After an exhausting day on duty, the tired doctor stretched until his joints popped and yawned deeply. Slowly, he made his way to the window. Outside, the season’s first snow fell gently, the large flakes drifting almost as if hesitating before settling on the ground. The scene beyond the glass felt serene and even enchanting. Inside the hospital, however, the relentless activity churned on—raw and unfiltered.

Lighting a cigarette with a nervous inhale, the doctor faced his assistant, Viktor, a young yet visibly fatigued order nurse.

“What can we do? She’s already cold through and through. Why bother with this stray? Call the morgue staff. It’s over—too late.”

Viktor silently approached the stretcher, his movements automatic. Placing his hand on the woman’s wrist, he sought a pulse—feeble, sparse, like the last ticking of a watch before it dies. He gently brushed aside a damp lock of hair from her face. A flicker of recognition stirred within him, though his mind stubbornly withheld the memory.

“Yulia?” briefly surfaced in his thoughts, discarded immediately as a foolish trick of his imagination. Yulia had always had a round, almost childlike face, adorned with charming dimples that appeared when she smiled. But this was a gaunt, grimy figure whose age defied estimation. The ravages of time, hardship, and neglect had erased every familiar trace.

While Viktor lingered in reflection, the doctor summoned the morgue attendants. They arrived promptly, efficient and silent. Without fuss, they transferred the body, covering it carefully under a sheet, and rolled it down the hall. Their footsteps echoed dully.

“Vitya,” the doctor called out, spotting some papers abandoned on the floor. “This drowned woman left behind some documents. Deliver them to the morgue, then get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

Taking the damp papers, Viktor descended the stairs slowly. Near the landing, under a glaring bulb that nearly blinded him compared to the dim corridor, he unfolded the attached sheet. It read: “Saar Yuliya Gennadyevna, born 1994.” Among the documents was a passport, water-stained but saved by a laminated page displaying her photograph and details clearly.

At that moment, Viktor’s hands trembled uncontrollably.

Born the same year and month
Lived across the hall from each other
Grew up attending the same kindergarten group
Believed themselves family despite separate apartments

The boy and girl had been convinced since childhood that they were kin, merely inhabiting different rooms of an extensive household.

Yulia was puzzled when a baby named Tima was introduced as her brother.

“Brother? Then who exactly is Vitya to me?” she wondered aloud.

Her parents just laughed it off.

“Vitya is a neighbor. You can explain it to your kindergarten friends later.”

A similar scenario unfolded in Viktor’s household when his sister Tanya was born.

“As the elder, Vitya must protect and care for her,” his father said.

“But what about Yulia?” the boy asked.

His father smiled warmly.

“I believe you can look after both Yulia and Tanya. You’re a good boy. Just remember, Yulia is a neighbor, but Tanya is your sister.”

The label “neighbor” unsettled young Viktor for quite some time. He thought it applied only to elderly women downstairs, not to someone who shared daily adventures, friendship, and trust.

When school began, they were placed in separate classes, which sparked an uproar among the children.

“I won’t go to school!” Yulia exclaimed. “They seated me next to a chubby boy who pulls out food and chews during lessons! I want to sit beside Vitya!”

“I won’t attend school anymore!” Viktor retorted. “There are too many girls in my class! Can’t we swap one for Yulia?”

Seeing their distress, the parents appealed to school officials, securing their placement in one class and the same desk, with the caveat they mustn’t speak during lessons. They spent their early school years fearing separation.

Adolescence tested their bond further. Yulia attracted admirers—older boys waiting after school, vying to abduct her from the watchful guard. Viktor defended her fiercely, using his backpack, books—anything within reach—acting like a protector.

But one day after class, Yulia said softly:

“Don’t walk me home anymore.”

Surprised, Viktor asked, “Why?”

“It’s better this way. Aren’t you tired of those fights?”

He grumbled but slipped away, only to hide around a corner and watch her run out, waving to some boys before leaving with Robert—a tall, broad-shouldered basketball team captain.

Stunned, Viktor clenched his fists, watching the laughing pair vanish.

