Every morning, old Valentina Sergeyevna, 83, stood by the little gate — not waiting for the mailman, not for the newspaper. She simply gazed into the distance.
Sometimes with a cup of tea, sometimes leaning on her cane — but always, with hope.
The neighbors thought she was waiting for someone. But they never asked.
She had lived alone for many years. Her husband had died at the factory, her daughter had moved abroad and cut off all contact.
All that remained were her grandchildren — in letters that never came.
Until the morning everything changed.
On her doorstep — a box. No name. Just one note:
“Forgive the delay. I never forgot you.”
Inside, a package. She unwrapped it with trembling hands — and froze.
It was the little fabric train she had sewn for her grandson more than twenty years ago. It had been taken away in haste, when her daughter rushed him to the airport after their last argument.
And the photo — a young man in military uniform, and beneath it:
“Grandma, I found you. I’m here. May I come in?”
She doesn’t remember how she opened the door. She just felt that this time, no one would leave.
When Valentina Sergeyevna opened it, her heart pounded like when she was twenty.
On the threshold — a tall young man, broad-shouldered, in uniform. But in his eyes — something familiar. Recognizable.
He didn’t speak right away. He just took off his cap and whispered:
“Grandma… I’m home.”
Her knees gave out, but he caught her.
Together they sat on the bench in front of the house. They remained silent at first, then talked as if those twenty years of silence had never existed.
He told her how, as a child, he had treasured that little train, how he had secretly searched for her through letters, addresses, archives.
How he had joined the military to be as strong as his grandfather.
How he never forgot her voice, her stories, the smell of her blackcurrant jam.
She listened, gently stroking his hand, just like she used to — back when he was afraid of the dark.
“Forgive me for leaving so foolishly…” she whispered.
“I never left you. I just took a long time to come home,” he replied with a smile.
That night, the light stayed on until dawn.
On the stove, the jam simmered.
Inside, laughter echoed once more.
And on the windowsill — the same little train.
No longer just a toy, but a symbol: that love always finds its way. Even after decades.
