That day was motionless, like a leaden sunset.
The air didn’t just hang—it pressed down to the ground, thick, dense, heavy like molten iron.
Everything around was frozen under an invisible dome of heat.
Not a single leaf stirred on the trees, not a single bird pierced the air with a cry.
The sun wasn’t shining—it was scorching, mercilessly burning through clothes, as if trying to reach the skin itself.
Novorossiysk woke up slowly, reluctantly.
In summer, the city seemed blurry around the edges, as if someone had soaked it with water—houses, streets, and faces lost their sharpness, becoming soft and shapeless.
Window curtains in homes were tightly drawn, and only occasionally a shadow of an air conditioner flickered behind them.
Heat shimmered above the sidewalks, as if the ground itself was evaporating.
The clock showed a quarter to eight in the morning.
Sixteen-year-old Slavik Belov was running late. Not for the first time, not even the tenth.
He knew: if tutor Viktor Alekseyevich saw him after class had begun, he would definitely call his mom and report every missed lesson.
But right now, he didn’t care.
He was running. His backpack bounced against his back, his t-shirt clung to his sweaty body, his sneakers slipped on the heated asphalt.
He turned the corner past an old, long-abandoned supermarket—gray, shabby, as if forgotten by time.
And suddenly stopped. Not because he was tired or saw someone he knew.
No. Something inside stopped him—an inner signal, barely audible but insistent.
It was a child’s cry.
Weak, broken, almost choked—not so much a voice as desperation breaking out.
Slavik looked around. His heart pounded so hard it thudded in his temples.
His ears were burning from the heat, but he heard the sound clearly.
Behind him, in the shade of a withered tree, stood a car—old, faded, with peeling paint and fogged-up windows. The cry was coming from inside.
Slavik slowly approached. Each step felt like an eternity.
At first, he couldn’t see anything—just darkened windows.
Then, in the dim interior, he saw a tiny figure. A child. A girl.
About a year old, maybe slightly older. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes half-open, her lips cracked from thirst.
“Oh God…” he whispered, a chill of fear running down his spine.
He pulled the door handle—locked. Moved to the other side—same. Nothing.
“Hey! Anybody here?! Help!” he shouted, but there was only silence.
No one around. Just the scorching heat and stones by the roadside.
Thoughts flashed in his mind: “Not your business,” “The police should handle it,” “You could get in trouble.”
But his gaze fell back on the little girl. Her head lolled helplessly.
Slavik grabbed a stone. Ran up to the window, raised it, and struck. A loud crunch rang out, as if the world had cracked.
The glass shattered like ice. Hot air burst from the car—like from an oven.
He reached inside, his fingers trembling, the seatbelt wouldn’t budge.
He cursed. Then—a click. He pulled the little girl out, pressed her to him, shielding her from the sun, and whispered:
“I’m here. It’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”
And he didn’t wait. Didn’t call for help. He just ran.
The clinic was three blocks away—but for him, it became a lifetime journey.
Sweat streamed into his eyes, his legs wobbled, his arms trembled under her fragile weight. He didn’t stop.
Passersby turned, some called out, some asked questions.
He didn’t hear them. He didn’t even feel how his clothes were soaked through with sweat.
The girl in his arms didn’t move.
He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know where her parents were. Why she was alone.
But in that moment, he felt such responsibility for her, as if he held the whole world in his arms.
The clinic doors slid open with a familiar hiss.
Cool air, bright lights, the smell of medicine—it all hit him like the first sip of water after long thirst.
“HELP!” he shouted, and every head turned to him.
Someone rushed over. A nurse—tall, in glasses, with a stern face but worried eyes—approached.
“The child… in the car… heat… she…” his voice broke, words tangled like threads impossible to untie.
They gently took the girl and rushed her away. The ICU doors slammed shut before his eyes.
He was left alone. His hands trembled. His stomach clenched with fear.
White noise filled his head. He slowly sat on a bench and for the first time realized: he might not have found her.
He could’ve been too late. He could’ve hesitated.
And in that very moment, when the silence became unbearable, he cried for the first time.
Maybe ten minutes passed. Maybe forty. Slavik wasn’t sure.
He sat staring at the floor, as if he could hide his fear, guilt, and emptiness between the cracks in the tiles.
His palms still burned, as if he was still holding her.
All he heard was his own breathing.
Everything else felt distant, like sounds underwater—muffled, blurred, unreal.
A woman in a white coat stepped out of the corridor.
Short, with gray hair pulled into a tight bun and sharp features. She stopped in front of him.
“Did you bring the girl?”
Slavik slowly nodded. As if afraid that any movement would destroy everything that had just happened.
“Is she alive?”
The woman appeared to be a doctor. She looked at him for a long second. Then sat down beside him.
“You made it in time. A little later and…” she didn’t finish.
There was no need. He understood.
“How are you?” she asked more gently.
He stayed silent. And suddenly everything inside tightened, boiled, and burst out.
He covered his face with his hands and cried—loudly, sobbing like a child, unashamed, not trying to hide.
Half an hour later, a man in uniform entered the lobby. About thirty, with a perceptive gaze and kind but tired eyes.
“Senior Lieutenant Romanov,” he introduced himself.
“Can I talk to you?”
Slavik nodded. Everything that could break had already broken.
Now he was ready for anything.
They stepped outside. Slavik sat on a bench, the lieutenant joined him.
“Tell me everything. From the beginning.”
And he told him: about the scorching heat, the voice from the car, the stone in his hands, how he ran, cradling the nearly lifeless body.
How, in that moment, he became an adult, as if there was no way back.
“No one was around?” Romanov asked.
“No one. Just her.”
Slavik showed where the car had been. The officer nodded, took notes.
“You did the right thing, Slava. Very few would’ve dared. But you saved a life. That’s what matters.”
Slavik nodded again. But gratitude didn’t warm him. He felt only emptiness.
Later, a car pulled up to the clinic. Two people got out—a man and a woman.
They looked colorless—pale faces, red eyes, mechanical movements.
The woman was trembling. The man walked slightly ahead, as if shielding her.
They entered the lobby and immediately spotted Slavik. Walked up to him.
“Was it you?.. Did you find our daughter?..” the woman fell to her knees in front of him. “Oh God… oh God…”
Slavik wanted to step back. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to look at them.
“I thought she was taken…” the man muttered.
“We were in a rush… We didn’t mean to…”
Slavik looked into their eyes.
“She almost died,” he said quietly.
The same gray-haired doctor approached and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“They’ll live with this forever. But now the girl has a chance. Thanks to you.”
A few days later, a message arrived.
The doctor invited him back to the clinic—just to see how Lera was recovering. Slavik agreed.
Not because he knew why. He just went.
She was lying in a room—in a bright little jumpsuit, a toy in her hand.
Her cheeks were rosy again, her breathing steady. She was sleeping.
He came closer and carefully sat beside her.
“Her name is Lera,” the doctor said.
“Beautiful name.”
“She’s alive. Because of you.”
Slavik nodded. He didn’t know what to say.
But in that moment, something in his chest warmed slightly—like the first ray of light after a long night, like a small hope beginning to awaken.
“If you want—come by sometimes, visit her. We’ll always be glad to see you.”