From that moment, their relationship soured into near enmity. Soon, Yulia married Robert and moved with him away. Her mother, still friendly with Viktor’s mom, frequently shared stories about their travels abroad and Yulia’s seemingly joyous life.

Viktor listened with a heavy heart, branding Yulia a traitor, though deep inside, a faint hope lingered that she might someday leave Robert and return to him.

He enrolled in medical school, focusing on sports medicine, inspired by doctors who treated boxers ringside. However, fate intervened: during his final year, his father died suddenly, his mother fell ill with grief, and he bore the responsibility of caring for her and his little sister Tanya.

Forced to pause studies, Viktor took a job as an order nurse in an emergency hospital, assigned to the intensive care unit. There, he confronted grim realities—resuscitations and complex wound treatments.

“Not quite the boxing ring, but still a worthy mission,” Viktor thought as he managed the next patient from shock of injury.

Now, with the passport in hand, his heartbeat raced. Before him was not just a random woman found drowned. It was Yulia—the very person he once loved, protected, and forgave.

Hurriedly, Viktor chased the morgue attendants intending to place the body in cold storage. The moment they tried to enter the freezer, he shouted:

“Stop! There’s been a mistake. Let’s bring her to intensive care.”

“What? The doctor’s note says hypothermia with a fatal outcome,” came the reply.

“Wait!” Viktor insisted, voice shaking yet resolute. “She’s not just any patient—she’s Yulia. My Yulia. We can’t give up on her.”

Turning the stretcher back, he pushed her toward the elevator, hands trembling with the fear of losing her again.

“Viktor Nikolaevich, the responsibility lies with you now,” remarked the lead attendant.

“Absolutely!” Viktor replied without glancing back.

Only two beds were occupied in intensive care: an elderly woman recovering from a heart attack and a young girl with a brain injury. Carefully, Viktor settled Yulia into the free spot, frail and pale, bluish from severe hypothermia.

He took a dry towel and scissors, cutting her long wet hair short, wrapping her head warmly, and setting up an IV drip with a tonic solution. Every motion was exact, driven by professional skill and the desperate urge not to lose her once more.

Despite critical conditions—body temperature dangerously low, pulse barely forty beats per minute—she clung to life.

Viktor gazed at Yulia, hardly recognizing her gaunt, cold appearance. The brightness and joy his mother described were nowhere to be seen.

“Vitek, what’s happening here?” the displeased voice of the duty doctor broke the silence.

“Pavel Sergeyevich, look—she’s still alive,” Viktor said, pointing at the vital signs monitor.

“Wait, she was taken to the morgue!”

“I caught them and brought her back,” Viktor admitted.

“Do you want to get me into trouble for dereliction of duty?” the doctor snapped.

Lowering his head, Viktor confessed, “It’s not just any girl—she’s my cousin.”

The doctor found the situation hard to believe—a patient in such a state being their colleague’s relative.

“Why wasn’t she monitored? How did it come to this?”

“I don’t know. I’m just waiting for her to regain consciousness,” Viktor responded.

“Since she means so much to you, I’ll provide a proper drip,” the doctor said, preparing a new infusion.

Grateful, Viktor administered the treatment and thanked Pavel Sergeyevich warmly.

“No problem. After all, that’s my duty,” the doctor smiled.

When the drip finished, Viktor removed the needle, settled on a chair beside Yulia’s bed, and closed his eyes. Countless thoughts and questions swirled through his mind.

Suddenly, his father’s words echoed: “I think you can protect both Yulia and Tanya.”

“I had to…” he whispered before dozing off.

Near dawn, a soft moan stirred him awake. Yulia was breathing heavily, whispering:

“Why…”

“Yul, Yulia,” he called gently.

She opened her eyes feebly, seemingly not recognizing him, and murmured:

“Why did you save me? I don’t want to live…”

“It’s me, Vitya. You’re safe now,” he reassured.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Vitya… I don’t want to…”

He administered a sedative and remained at her side, contemplating her words and fearing she might have attempted to end her own life.

After his shift, Viktor asked the incoming nurse to monitor Yulia carefully. At home, first thing, he knocked on the door across the hall.

“Anna Petrovna, have you spoken to Yulia lately?”

