Noticing a little girl by her daughter’s grave, the old woman slowly approached her… And suddenly, as she got closer, she recoiled in horror.
Old Anna Petrovna regularly came to the cemetery to visit the grave of her daughter Marina — the only person she had lost too soon. This day was no different from the previous ones: a gray autumn haze hung over the ground, a cool wind blew, and the silence was broken only by the rustle of falling leaves.
When the woman approached the grave, she was suddenly stopped by an unexpected sight: a little girl about six years old was standing by the tombstone. She was dressed too lightly for the weather, and her fragile shoulders were trembling from the cold.
“Girl, what is your name?” Anna Petrovna asked cautiously, stepping closer.
The child slowly turned around. Deep sadness shone in her big eyes, and her facial features seemed painfully familiar to the woman.
“My name is Marina,” the little girl replied in a quiet voice.
The woman’s heart stopped. That was the name of her deceased daughter.
“Who are you? Why are you here?” she asked next, feeling her voice tremble.
“I knew Mom came here… I was waiting for her,” the girl said.
Anna Petrovna felt her insides tighten. At that moment, she noticed a small ring on the child’s hand — exactly like the one she had once given her daughter. There was no longer any doubt.
The woman stepped back, stunned by what was happening. The wind gently blew the girl’s hair, and suddenly she began to disappear, as if evaporating into the air.
“Mom, thank you for remembering me…” came a barely audible whisper.
And then — no one. Only an echo in the emptiness.
Anna Petrovna stayed by the grave for a long time, unable to move. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but for the first time in many years, her soul was filled with warmth. Somewhere nearby was her Marina again — not as before, but still close. And, it seemed, forever.
After this encounter, the old woman could find no peace. Thoughts of the girl gave her no moment’s rest. All evening and throughout the night, a picture kept rising before her inner eyes: little Marina, the same eyes, the same ring. “Could it really not have been a dream?” she wondered, reliving every moment anew. Sleep never came. And in the morning, despite her fatigue, Anna Petrovna went to the cemetery again — as if something invisible was calling her there.
Approaching the grave, she looked around carefully. No one was there. Only a few scattered leaves hinted at someone’s recent presence. On the stone lay a fresh chamomile — her daughter’s favorite flower. But Anna Petrovna clearly remembered: yesterday she had brought only roses.
“Who put this flower here?” she muttered.
“I did,” came a child’s voice from behind.
Turning around, the woman saw the same girl. The same pallor, the same touching figure. Only now the child looked more confident, as if she too was waiting for the meeting.
“Why do you come here?” Anna Petrovna asked, sitting down on a bench.
“I don’t know where I’m from… But it’s warm here. Here is Mom,” the girl said, looking at the woman with tenderness that once again squeezed her heart.
“What else do you remember?”
“Only one song… About a little star. You often sang it in your sleep.”
Anna Petrovna turned pale. That lullaby was their secret. Only she and her daughter knew it.
Tears welled up in her eyes. The woman tried to reach out to the girl, but the girl smiled and stepped back.
“I have to go. But I am always near.”
“Wait! Come to me again! You are my Marina, right?”
“I have always been yours. And I always will be.”
Silence fell around. Only the wind whispered in response.
From that day on, Anna Petrovna visited the cemetery more often. From time to time, chamomiles appeared on the grave, sometimes even after rain, when the woman had not come herself. One morning she found a drawing — a girl and a woman holding hands, with the inscription: “Mom and me.” There was no grief left in her heart — only a bright hope settled there that love unites even those separated by time.
The more time passed, the stronger Anna Petrovna’s conviction grew: this meeting was not a figment of imagination. She decided to investigate. Maybe somewhere there lived a child who had lost her mother, and a part of Marina’s soul lived in her.
She questioned guards, neighbors — no one had seen any girl. Then the old woman dared to come at night. Sitting by the grave, she waited patiently. Hours passed… And suddenly — a rustle. From the darkness came little Marina. In her hands she held a chamomile.
“You came…” Anna Petrovna whispered, looking at the girl. “Tell me the truth. Who are you?…
The little girl looked up, her eyes glowing with a warmth beyond her years.
“I am part of you, Mom,” she quietly said. “You called me for so long, cried so much that I was able to return. But only as a shadow. I can’t stay here long—I am called back.”
“Why did you come in the form of a child? Why not as you were before leaving?”
“Because you remember me exactly like this—small and happy. This is the image in which you loved me most,” the girl smiled through tears. “I came to say: it’s time for you to let me go. I am happy. Don’t be sad.”
Anna Petrovna could not hold back—bitter sobs burst from her chest. She hugged the girl tightly and for the first time felt real warmth. Her heart, clenched with pain for so many years, finally calmed.
“I will always remember you,” the woman whispered.
“And I you. Now live for the light. For yourself.”
The girl let go of her hands, stepped back, and began to disappear, dissolving into the air. After her remained only one chamomile petal.
Since then, Anna Petrovna never saw Marina again but knew: her daughter had found peace. And most importantly—she was no longer alone.
Months passed.
The old woman changed noticeably. Those who had known her long ago marveled at how a gentle smile again illuminated her face. She stopped going to the cemetery every day, and when she came, she no longer sat by the grave, bent over with pain. Now she brought flowers once a week, and among them was always a chamomile—a sign of memory and love.
Inside, calm settled. She had not forgotten her daughter but had learned to live on, not only with memories.
One day, returning from the cemetery, Anna Petrovna heard a child crying. Behind a bench in the park sat a little girl, lost and frightened.
“Are you alone? Where are your parents?” the old woman asked gently.
“Mom left… I don’t know how to get home,” the child answered through tears.
Without hesitation, Anna Petrovna helped the girl find her parents. After that, they often met in the park. The girl’s name was Olya; she lived nearby and soon became a frequent visitor at Anna Petrovna’s. She brought drawings and asked to tell stories—especially the one about the girl and the little star.
Anna Petrovna told them. And with each time, she felt a new sense of purpose in her life—not to replace Marina, but to again be needed by someone else.
Sometimes, at night, when stars twinkled outside the window, she thought that somewhere there, in their light, stood little Marina—happy and smiling.
Love does not disappear. It simply takes a new form.
Now Anna Petrovna knew for sure: two girls lived in her heart.
Years passed. The woman was no longer the lonely, lost old lady everyone was used to seeing. Olya appeared in her life—like a granddaughter she loved with all her heart.
But one day Anna Petrovna noticed something strange: in every drawing by Olya there were two girls. One was Olya herself, and the other—slightly older—with the caption: “My friend Marina.”
“Who is this?” Anna Petrovna asked cautiously.
“She is my friend. She comes to me when I’m sad. She says you are very kind. Her name is Marina. Do you know her, grandma?”
The woman turned pale.
“Tell me, what does she look like?”
Olya began describing: golden hair, favorite dress with daisies, a small ring on her finger.
It was Marina. Her daughter.
“What does she tell you?”
“That you are no longer alone, that I am now near to make you smile again. And that she will always watch over me.”
Anna Petrovna held Olya tightly, letting tears flow freely. At that moment, everything inside became clear: Marina had not just left. She had left her warmth to someone. She had passed a part of her love.
Perhaps Olya came not by chance. Perhaps it was Marina herself who brought her into Anna Petrovna’s life.
That night, the old woman had a dream: her grown daughter stood in the garden, smiling, holding little Olya’s hand.
“Thank you, Mom,” Marina said. “Now you are not alone. Now you are happy again.”
In the morning, Anna Petrovna woke under bright sunlight. On the windowsill lay a single chamomile petal.
Love truly never dies. It stays near—in another face, in another heart. But always with us.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.
Source: news51media.com