But real solitude is when the walls hold no echoes — when you could scream, laugh, or whisper, and nothing in the air shifts in response. That was the existence Alena had grown used to as a single mother. The child’s father vanished before birth, and life turned her into a one-woman factory: working, cooking, cleaning, fixing, patching, repeating.

Then, one day, she brushed a finger across the bookshelf — no dust.
She blinked. Yesterday it was there.

A cup left by the sink would appear perfectly rinsed.
Her son’s toys were suddenly sorted and stored.
The bathroom mirror, always speckled with toothpaste, was clean.

She laughed it off at first.

— I’m clearly losing my memory.

But something wouldn’t let her rest.
So one evening she left a deliberate experiment: muddy footprints on the kitchen floor.
She didn’t wipe them. Didn’t even pretend to.
Just waited.

Next morning — nothing but spotless tiles.

Her pulse quickened.

That night, after her son fell asleep, she pretended to go to bed — but stayed alert, every sense sharpened. Minutes crawled by.

Then she heard it.

Soft movement.
Bare feet against the floor.
Something metallic clinking in the kitchen.

She slipped from the bed, moving like a shadow.

And there — illuminated by the faint refrigerator light — stood a man washing dishes.

Her heart struck her ribs like a hammer.

She flipped the light switch.

He turned.

And there they were — eyes she once knew so well.

Her father.

The man who vanished from her world when she was still a child herself. No farewell. No explanations. Just absence.

— You. — her voice cracked. — How did you get in here?

He raised the old key — rusty, worn.

— The lock… you never changed it.

— You’ve been coming here at night? — she demanded.

He inhaled slowly.

— For several months now.

— Why?

This time he hesitated. And when he spoke, it wasn’t an excuse — it was a confession:

— I couldn’t be the father you needed… But if you’ll let me, I can at least be the grandfather he deserves.

Alena stood frozen.

— I see how tired you come home, — he continued.
— I see your hands trembling from exhaustion.
— I see him growing up without a father figure.
I don’t know how to say the right things…
But I can mop a floor.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t poetic.
It was simple.
Human.

She looked at his lined face, the posture slightly bent, the quiet, unspoken regret weighing on him like an anchor.

Finally, she whispered:

— Don’t come at night anymore. If you want to help — come during the day.

He stared at her — as if unsure he heard correctly.

— Really?

— Yes… as his grandfather.

And something shifted in the air.

He didn’t cry.
Didn’t rush forward.
Didn’t ask for hugs or forgiveness.

He simply nodded — a slow, grateful nod — and smiled in a way that held more apology than any words ever could.