“Dmitry stepped off the train onto the platform and took a deep breath. The air in his hometown just felt different—like nowhere else on earth. And he’d been to plenty of places. But something always pulled him back here.
He walked down streets he’d known since childhood, spotting every little change. There was his estate, tucked between four red-brick blocks of flats—two long ones with five doors each and two shorter ones with just two entrances. The courtyard was spacious, split in two: a kids’ playground with a multicoloured slide, a sandpit, and a few basic pull-up bars. Back in the day, there’d been swings and a rusted metal dome they called the *Web*—the thing had left him with a scar above his eyebrow after a nasty fall.
The other half of the yard was a fenced-in football pitch with goalposts and a basketball hoop. In winter, it turned into an ice rink. It was early, so the place was empty. If he’d had a ball, he’d have taken a shot at the goal, just like he used to.
Ah, those were happy days. Steven had moved off to Scotland, got married, had two kids. And John? Already doing his second stretch in prison. Life had scattered them all in different directions.
A bloke with a dog stepped out of the block, and Dmitry called out before the door could swing shut. The dim bulb in the stairwell barely did its job. He had to stand there a moment, letting his eyes adjust. No matter how many times someone put a brighter bulb in, it always got swapped back for one barely strong enough to light a match. How nobody had broken their neck on these dark, narrow stairs was a miracle.
Dmitry climbed to the second floor and stopped in front of the steel door on the right. This was where Valentina used to live. Not Val or Vally—*Valentina*. That’s what she’d insisted on. His first love, hopeless and unrequited.
Back in the day, he’d ring her bell and bolt up to his own flat on the third floor, waiting to hear her door click open. For a second, he thought about doing it again—but he wasn’t as quick on his feet these days. And, well, grown men didn’t play silly games like that. Besides, he wasn’t even sure she still lived here.
With a quiet laugh, he kept climbing. His front door looked just the same. Mum always answered—even when Dad was alive. He’d passed two years ago. Dmitry had been at sea, couldn’t make the funeral.
He pressed the buzzer. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open. The moment she saw him, Mum flung it wide and rushed forward.
*”Son!”* They hugged right there on the doorstep. She pulled back, studying his face. *”Let me look at you.”* Then she hugged him again.
When Dad was alive, she used to dye her hair, style it neatly. Now, a streak of silver ran through the part.
*”I dreamt about you last night. Knew you’d come. How long are you staying? Oh, standing in the doorway like this—come in, come in!”* She shut the door behind him and hugged him once more.
The first rush of joy settled. Dmitry kicked off his shoes, grabbed his slippers from the rack—always waiting for him. But Dad’s old flip-flops were gone.
*”Here, Mum.”* He handed her a bag of gifts.
*”You’re gift enough for me,”* she said, though she peeked inside anyway. *”I’ll put the kettle on. Or are you hungry?”* She bustled into the kitchen, setting the table.
*”Oh, stupid me—forgot to buy bread. I’ll just nip out quick—”* She froze mid-step, blinking. *”Shops aren’t even open yet.”*
*”Doesn’t matter. I’ll go later. Sit down.”* He gently guided her to a chair.
The kitchen felt tiny now. Even his ship’s cabin was bigger. How did she keep it so spotless?
*”How’ve you been?”* He brushed his thumb over her work-worn hand.
*”Getting by. And you? Still not married?”* Her eyes dimmed a little.
*”Not many women fancy waiting half a year for a sailor.”*
After breakfast, Mum started on his favourite roast dinner while Dmitry popped out for bread. As he passed Valentina’s door on the way down, he hesitated.
It took him a few days to finally press the buzzer. The lock clicked, and the door opened a crack. There she was. His heart lurched against his ribs like it was trying to leap out and greet her. She hadn’t changed much—filled out a little, but it suited her.
*”Can I help you?”* Valentina scanned him up and down.
*”Sorry.”* Dmitry stepped back toward the stairs.
*”Dmitry? Is that you?”* Her voice stopped him cold.
She *remembered* him. His heart leapt.
—
*”You let them score! We lost because of you!”* Steven’s voice cracked as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.
*”So what? We’ll get ’em next time,”* Dmitry said, guilt twisting in his gut.
*”Yeah, right.”* Steven stormed off the pitch. *”If you can’t play, don’t bother.”*
*”Me? You’re the one who let Lenny through!”* Dmitry caught up, grabbing his arm. *”Steve, wait—”*
*”Piss off!”* Steven shoved him hard.
*”You piss off!”* Dmitry shoved back.
They tussled, rolling in the grass until a sharp voice cut through.
*”Oi! Pack it in!”*
The boys looked up. A girl stood over them—pretty, arms crossed. They scrambled up, breathless. Steven dusted himself off and left. Dmitry just stared after the girl, then followed her. At her doorstep, she turned.
*”Why’re you following me?”*
*”Not following. Just going home.”*
*”So we live in the same block, then?”* She smirked. *”Nice look, by the way. Ripped your shirt.”*
*”Where?”* He lifted the hem, exposing his stomach.
*”Come on, I’ll fix it.”*
Upstairs, she unlocked her door.
*”Thought an old lady lived here. You her granddaughter?”*
*”I’m no one’s granddaughter. She died. I live here now. Shoes off. Shirt too.”*
Dmitry stripped to his jeans. Lucky it was just the shirt.
She eyed him appreciatively.
*”How old are you, footballer?”*
*”Fourteen.”* His voice cracked.
*”You’re built well for it. Gonna be a handsome man.”*
Heat rushed to his face.
*”Bathroom’s there. Wash up.”* She flicked the light on.
While he scrubbed his hands, he spotted a pink satin robe hanging by the door. He dried off, then let his fingers skim the silky fabric.
She was at the window, stitching his shirt. Sensing his stare, she glanced up.
*”Tea. Kettle’s on.”*
He obeyed, hunting for matches to light the hob.
*”Here.”* She tossed him the mended shirt.
*”Thanks. You live here alone?”*
*”Planning to rob me? Mugs are above the sink.”*
She returned with a box of chocolates.
*”Sit. Stop gawking.”*
He sipped his tea too fast, scalding his tongue. The cup clattered as he jerked it down—hot liquid splashed his hand. He hissed, shaking it. She didn’t laugh. Just took his hand and blew softly. A shiver shot down his spine. He bolted up.
*”Gotta go.”*
At home, Mum frowned.
*”Why’re you panting? Someone chase you?”*
*”Just football.”*
*”Wash up. Dinner’s ready.”*
After that, he saw her around the estate a lot. And every time, his breath caught.
*”Oi. You’re staring. Smitten?”* John spat expertly through his teeth—a skill Dmitry envied.
*”Piss off.”* He walked away to their laughter.
One day, he rang her bell—and didn’t run.
*”What do you want?”* she asked, opening the door.
*”Nothing.”*
*”Then why’re you here?”* Her gaze burned into him.
He fumbled for words.
*”Come in. Name’s Valentina. Not Val. Got it?”*
*”Got it. I’m Dmitry.”*
*”You fight over something worthwhile, or just showing off?”*
*”I missed a goal. We lost.”*
*”Wannabe footballer?”*
*”Nah. Captain. Like my grandad.”*
HerAnd as the years passed and the seas carried him away and back again, he’d always find her waiting—just as she’d promised.
