it was unbearably cold. In winter, survival here would be impossible… but Lyuba had no other options. The shelter was closed to her—her criminal record forbade it. No one would hire her either; as soon as they found out she had «served time,» their faces changed immediately, and the conversation ended. As if it were written on her forehead: «Not one of us.»
Right opposite the little window of her temporary refuge glowed a huge advertising billboard: bright images, intrusive banners, musical jingles—all reminding her of another life, full of noise, light, and warmth. A life that seemed so close yet utterly unreachable. In the corner of the screen, the time was displayed—Lyuba had chosen this attic precisely because of it. At least she could keep track of the hours. It was 8:20 now.
Rummaging in her pockets, she felt a few crumpled coins. It would probably be enough for a bun and kefir—some kind of breakfast at least. Splashing some water from the bottle on her face, she quickly washed up. Her short hair stuck out in all directions—she tried to smooth it down. She always tried to keep herself tidy: washing her clothes whenever she got the chance, wiping her shoes with a rag or a stick. She wanted to keep at least the appearance of a normal life, human dignity.
Near the store by the garbage bins, homeless people were gathered. They rummaged through boxes, sorting through some things. Lyuba shuddered—would she soon have to become one of them? Not yet. She was still fighting, looking for odd jobs. But who would hire an ex-convict, as they contemptuously called her? Only rare earnings kept her from poverty.
Having bought kefir and a bun, Lyuba sat on a bench and began to eat slowly. The warm bun felt almost like a holiday. And in her mind spun a thought: maybe today she’d take a risk and go ask the janitor Kuzmich for help? So many leaves had blown down overnight, he surely couldn’t handle it alone. «I’ll go ask. Maybe he’ll help,» she decided and headed toward the pedestrian crossing.
But she hadn’t yet reached the «zebra» crosswalk when her heart froze: a girl about ten years old on a scooter was rushing straight into the red light. From the opposite side, a truck was charging, honking wildly. The girl had headphones on—she didn’t even hear.
«Hey!» Lyuba shouted, but the girl didn’t react.
Without hesitation, Lyuba rushed forward, grabbed the child by the jacket, and pulled her back. The girl fell at her feet, and at that very moment, the scooter disappeared under the wheels. There was a screech, a crunch, plastic flying in all directions.
«Where are you going? Didn’t you hear the horn?» Lyuba gasped, scolding her.
«No… I was listening to music…» the girl whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
«Don’t cry. It’s understandable you got scared. Are you upset about the scooter?»
«Uh-huh… But my dad would buy me a hundred more like that. It’s not about that…»
«Let’s get acquainted. I’m Lyubov, and you?»
«Nadya…»
«Well, Nadya, half the battle is done—we’ve met. Now let me take you home. We don’t want you running into traffic again.»
Nadya turned out to be local—just three blocks away. They walked in silence; the girl was still shaken. They came to a large mansion with a tall fence and an intercom. A guard, a stern man in uniform, stood at the gate.
Nadya pressed the button, and the gate opened. She stepped inside, but the guard blocked Lyuba’s way.
«She’s with me, Roman,» Nadya said firmly, and the guard reluctantly let her pass.
«Is dad home?» Nadya asked. Receiving an answer, she turned to Lyuba: «Wait here, okay? I’ll be quick.»
Lyuba wanted to leave, but Nadya’s gaze was so resolute she stayed. She stood by the fence, twisting her jacket sleeve, feeling like an outsider. The guard grumbled something disapprovingly about «ragged ones,» eyeing her critically. His look was full of a mix of disgust and contempt. He was clearly trying to guess her age—twenty-five? Thirty? Years and hardships were deeply etched on her face.
Meanwhile, inside the house, Viktor Nikolaevich—a stately middle-aged man with an authoritative gaze—sat in his office, carefully reading documents. His brow was furrowed, his look focused—clearly displeased with what he read. Nadya burst into the room.
«Dad, you won’t believe what happened!» she exclaimed.
She told him everything: about the scooter, the truck, and the woman who saved her.
Viktor paled. He hugged his daughter tightly.
«You won’t go anywhere without company anymore!» he declared firmly.
«Dad, I’m already eleven! I’ll be more careful, honestly!»
«No, Nadya. The price of a mistake is too high. This decision is final.»
He called the guard:
«Bring the woman who came with Nadya.»
A minute later, Lyuba entered the office. She stood modestly, uncertainly.
