A woman dressed in black approached me at the train station and said:
“Take this pendant. It belonged to your real mother.”
— Are you my real mother? — I asked in a trembling voice, examining the locket.
— No, dear. I am merely the one who knows the truth, — the woman in black dissolved into the crowd, leaving behind only the echo of a mystery.
A Morning Like Any Other
Mornings at the train station always started the same way — with the aroma of freshly baked pastries and the endless flow of people. I was wiping down the counter in my small café when the familiar sound of an announcement about an arriving train filled the air.
— Good morning! Vanilla latte and an almond croissant, as usual? — I smiled at my regular customer.
— Alina, you read my mind, — the elderly professor from the local university winked at me.
I loved my job for moments like these — for the simple, kind, and predictable people. Just like my life. At least, that’s how it had been until that day.
— Miss, — a quiet voice made me turn around. In front of me stood an elderly woman wrapped in a black shawl. — Could I speak with you for a moment?
Something in her gaze made me step out from behind the counter.
— I came to give you this, — she handed me an antique locket engraved with a rose. — It belonged to your real mother.
I froze, unable to move.
— I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. My mother is Marina Petrovna, she…
— Open it, — the woman interrupted me. — And call her. Ask her about the locket.
The Truth Begins to Unravel
That evening, I sat on my bed, staring at the photograph inside the locket. A graceful woman in an old-fashioned dress looked back at me. There was something familiar about her.
The next day, I visited an antique dealer.
— Do you have similar lockets for sale? — I asked, handing over my find.
— My dear, items like these aren’t sold. They’re passed down through generations, — the old man adjusted his magnifying glass and whistled. — Volkov family… Interesting.
I spent hours searching online until I found the article: “The Mysterious Disappearance of the Volkov Heiress.” My heart skipped a beat when I saw the date — exactly twenty years ago.
That evening, I placed the article in front of my father.
— Dad, we need to talk.
— Alina… — he took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted.
— The truth. I need the truth.
— We adopted you from an orphanage. The documents… they were strange. Marina wanted a child so badly, and I… I just turned a blind eye to it all. You’re not really our daughter.
A Visit from the Past
A week later, the woman in black reappeared at the train station. I recognized her immediately.
— Why now? — I asked, handing her a cup of tea.
— Because your biological mother passed away a month ago. I was her nanny, — she pulled out an envelope. — Inside are the address of the estate and old photographs. You were stolen by a powerful man who owed your father a large sum. He decided to take revenge.
— And my adoptive parents?
— They didn’t know the whole truth. They were told your mother had abandoned you.
The Volkov Estate
The Volkov estate looked like a setting from a gothic novel. Ivy crept up the walls, window shutters banged in the wind. I pushed open the heavy door.
— I wouldn’t recommend going inside without permission, — a voice spoke from behind me.
— And who are you? — I spun around.
— Sergey Mikhailovich, the Volkov family lawyer, — the man handed me his business card. — And you must be Alina?
— How do you…
— Your face. You look remarkably like Elena Alexandrovna. Come inside, I have something for you.
The study smelled of leather and old books. Sergey Mikhailovich placed a folder in front of me.
— Your parents searched for you for fifteen years. They hired the best detectives, but… — he spread his hands helplessly. — The man who orchestrated your abduction was too powerful. Every lead ended in a dead end.
— And now?
— He died two years ago. On his deathbed, he confessed everything.
I leafed through the documents — my birth certificate, photographs, letters.
— But why did the nanny stay silent all these years?
— She was threatened. She tried to tell the truth when you were five. After that, her grandson was in a car accident. A deliberate one.
Two Mothers
— Mom, — I sat in the kitchen with my adoptive mother. — Why didn’t you ever tell me?
— I was afraid, — she cried, smudging mascara down her cheeks. — When I found out the truth… you were already calling me Mom. I couldn’t… I couldn’t lose you.
— And the documents?
— Viktor arranged everything. He paid the right people. I just… I just wanted a child. Forgive me, my daughter.
I looked at the woman who had raised me. The one who kissed my scraped knees, baked cherry pies, read me bedtime stories. And at the locket, where another woman smiled back at me—the one who had given me life and my features.
— You know, — I took my mother’s hand, — the estate has fifteen rooms. There’s enough space for everyone.
Her eyes widened in shock.
— You mean…
— It’s time to pack. And yes, your cherry pies will be very welcome there too.
Restoring the Estate
The study in the estate slowly came to life. I hung old photographs—an elegant couple in the garden, a baby me in my biological mother’s arms. And beside them, birthday pictures where Marina blew out the candles on my cake with me.
Two families. Two stories. And one me—the girl from the train station who had found her true home.
— So, you’re a millionaire now, — the professor chuckled, taking his morning latte.
— Looks like it. But you know, money isn’t the most valuable inheritance.
A New Life Begins
Sergey Mikhailovich spread out the documents. The Volkov inheritance was substantial—real estate in three cities, bank accounts, stocks. I stared at the numbers in disbelief.
— And all this…
— Is yours, — the lawyer nodded. — But there’s one condition in the will. The estate must remain in the family.
— Oh, trust me, I have no intention of selling it.
A Home for Everyone
Renovations took six months. I hired the best restorers to preserve the historical look of the house. Marina oversaw the kitchen, and Dad enthusiastically planned a winter garden.
— Alina, look what I found, — Mom handed me an old box. — It was in the attic storage.
Inside were baby items—a tiny dress, a rattle, a photo album. On one page, my biological mother held a newborn. Me.
— She was beautiful. And she loved you very much, — Marina stroked the photo.
— How do you know?
— It’s in her eyes. Only a mother looks at her child like that.
A Family United
The woman in black—Anna Stepanovna—became a frequent guest at the estate. She told stories of my parents, how my father taught me to walk, how my mother sang lullabies.
— And this is your room, — I opened a door on the second floor.
— What? — she blinked in confusion.
— You are part of this family. Both of them.
That evening, we sat by the fireplace. Marina served tea in the Volkov family china, Dad read the newspaper, and Anna Stepanovna knitted a scarf.
— You know, — I said, watching the fire flicker, — sometimes fate gives strange gifts. It takes away one family, gives another. And then returns both.
Two portraits hung on the wall—Volkovs and my adoptive parents. So different, yet so dear. In my locket, two photos—past and present—merged into one.
I was no longer the lost girl from the train station. I was who I was meant to be—the daughter who had united two families and became the keeper of two love stories.
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