“You seriously think this is a suitable place for a child?” I glanced around the ramshackle house, its walls seemingly held up by little more than wishful thinking and peeling paint.
“Olga, don’t be dramatic. I’m giving you a whole house with land. I could’ve just kicked you out,” Viktor said, carelessly dropping the last bag on the porch.
His voice carried the irritation of a man forced to waste time on unpleasant formalities.
I silently looked down at the documents. An old house on the edge of a village, inherited from Viktor’s grandfather—someone he hadn’t remembered until he decided to get rid of us.
Ten years of marriage ended not with tears or explanations, but with a business deal—a “concession,” as he called it.
Misha, my nine-year-old son, stood beside me, clutching his worn teddy bear—the only toy he’d managed to grab when his father announced we were moving.
His eyes held the quiet confusion of a child whose world had crumbled without explanation.
“Sign here,” Viktor handed me the pen with the same air of detachment he once had when passing me a restaurant bill. “No alimony, no claims. The house is all yours.”
I signed. Not because I thought it was fair, but because the city apartment belonged to his parents, and legally, I couldn’t claim it. There was no choice. And any alimony would’ve been a pittance anyway.
“Good luck in your new life,” he said, getting into the car. Misha flinched, as if he wanted to say something to his father, but the door had already slammed shut.
“We’ll be okay, Mom,” Misha said when the car disappeared, leaving a cloud of dust behind. “We’ll make it.”
The house greeted us with creaks and the smell of dampness. Cobwebs in the corners, gaps in the floorboards that let in the cold, cracked window frames. Misha gripped my hand tightly, and I knew—there was no turning back.
The first month felt like survival training. I kept working remotely as a designer, though the village internet often cut out, and the deadlines didn’t wait.
Misha started attending the local school, riding an old bicycle we bought from neighbors.
I learned to patch roof holes, fix wiring, and reinforce sagging floors—with the help of a handyman I hired using my savings.
My hands, once manicured and soft, grew rough from the work, but every evening, when Misha was asleep, I’d sit on the porch and stare at the stars, which here seemed almost close enough to touch.
“Don’t give up, sweetheart,” said Nina Petrovna once, finding me in tears after another leak. “This land loves the strong. And you, I can see, are strong.”
There was a strange wisdom in her words that began to make sense as I watched Misha change.
He became stronger, his laughter more frequent, his eyes lit with a quiet glow.
He made friends with the local kids, excitedly told stories about frogs in the pond and helping our neighbor Andrey feed the chickens.
Almost a year passed. The house slowly transformed—I painted the walls, fixed the roof with help from Semyon, the builder next door (couldn’t afford a pro anymore), planted a small garden. Life was getting better, even if still hard.
That day, it rained heavily. Misha had gone on a school trip to the regional center, and I decided to finally tackle the basement.
I’d dreamed of turning it into a workshop—had started crafting souvenirs for the rare tourists passing through the village.
I had no idea that damp day would change our fate forever.
The basement was bigger than I’d thought. My flashlight beam revealed shelves cluttered with old junk, dusty boxes, and jars.
The smell of damp earth mingled with the scent of aged wood. I got to work—sorting, tossing rotted planks, clearing space.
Then I moved a heavy dresser and noticed a hidden door in the wall. It blended in—same color, no visible hinges.
Curiosity won. I pulled on the rusty handle. The door creaked open.
Behind it, a narrow passage led into a tiny room. I shone my flashlight inside and saw a large wooden chest, banded with aged metal.
“What kind of hiding place is this?” I muttered, kneeling before the chest.
Its lock had long since broken.
With effort, I lifted the heavy lid—and froze. The beam of light bounced off yellow metal. Coins. Hundreds of gold coins.
Antique jewelry. Massive bars of gold.
My heart pounded so hard I had to sit on the dirt floor. My hands trembled so much I nearly dropped the first coin.
It was surprisingly heavy, cold in my palm. I held it up—etched into its surface was the profile of an emperor, stern and regal, like something from another world.
“Oh my God. It can’t be,” I whispered, biting my lip, my fingertips numb. A buzzing filled my ears, as if I’d downed a glass of strong wine. “Is this… real?”