This quiet, desperate plea, breaking through the street noise, caught Igor Levshin off guard. He was in a hurry — no, he was literally rushing as if chased by an invisible enemy. Time was pressing: millions of dollars depended on a single decision that had to be made today at the meeting. Since Rita — his wife, his light, his support — had passed away, work had become the only meaning left in his life.
But that voice…
Igor turned around.
In front of him stood a child about seven years old. Thin, disheveled, with tearful eyes. In his arms he held a tiny bundle, from which peeked the face of a little baby. The girl, wrapped in an old, worn-out blanket, weakly whimpered, and the boy held her as if he were her only protection in this indifferent world.
Igor hesitated. He knew — he couldn’t waste time, he had to go. But something in the child’s gaze or the sound of that simple “please” touched a deeply hidden part of his soul.
— Where is your mother? — he asked gently, sitting down next to the child.
— She promised to come back… but she hasn’t been here for two days. I’m waiting for her here, maybe she will come, — the boy’s voice trembled, his hand with it.
His name was Maxim. The little girl was called Taisia. They were completely alone. No notes, no explanations — only hope, which the seven-year-old boy clung to like a drowning man to a straw.
