Old Anna Petrovna often visited the cemetery to spend quiet moments by the grave of her daughter, Marina. It had become a routine over the years—a way to stay close to the memory of her only child.
This autumn morning felt no different: gray skies, a soft breeze, and rustling leaves underfoot.
As Anna approached the headstone, she noticed something unusual—a small girl, no more than six years old, standing silently nearby. She wore light clothing, not nearly warm enough for the chill in the air.
Anna stepped forward gently.
“Hello, dear. What’s your name?” she asked.
The little girl turned slowly. There was something familiar about her soft features, something that stirred memories Anna had long tucked away.
“My name is Marina,” the child said quietly.
Anna’s heart skipped a beat. That was her daughter’s name.
Stunned, she asked, “Why are you here?”
“I was waiting for my mom,” the girl replied softly.
The old woman’s breath caught. A small silver ring sparkled on the girl’s hand—one just like the ring Anna had once given to her daughter years ago.
Before she could say another word, a breeze passed between them, and the girl seemed to fade away like morning mist. A whisper followed:
“Thank you for remembering me.”
Anna stood in silence, unsure of what she had just experienced. Tears streamed down her cheeks, yet her heart felt strangely comforted. For the first time in many years, warmth returned to her soul—as though her daughter was near again.
A Return to the Cemetery
That evening and into the night, Anna couldn’t stop thinking about the little girl. Could it have been a dream? The encounter replayed in her mind over and over.
Unable to find rest, she returned to the cemetery the next morning.
No one was there—but a fresh chamomile flower lay on the grave. Marina’s favorite. Anna knew she had only brought roses the day before.
“Who brought this?” she wondered aloud.
“I did,” came a soft voice.
Turning around, Anna saw the same girl again. Pale, delicate, and this time more composed. She seemed to be waiting.
“Why do you come here?” Anna asked gently, sitting beside her.
“I don’t know where I’m from,” the girl said. “But here… it feels warm. Like home. Like Mom.”
“What else do you remember?” Anna asked.
“Only a song,” the girl replied. “About a little star. You used to sing it when you slept.”
Anna froze. It was a lullaby she had only ever sung to Marina—one no one else knew.
Tears welled in her eyes. She reached toward the girl, but the child smiled and stepped back.
“It’s time for me to go,” she said. “But I’m always near.”
“Come back again,” Anna whispered. “You’re my Marina, aren’t you?”
“I’ve always been yours,” the girl said. “And I always will be.”
And then she was gone—only the sound of the wind remained.
Signs and Memories
After that day, Anna visited more often. Sometimes she found chamomile flowers on the grave—even when she hadn’t brought any. One morning, she discovered a drawing left by the headstone: a child and a woman holding hands with the words “Mom and Me” written underneath.
With each visit, her grief slowly softened. A peaceful warmth filled the space where pain used to live.
She started to wonder: could someone else be visiting too?
She asked around—guards, neighbors—but no one had seen the child.
Then, one evening, she decided to return at night.
The cemetery was quiet. She waited patiently. After some time, she heard a soft rustling. From the shadows, the little girl appeared again, holding a chamomile.
“You came,” Anna said, voice trembling. “Tell me… who are you?”
The girl approached, her eyes shining.
“I’m a part of you,” she whispered. “You called for me so often with your love. I returned, but only for a short time. I can’t stay.”
“Why do you appear as a child?” Anna asked.
“Because that’s how you remember me most,” the girl replied with a soft smile. “That’s the version you loved the most. But now, it’s time to let go. I’m happy. And I want you to be too.”
Anna held the girl close. For the first time in years, she felt warmth—comfort. Not sadness, but release.
“I will always remember you,” she whispered.
“And I you,” said the girl. “Now live. For you.”
Then, like a breeze, the child was gone. Only a single chamomile petal remained on the bench.
A New Light
After that night, Anna never saw the little girl again. But something had changed.
She no longer visited the cemetery every day. When she did, she left flowers—and always included a chamomile.
Her neighbors noticed she smiled more. She seemed lighter, like someone who had found peace.
One day, as she walked through the park, Anna heard a child crying softly. Behind a bench sat a small girl, lost and frightened.
“Are you alright, dear?” Anna asked gently.
The girl nodded slowly. “I don’t know where my mom went.”
Anna helped her find her parents. They exchanged names—the girl was Olya—and soon the two began to see each other often.
Olya started visiting Anna, bringing her drawings and asking for stories. Her favorite was one about a girl and a star.
Anna told it often. And each time, she felt her heart fill with purpose—not as a replacement for Marina, but as someone new to love and care for.
A Lasting Bond
One day, while sorting Olya’s drawings, Anna noticed something surprising: in every picture, there were two girls. One was Olya. The other had golden hair and wore a dress with daisies. In each one, the second girl was labeled “Marina.”
Anna asked softly, “Who is this?”
“That’s my friend Marina,” Olya said. “She visits when I feel sad. She says you’re very kind. Do you know her?”
Anna’s breath caught.
“What does she tell you?” she asked.
“She says I should be here for you. That she’ll always watch over us both.”
Anna gently pulled Olya close, eyes glistening.
In that moment, she knew: love never truly leaves. It transforms. It stays—in memories, in gestures, and sometimes, in the hearts of those who come next.
That night, Anna dreamed of her grown daughter smiling in a sunlit garden, holding Olya’s hand.
“Thank you, Mom,” Marina said. “Now you are not alone.”
The next morning, a single chamomile petal rested on the windowsill.