«I am very grateful,» said Viktor Nikolaevich warmly. «You saved my daughter. This is not just a deed—it’s heroism. I’m a businessman and always value help. Name the sum you want to receive.»
«Oh no… no need… I just happened to be there at the right moment,» Lyuba blushed, lowering her eyes.
But the man did not back down. He began asking her name, where she worked, where she lived. After some hesitation, she briefly told her story—about the attic, the odd jobs, the hardships after release.
She was ashamed but did not hide anything.
«There is a good saying: better to give a man a fishing rod than a fish. So— I just happened to have a maid’s position open. I offer it to you. Nothing complicated—keeping the house in order, cleanliness. A room on the first floor is provided for you, food at the owner’s expense. And this is an advance.» He laid out bills neatly on the table. «Further depends on your work. What’s your decision?»
Lyuba froze, seeing the neatly laid bills. The amount was enormous for her—especially compared to the coins she lived on. She found no words—only nodded, unable to look away from the money as if afraid it would disappear.
«Angela Petrovna!» the owner called. «Show the new employee her room, explain her duties, introduce her to the staff.»
Angela Petrovna, a tall woman with a straight back and cold gaze, fulfilled the task. She led Lyuba through the house, explaining everything dryly and to the point. The room was small but cozy: a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, a window overlooking the garden. The bathroom was shared. The maid was given a uniform and warned:
«There must be order here. I don’t tolerate mess. I hope you won’t have problems with that.»
In the kitchen, she was greeted by Natalia Nikolaevna—the cook with a kindly face and a perpetual blush. Seeing the newcomer, she immediately put a cup of coffee and a plate of sandwiches in front of her:
«Now that you’re one of us, you have to be properly welcomed! Eat, don’t be shy,» she winked.
Thus, unexpectedly for herself, Lyuba entered a new stage of life. Viktor Nikolaevich did not tell anyone where the new maid had come from. But when they were alone, he decided to learn more:
«It’s important for me to know who lives in my house. Tell me a little about yourself.»
Lyuba did not hide anything. Calmly and straightforwardly, she told how she grew up in an orphanage, graduated from nursing school, wanted to work as a nurse. One evening, returning from classes, she was attacked by two drunk men. She fought back, pushing one away—he hit his head on a stone. The next day he died. She was found guilty of his death.
«There was one investigator—Maxim Maksimovich,» Lyuba said quietly. «He was, you might say, the only one who treated me humanely. He proved it was self-defense. But the court still sentenced me to four years. And now… I’m free. No family, nowhere to return to. Finding work is a whole other story. As soon as they hear ‘criminal record,’ faces change immediately.»
She spoke without complaints, just listing facts. Viktor Nikolaevich listened carefully, nodded, thoughtful. Apparently, he appreciated her honesty.
The house accepted Lyuba better than she could have imagined. The owner’s driver—a significant man with thick mustaches and always in a strict suit—turned out to be a good-natured joker. Upon meeting, he theatrically bowed:
«Accept my respects, mademoiselle!» he winked like a hero from an old film.
Margarita, Nadya’s mother, brought her a bag of clothes:
«Here, take these. Dresses, sweaters—they were just lying around.»
Natalia Nikolaevna, the cook, even started calling her «daughter.» Every time she treated her to something tasty: either a warm pastry or fresh apple pie.
Even strict Angela Petrovna did not pick on her without reason. If she made a remark, it was always fair and without malice.
Once Nadya proudly showed her doll collection:
«Look, a whole army of Barbies! Did you have any?»
«I did,» Lyuba smiled. «Only I sewed their clothes myself—from scraps of fabric. We weren’t bought anything then.»
«Really? Will you teach me?» the girl lit up.
And soon they were sewing doll clothes together. Nadya chirped happily, trying on every dress, learning to cut patterns.
The only one who continued to treat Lyuba warily was the guard Roman. He hardly spoke to her, looked coldly, squinting—as if expecting something.
Meanwhile, Viktor Nikolaevich understood well why it was so important for Nadya not to go out alone anymore. The reason was not only the truck incident. His construction company brought in large income, and Dmitry Molchanov—known in certain circles as «The Moth»—had long had his eye on it. Once an ordinary hooligan, he had managed to break through by creating his criminal empire.
He had repeatedly offered to buy Viktor’s business, and when refused, began to intimidate:
«If you don’t want to do it nicely, it’ll be different,» he said with hints but with clear threats.
