The apartment residents had grown accustomed to the sight – the frail old woman with the oversized bag making her daily pilgrimage to the dumpsters at dawn. Most assumed she was scavenging for food or recyclables to sell. Some children crossed the street to avoid passing too close to “the witch.”
Twelve-year-old Misha found himself fascinated rather than frightened. From his bedroom window, he’d watch her meticulous search through the refuse, sometimes for hours. One rainy morning, he decided to solve the mystery. “What are you looking for, babushka?” he called from a safe distance.
The woman didn’t look up. “My son,” she answered matter-of-factly, as if this were the most normal reply in the world. Misha blinked. “Your… son?” She nodded, lifting a sodden cardboard box to peer underneath. “I left him here. He must be cold.”
When Misha repeated this to his father that evening, the man’s face darkened. “That’s enough stories,” he said firmly. “Stay inside before school from now on.” The warning came too late – the old woman was found dead by the bins just days later, her lifelong search ended by a sudden stroke.
The building superintendent discovered the truth while clearing out her apartment. Yellowed newspaper clippings told the tragic story – a teenage girl, an unwanted pregnancy, and a desperate decision made in the dead of night. For nearly sixty years, she’d returned to the scene of her greatest regret, hoping against hope to undo what couldn’t be undone.
