He gave a stranger a ride in a downpour. A week later, he was stunned to see himself on the news.
The dark night, shot through with cold and storm winds, felt as if it had stepped off the pages of a grim fairy tale. The sky, choked with clouds, seemed intent on hiding the moon, leaving the world at the mercy of a merciless rain that lashed the asphalt as if trying to wash all life from the earth. A wind tearing down from the north ripped the last yellowed leaves from the trees with fury, flinging them into people’s faces as though trying to stop anyone who dared go out in such weather. The road leading out of town was deserted; only the occasional headlights in the distance hinted that somewhere, out in that impenetrable darkness, life was still beating.
Sitting behind the wheel of his old but faithful 1995 Volga, Ivan Morozov felt the cold seeping through the thin soles of his shoes and creeping up his legs like icy tentacles. The car—once his father’s pride—now creaked and groaned at every turn, and the heater, the last bastion of warmth, suddenly went silent, as if it, too, were tired of fighting the elements.
“What the hell!” he muttered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as he tried to keep control not only of the car, but of his emotions.
He wanted only one thing: to make it home, wrap himself in a blanket, hear his children’s laughter, feel his wife’s warmth, pull her close, and forget for a while that the world beyond the window was not just rain but something heavier, oppressive—almost sinister.
Just then, his headlights picked a figure out of the darkness.
A woman stood there.
Fragile, almost ghostly, she seemed part of the night itself—blending with the shadows, yet still fighting to assert her presence in reality. A long coat, soaked through, clung heavily to her body; her hair stuck to her face; and her eyes, gleaming in the headlights, were full of both despair and hope. She waved—not like a hitchhiker, but like a drowning person clutching at a straw.
Ivan eased off the gas, put on his blinker, and stopped, nearly skidding onto the slick shoulder.
“Thank you!” she cried the moment he stepped out. Her voice trembled, but gratitude rang true in it. “You… you’re my angel!”
Without thinking, he ran around the car and flung open the passenger door.
“Quick, get in! You’ll freeze to the bone!” he shouted over the roar of the rain. “In weather like this even a bear wouldn’t come out, and here’s a lady in a coat!”
But the woman suddenly drew back, as if frightened.
“No… no, thank you. I just… my car died. Back there, past the bend. I tried to call a tow truck, but my phone—no signal. I thought maybe you had reception…”
Ivan pulled out his old Nokia and glanced at the screen.
“Afraid not—this place is a perfect dead zone. No signal, no magic. But I can take you to the nearest gas station. They’ll have a phone. And tea. And a dry spot.”
She hesitated. Her fingers clutched her bag as if her whole life were inside it.
“Listen,” Ivan said softly, almost in a whisper. “My mother is… probably about your age. If she were stuck like this, I’d pray someone would stop. So don’t overthink it. I’m just helping a person.”
Those simple, sincere words seemed to break the last wall of distrust. She nodded and got into the car, trying not to soak the seat—as if she were afraid of leaving a trace of her fear behind.
To ease the tension, Ivan started talking. He told her about his children—Zhenya, the eldest, smart and a born leader; Dasha, a dreamy artist; and Liza, the youngest, already sly as a little fox. He spoke of his wife, how they were expecting a fourth child and hoping for a boy, how they joked they’d already picked the name—Alexei, after his grandfather.
“And work… well, it happens,” he added with a touch of sadness. “The paycheck’s delayed, the boss is on vacation, and the bills don’t wait. But we’re hanging in there. We always have.”
His words didn’t sound like a complaint, but like a confession—an admission that life is hard and still worthy of love.
When they reached the gas station, the woman—who introduced herself as Valentina Pavlovna—took out her wallet.
“How much do I owe you?…
Continued in the comments