Sergey had arrived in the capital just a few months ago. Five years of study at the coveted music conservatory awaited him. Since childhood, Sergey had harbored a passion for the violin. Growing up, his love for music only grew stronger with each passing year. One seemingly ordinary morning, Sergey emerged from the entrance of his multi-story apartment, violin case in hand. He lived with his uncle. As usual, Sergey was running late that morning; he lived on the other side of town from the conservatory, so the commute was long. Suddenly, turning the last corner, with only a few feet to go before the stop, he saw a bus turning—his bus. He ran as fast as he could to the stop; if he didn't make it, he'd have to wait half an hour for the next bus. Suddenly, Sergey felt his foot hit something, looked down at the sidewalk, and saw a cane, an ordinary cane, the kind used by elderly people. He turned his head, wondering who could have lost his cane, and saw an old man on the floor. An ordinary-looking old man, he wore a white summer shirt and olive trousers, a newspaper lying next to his hand, and was leaning against a small bench, a small shop that had existed since the Soviet era. Sergei picked up his cane from the sidewalk and wanted to quickly return it so he could catch the bus, but he saw that the old man was sitting on the floor for a reason. The old man had a large, bloody wound on his bald head, and dried blood was on his face and neck. The bus had already pulled up to the stop, but Sergei only turned and hesitated for a moment, then walked closer to the old man and crouched down, holding out his cane. "Are you all right, Grandpa?" Sergei asked, looking at the old man's broken head. "I was walking to the store, tripped, and fell," the old man replied weakly, taking the cane. Sergei's heart sank when he saw the elderly man in such a state. "Does something hurt?" Sergei asked worriedly, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing an ambulance. "My head is spinning, I can't get up." "Don't worry, Grandpa, I called an ambulance. Drink this, it's hot outside," Sergei said, pulling a bottle of water and handing it to the old man. The elderly man accepted the bottle of water, and Sergei quickly ran to the nearest pharmacy. He bought cotton wool and hydrogen peroxide with his stipend. He returned to the old man's seat and, soaking the cotton wool with hydrogen peroxide, began wiping the dried blood from the old man's face and neck. "Thank you, I've been sitting here for an hour, and no one else has come up to me. What's your name?" the old man asked. "Sergey," Sergei replied, continuing to clean the blood off the man's face. "And I'm Volodya, I served during the war," Uncle Volodya began to tell his story. Sergey, having cleaned up the old man's skin, listened with interest to his story until the ambulance arrived. When the ambulance arrived, Sergei took off his net cape and gave it to Uncle Volodya. "Seryozha, at least give me your number, good man," the old man asked Sergei gladly gave it to him, waited for the ambulance to leave, and then headed to the bus stop. Uncle Volodya called Sergei the next day. He'd stopped at the supermarket and bought a bag of groceries, even though his scholarship was running out. "Sergey, thank you very much," the old man thanked him. Uncle Volodya lived modestly, but never complained. He tried to return Sergei's net cape, but Sergei refused. It turned out Uncle Volodya had no family, not a single one. They drank tea, with an inexplicable warmth in his heart. When Sergei left Uncle Volodya's building, he silently promised himself to visit him more often. But the end of the semester was approaching, difficult exams lay ahead, and he still couldn't find a free moment. It was already December, five minutes before the New Year, exams were over, and wonderful holidays lay ahead. Sergei stood in front of Uncle Volodya's house, holding fresh gingerbread cookies. He rang the doorbell for a long time, but no one answered. A neighbor across the street heard the noise. "Looking for Volodya?" she asked. Sergei nodded. "Volodya died three days ago. They say his heart stopped," the woman said, but seeing how pale Sergei had become, she continued, "Are you by any chance Seryozha?" Sergei nodded again, his legs buckling, and his face deathly pale. "He left you some kind of cape and a note," the neighbor said and entered the apartment. She returned with the same mesh cape and a scrap of paper. Sergey took the things from the woman, quietly thanked her, and went outside. The snow was thick, and the sky was darkening. With cold fingers, Sergey unfolded the note with the next, single sentence. "To the only kind person in my life." The gingerbread cookies fell from his trembling hands. Sergey put the note in his pocket and, clutching the cape tightly to his chest, fell into the snow, real tears of pain, sorrow, and loss streaming from his young eyes.
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