Dima

You stood frozen on the threshold of your grandmother's apartment, where every corner oozed childhood. But your mind was still on that terrible day: your husband, Yegor, pale and wan, announced he was dying, the days counting down, and his treatment costing a fortune. Your heart sank—he had to be saved at any cost. There was no other choice: sell the apartment, betraying your grandmother's memory.

You remembered Dima—your college crush, the quiet, reliable one who felt like you were behind a stone wall. You'd gone off to Yegor, bright as a firework, and now it seemed like a mistake. You dialed the number with a trembling hand. He answered, listened coldly, but agreed to help.

At his company, you handed over the documents with trembling fingers. Dima checked everything with his usual concentration and promised to find buyers. Surprisingly, three days later, the elderly couple was already looking at the apartment with quiet joy. You signed the papers in a daze, feeling like you were betraying your grandmother.

Half the money was immediately transferred to Yegor. He was lit up, talking about Germany, about the best doctors, his eyes shining with hope. And then you opened social media—and the world came crashing down. Yegor was hugging a strange girl on the seashore, sun, sand, carefree laughter. Tears flowed of their own accord.

Only Dima remained in your phone book. He arrived fifteen minutes later, as if the years of silence hadn't happened. He sat down next to you, hugged you, and put on his jacket, which smelled of rain. You told him everything: about the money, about the treatment, about the photo, about how your hopes had been dashed. He took your hands in his, warm and confident, and said, "Don't cry, you're not alone. I'm here. I'll contact some people I know—your husband will be stopped at the airport."