Fyodor Petrovich had wanted to visit his son’s grave for a long time, but poor health stopped him. Today, he felt a bit stronger, so after breakfast, he started getting ready. He had already set aside paint and tools months ago.
Two months before, he saw that the fence around his son’s grave was tilted, and the small gate was loose. It made sense—almost ten years had passed since Sasha was buried.
Sasha wasn’t his real son by blood. Fyodor and his wife had been married for 20 years without children, so they decided to adopt. At the orphanage, a thin five-year-old boy stood out to them. His sad eyes stayed in Fyodor’s mind.
“Why is that boy sitting by himself?” he asked.
“Sasha is different,” said one of the workers. “His mom left him here six months ago. It was awful. He cried and held onto her. Since then, he’s stayed quiet and doesn’t trust anyone.”
Fyodor and his wife felt something change in their hearts. They started the adoption process and began spending time with Sasha, taking him on walks. He joined them in everything—eating ice cream, riding the carousel—but his eyes still looked sad and distant.
It took a whole year before Sasha looked at them without fear. One night, he came to Fyodor and quietly asked:
“You won’t ever leave me, right?”
“Never,” Fyodor said.
From that moment on, Sasha truly became their son. He grew up to be kind and respectful. He worked hard in school and even got into a military academy—a rare achievement in their small village. His parents were very proud. When he came home during holidays, he didn’t rest—he helped around the house. Everyone admired how much love and care Fyodor and his wife gave him.
Sasha stayed in the military. They worried when he didn’t write or call, but they knew he was brave. Later, due to health problems, he had to leave the army. He became quieter and weaker. Two years later, Sasha died from an illness that was found too late. Not long after, Fyodor’s wife passed away too, and he was left all alone.
That morning, as he stepped outside, his old dog Buyan came to him. The dog, now slow and gray, seemed like a mirror of Fyodor.
“Well, Buyan,” he said, “shall we go see Sashenka? Let’s go.”
Buyan wagged his tail like he understood.
They walked through the village to the cemetery, about a kilometer away.
“Good day, Fyodor Petrovich! Where are you two off to?” asked Marya Stepanovna.
“Visiting my wife and son,” he said. “Time to fix the fence.”
“Should you really be doing that? Aren’t you worried about your health?”
“No grandchildren to help. And these days, if you pay someone, you usually end up redoing the job yourself.”
At the cemetery gate, a stranger walked past without saying hello. That was odd—everyone in the village usually greeted each other. Fyodor noticed but kept walking.
A storm the week before had left broken branches all over the cemetery. Fyodor sighed. “Lots of work to do, huh, Buyasha?”
Suddenly, Buyan growled. Fyodor looked down. “What’s wrong, boy? That man bother you too?”
As Fyodor gathered some branches, Buyan started digging like crazy near the fence. Dirt flew everywhere. He barked and whimpered, then barked again—urgently.
Fyodor came over. In the disturbed soil, he saw the edge of a cardboard box. It wasn’t buried very deep—the box was still in good shape.
He pulled it out—and something inside it moved.
He ripped the box open, and Buyan ran in circles, barking like crazy.
Inside, wrapped in old cloth, was a tiny baby girl with no clothes. She opened her mouth and tried to breathe, but no sound came out—just a weak gasp. She had been buried alive, probably less than an hour ago.
“Oh my God,” Fyodor whispered.
He picked her up and ran.
Buyan raced ahead, barking louder than ever. Fyodor’s chest hurt, and he struggled to breathe—but he didn’t stop.
They reached the house of Olga Sergeyevna, a retired nurse. She was in her garden when she saw them. She quickly washed her hands and hurried over.
“Fyodor Petrovich, what’s going on?!”
“Box… cemetery… baby…” he panted, handing her the child.
The baby whimpered. Olga got to work fast, wrapping her in a towel. Her husband called an ambulance.
Soon, the yard was filled with paramedics and police. Neighbors gathered to help. Someone gave Fyodor heart drops to calm him down.
The next day, a car Fyodor didn’t recognize parked outside his home. He was still sore and tried to stand.
Olga’s husband, Sasha, came out to see who it was.
A man walked to the door. “Are you Fyodor Petrovich?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Herman—the baby’s grandfather.”
He placed a box of food and a bundle of money on the table. “This is for you. I know it’s not enough, but I wanted to thank you.”
He sat down and explained.
“My daughter married a man I never trusted. After she died giving birth, I learned too late that her husband only wanted her money. He tried to get rid of the baby. He’s been arrested. That little girl… she’s all I have now.”
“Is she okay?” Fyodor asked.
“Yes. She’s safe now—because of you.”
Fyodor told him the whole story—from seeing the broken fence to the moment Buyan started digging.
Two weeks later, Fyodor could walk normally again. The box Herman left had enough to pay for a new fence and even a beautiful monument for Sasha’s grave.
One sunny morning, he picked up his tape measure. Buyan followed him.
“Coming with me, old friend?” he asked.
Buyan barked and wagged his tail.
On the way, they passed Marya Stepanovna again.
“Where to now, Fyodor Petrovich?” she called.
“To the cemetery,” Fyodor said. “Herman gave me money, so I’m measuring for a new fence. The old one’s falling apart.”
Marya watched him walk away and quietly made the sign of the cross. She knew more than he realized—she had seen what had happened.
But when Fyodor arrived at the cemetery, he froze in surprise. In front of him was a beautiful new memorial: black iron fences, clean white gravel, and tall, polished black headstones. The names of his wife and Sasha were carved in stone.
Herman had done it.
Fyodor lowered his head. “Thank you, kind man. You honored them well.”
He sat down on the bench between the graves.
“My loves,” he whispered, “now we can rest. I didn’t come sooner because I still had work to do. But now… now it’s all done.”
That evening, Marya Stepanovna saw Buyan return alone. The dog whined and lay at her feet. She quickly gathered some neighbors and hurried to the cemetery.
There they found Fyodor, sitting on the bench, calm and smiling.
He had passed away.
Herman took care of the funeral. Buyan never left Fyodor’s side, even when others tried to take him in. Two years later, the faithful dog died near the same grave and was buried beside the new fence—forever close to the family he loved.