“Only the day before yesterday. She said they were going abroad and wouldn’t call. Why?”

“A patient came in who resembles her a lot. But since Yulia is supposedly abroad…”

“Wait, Vitenka!” the woman grasped his sleeve. “Something’s been troubling me. Her voice over the phone was strange. When I asked, she said, ‘Don’t worry, just a mild cold.’ But my motherly instincts told me she was lying. You can’t fool a mother’s heart!”

Viktor comforted her and headed home.

Later that evening, the replacement nurse called urgently:

“Vitya! Your sister tried to climb out the window! We barely stopped her. I’m afraid she might be transferred to psychiatry.”

Viktor rushed back to the hospital. Yulia lay under the IV drip, but when she saw him, she turned away toward the window.

“Ready to talk?” he asked, sitting down.

She remained silent.

“Your mom said you’re going abroad.”

“Mom… yes, she is certain I’m fine. A mother wouldn’t think otherwise,” Yulia said suddenly. “But I lied. I never left with Robert because he refused to take me. Said I was a nuisance.”

Her voice quivered.

“I was alone in a strange city, bored and directionless. No profession, no education. The only option was selling goods at the market. I worked as a saleswoman. When he found out, he flew into a rage and beat me until I was bruised. ‘I don’t want my wife working like that!’ he yelled.”

She spoke unceasingly.

“I told him, ‘Better a trader than locked away all day!’ After marriage, he became violent, took a mistress, and blamed me for everything—the team’s failures, lost competitions. I left him but told my parents all was well.”

“Where did you live?”

“In a hostel with migrants. Ate whatever I could, almost wrecked my stomach. They fired me from the food stalls for being ‘unpresentable,’ so I sold souvenirs. Income was minimal, barely enough for medicine.”

She hid her face in her hands.

“It got worse and scarier. Then I thought I couldn’t continue. I’d go home, confess, seek forgiveness. They wouldn’t reject me! But getting here was a whole ordeal—I don’t want to remember. Walking through my hometown, thinking, ‘Finally home!’ But then mom called. I lied again, saying we were at the airport flying…”

“And then?”

“I saw my old teacher outside. She listened to my lies with such bewilderment, maybe disgust. I said goodbye quickly to mom and ran—ashamed and disgusted. Who would want me, a lying mess? Mom? Brother Dima? They’d be shocked if they saw me now!”

Vitya listened quietly.

“I ran to the bridge and almost jumped into the river. The water was freezing, it stunned me, but I didn’t drown! I hoped it would weigh me down, but it didn’t. I struggled until I lost consciousness.”

Viktor wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Oh, Yulka! What did you do to yourself? And for whom? Some loser basketball player?”

“Don’t remind me of him!” she asked sharply.

“I talked to your mom yesterday. She senses you’re hiding something. Want me to call her?”

Yulia shook her head, then burst into tears.

“Maybe it’s better she sees me here under the IV than out in that puffy coat.”

An hour later, Anna Petrovna came to her daughter’s bedside. She hugged Yulia gently and whispered:

“Don’t cry, mommy’s here.”

After two weeks of intensive care—nutrition, walks, vitamins—Yulia’s health visibly improved. Her dimples returned, lips regained a healthy pink. Passing by her room one day, a doctor whistled:

“We have a beauty here!”

Pavel Sergeyevich quickly corrected:

“Actually, that’s my fiancée, not my sister. Now go along.”

“Ah,” the doctor sighed, “young people these days! Always doing things their own way!”

On the day of discharge, Yulia walked the hospital corridor holding a bouquet Viktor had given her. She smiled broadly at doctors, nurses, and attendants, thanking each before bidding farewell.

At the exit, the morgue workers smoking nearby respectfully nodded at her, exchanging surprised looks.

She was finally heading home, craving a true life for the first time in years—not just surviving but loving and being loved. Because today Viktor had asked her to become his wife.

In conclusion, this moving story portrays the profound bond of childhood friendship enduring through hardships, misunderstandings, and despair. It highlights the power of compassion, resilience, and the unwavering will to save a life, reminding us that sometimes, second chances come when least expected, driven by love and hope.