Lyuba, of course, knew none of this. She simply performed her duties honestly: cleaning, washing, maintaining order. On her day off, she decided to relax a bit—take a walk, visit a store, buy herself something.
After shopping, she went into a café, ordered coffee, sat by the window, admiring the street bustle. Suddenly her gaze caught two men in the corner. One was a familiar face. The very man who attacked her many years ago. The second was his brother, the one who died that night. They were the Molchanovs.
Her heart pounded. The man sat only ten meters away, gesturing, talking about something. His companion sat with his back turned. She needed to leave before being noticed.
«He definitely hasn’t forgiven me… He thinks I’m guilty,» ran through her mind. Though in fact, he was to blame—drunk, unstable, attacked first. She was just defending herself…
Lyuba was already getting up to leave unnoticed when the second man turned—and she almost dropped her bag. It was Roman. Her own guard.
At home, Lyuba immediately went to Viktor Nikolaevich. What she had seen did not let her rest.
«I walk into the café, minding my own business, and there’s that scoundrel—Molchanov. And next to him—Roman. They were sitting at the same table, talking like best friends.»
«Molchanov?» Viktor frowned. «The Dmitry who wants to take my business?»
«The very one.»
Now everything became clear: where Molchanov got information, how he learned about deals, plans, meetings. The leak was from inside—from the very house. And it was organized by the person trusted most—the guard.
«We must act immediately,» Viktor said decisively, rising from the table.
The next morning he sent his wife and daughter on vacation to warm countries. Natalia Nikolaevna and Angela Petrovna got time off. He himself went to the police.
Investigator Denis Maksimovich listened carefully to the businessman’s story and sighed:
«We’ve heard about Molchanov more than once. But they don’t open cases—no evidence, no witnesses, no facts.»
«So, I have to wait until the house blows up?» Viktor asked bitterly.
«There’s one way,» the investigator suggested. «Install hidden cameras. So no one will guess.»
The cameras were installed discreetly. Viktor told Lyuba nothing—the less she knew, the better.
Several days passed. Life went on. Viktor worked, reviewing papers but occasionally checking camera footage. One showed the winter garden—Lyuba watering flowers. Everything seemed normal.
And suddenly… Viktor saw Roman. He entered the office, looked around, opened a desk drawer, and took out… a grenade.
«Damn…» Viktor whispered, watching as the guard carefully set the device, hiding the wires.
Lyuba’s phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Viktor Nikolaevich calling.
«Lyuba, listen carefully. Roman just installed a grenade in my office. Police are on their way. Try to hold him off a bit. But be careful—don’t risk yourself.»
Lyuba took a deep breath, hid the phone, and took a mop, heading toward the corridor. Hearing footsteps, she began to play her part.
«Roman, help me, please! Something’s jammed, I can’t fix it,» she asked, blocking his way.
«I don’t have time,» he cut her off.
«Wait just a minute!» she insisted. «I’m here alone, no one to help…»
Roman began to get angry, tried to push her aside, but at that moment a voice came from the speaker:
«Stop, scum!»
Without hesitation, Lyuba hit him on the head with the mop. Hard, until her arms ached. The guard collapsed to the floor.
Seconds later, police burst into the house. They put handcuffs on Roman, found the grenade, wires, fingerprints. Lyuba sat on the floor, breathing heavily, holding the mop while the investigator started taking statements.
There was enough evidence. Video, proof, Roman’s own confession—he broke down quickly and told everything: who gave the order, how much was paid, what was promised.
Dmitry Molchanov ended up behind bars. This time neither money nor connections saved him.
Some time later, Denis Maksimovich called Lyuba:
«Maybe we should meet? Just like that. Not as investigator and witness, but as people. I want to thank you. You’re very brave, Lyuba.»
They met in a café. The conversation was light and sincere. Over time, their relationship grew closer, and one day Denis proposed:
«Lyuba, will you marry me?»
«Of course, yes,» she answered, smiling.
Packing her things, Lyuba warmly said goodbye to the house where her new life began. Nadya hugged her tightly:
«Promise you’ll come back?»
«Definitely,» she promised.
Viktor Nikolaevich shook her hand:
«I’m happy for you, Lyuba. People like you are hard to find. Thank you for everything.»
They left together—Lyuba and Denis. The car rolled softly down the street where once Lyuba had looked out from the attic at the billboard clock, dreaming of another life.
She looked out the window and thought:
«Somewhere now, someone is looking at that clock too. And may they be lucky as well. I really want to believe that.»
