“Miss, may I help you?” the man offered, seeing the woman struggle with her heavy bags.
Grateful, she accepted. They walked together — he tall and strong, she small and cheerful, trying to keep up.
The woman, Galina, was curious about him. He wore patched clothes, moved with quiet uncertainty.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Vaska… that’s what they call me. I don’t remember my real name. I lost my memory.”
He told her how he’d been found on a highway, battered and unconscious, with no ID. Taken to the hospital, then a shelter. Since then, he did odd jobs to survive.
“You’ve had a tough fate,” Galina said kindly. “But you’re strong. Want a job? I’ll ask my boss.”
They walked to a large, elegant home where Galina worked as a cook. As they passed through the gates, something stirred inside him — a strange sense of familiarity.
While Galina went to speak with her employer, Vaska waited in the kitchen, where the warm, homey smells triggered forgotten feelings.
Upstairs, Rimma, the mistress of the house, sat with an old photo album. Galina asked her to meet the man.
The moment Rimma saw him, she turned pale and nearly fainted. After catching her breath, she asked:
“What’s your real name?”
“I don’t know… I have amnesia.”
“Klim,” she whispered. “Your name is Klim. I’m your mother.”
Shocked silence filled the room.
Rimma explained how her son had run away after a bitter family fight. Days later, a body was found and mistakenly identified as him. Her husband died shortly after, from heartbreak.
Now, years later, here he was — alive.
Klim looked at the photo of a boy who looked just like him. Memories slowly returned: a mother’s voice, a warm kitchen, childhood joy.
Tears in his eyes, he whispered, “Mom…”
And she embraced him, as if she’d waited forever for this moment.