Shaking, Mikhail climbed out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, trying to steady his trembling hands. Over the years, he'd tried countless ways to rid himself of the nightmare, but none had worked. It was a reminder of something that happened long ago.
When Mikhail was in his early twenties, full of confidence and arrogance, everything seemed easy. After a wild night at a club, he and a couple of girls had driven to a lake to continue the fun. The night was carefree, the air light with laughter. But as dawn broke and it was time to head back, Mikhail decided he’d drive.
He sped down the country road, overtaking the occasional car, the morning sun piercing through the trees. As more cars appeared, his head began to throb.
To avoid the long drive, he turned onto a narrow village road. It was then he saw an old Lada with a man and a schoolgirl inside, the girl’s white bows visible. Mikhail noticed the driver hesitated, and he decided to overtake.
“What’s he waiting for, carrying potatoes?” Mikhail smirked, speeding up.
The Lada accelerated as if trying to prevent Mikhail from passing. Mikhail laughed to himself: "What a racer he is!"
As he tried to pass, the Lada swerved suddenly, veering off the road and crashing into a tree. Mikhail caught a glimpse of the wreck in the rearview mirror before he slammed on the brakes and stopped.
The man was clearly dead, but the girl—she was alive, struggling to open the jammed door, her screams growing louder as the fire from the car’s engine spread closer.
Mikhail’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. He hesitated—no one saw him. The battle between fear and reason raged within him. After a long moment, he jerked the wheel sharply and drove off.
That memory haunted him for years.
The nightmares started immediately, tormenting him relentlessly. He tried to bury them in work, and when that didn’t work, he sought help from a doctor. Pills helped to dull the pain, but the dreams never left him. And now, when it seemed he had achieved everything he wanted…
Mikhail glanced at the clock—it was five in the morning. He rubbed his face tiredly, turned on the kettle, and briefly considered heading to the restaurant early. Yesterday, he’d noticed irregularities in the reports.
It seemed someone was trying to embezzle money. That was irritating. He paid his staff well, and yet employees came and went. His restaurant was always packed, but it came with its own set of challenges.
When Mikhail arrived at the restaurant, he noticed a young woman standing outside. She blushed when she saw him.
“Sorry, we’re not open yet,” Mikhail said, eyeing her closely.
The woman smiled faintly, and he noticed a small dimple in her cheek.
“I know,” she replied. “I work here as a waitress.”
Mikhail smiled back. “Well, what an owner I must be! I don’t even know my employees by face. But don’t worry, we’ll fix that.”
She seemed taken aback, but he turned and went inside. Mikhail found himself curious about this young woman. She had an air of seriousness about her, like she was hiding something, but she was also barely twenty-five—just the right age for him to pursue a little romance.
Mikhail, though only 37, had never been interested in having a family. Why burden himself with such things when life was good? Young women were always around, and he could have anyone he wanted—not just because of his money, but also because he was quite attractive.
The day ahead was taxing. A group of athletes had arrived, ordering large amounts of food. The chefs were scrambling to keep up. Mikhail stormed past the kitchen, irritation bubbling inside him.
“If one dish is late, I’ll fire you all!” he snapped.
The head chef frowned, clearly annoyed. “We’re doing our best, but we just opened. It’s not all set up yet.”
“Opened? You’re here to work, not to get things ready!”
The chef grumbled and disappeared into the kitchen, and Mikhail moved to the hall. As he passed through, he almost collided with the new waitress.
“What are you doing standing here?” Mikhail demanded. “Your place is in the hall!”
She didn’t flinch, replying coolly, “Mikhail Pavlovich, I haven’t learned to take orders telepathically yet.”
Mikhail froze, surprised by her calmness. Then he smiled.
“Sorry.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, and he watched her, intrigued. Later, he called over the manager.
“Sergey, who’s that?”
“That’s the new waitress,” Sergey replied. “Her name’s Dasha. She’s been with us for three days. Quick learner, handles everything well. I think she’s got something going on at home—sick mom or something…”
“Got it. Any issues?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. Just bumped into each other earlier,” Sergey clarified.
Mikhail nodded and headed to his office, but he wasn’t thinking about work anymore. He was focused on Dasha—her strong demeanor, her calmness.
After lunch, Mikhail saw her again, sitting on a bench outside. The timing was perfect. He walked over to her with a smile.
“May I sit?”
She glanced up in surprise but moved aside for him.
“Dasha, I don’t understand what a beauty like you is doing in my little restaurant,” Mikhail said with a grin.
Dasha met his gaze and, in a calm but slightly bored tone, replied, “And where should I be?”
“On a runway, dazzling men with your charm.”
“No, thank you. That’s not for me.”
“What exactly? The outfits or the men?”
“Both.”
She stood up from the bench, and Mikhail, still interested, gently caught her hand.
“Dasha, maybe after work we could take a walk? Sit down and talk?”
Dasha gently pulled her hand away, her tone cold. “Thanks, but no thanks. Focus on those who are actually interested in you.”
With that, she walked off, leaving Mikhail standing there, confusion swirling inside him.
“Not so fast, darling,” he thought. “You’ll change your mind.”
The rest of the day, thoughts of Dasha filled Mikhail’s head. Usually, he was quick to lose interest in women, but she was different—something about her intrigued him. He decided to stay at the restaurant later than usual, planning to teach her a lesson.
Near midnight, the manager reminded him it was time to set the alarm.
“Mikhail Pavlovich, are you leaving?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, just make sure no one leaves without my permission.”
Mikhail walked out into the hall, gathering all the employees. His face was serious.
“I have some bad news,” he began. “We’ve received information that one of our waitresses is stealing. Taking expensive products.”
Silence swept over the room. Everyone looked around in confusion.
Mish, the manager, frowned. “And who is that?”
Mikhail pointed toward Dasha.
“Dasha,” he said ominously.
Dasha stepped back, panic flooding her eyes. “What? I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”
Mikhail smirked internally. He thought he’d finally broken her.
“Dasha, you understand the situation. Prove you’re innocent, or you’ll have to find a new job.”
“Prove it? How do I prove it?” she retorted, desperate.
“Show us what you’ve got,” Mikhail said.
Dasha opened her bag and emptied its contents onto the table: keys, a wallet, a few small items. Mikhail crossed his arms.
“And under that oversized sweater of yours, you could be hiding half the restaurant.”
The room went still. Dasha’s eyes welled with tears, but she didn’t say a word. She opened and closed her mouth, struggling to breathe.
“Well, then,” Mikhail continued, “I’m not asking you to strip, just take off the sweater, and I might even apologize.”
Dasha stared at him for a long moment. The room was silent. Then, she suddenly pulled off the sweater and threw it on the table. Everyone gasped. Beneath it, she wore a thin tank top, and her skin was covered in deep scars from her shoulders down to her neck.
Mikhail froze. His heart pounded in his chest. The sight of her scars, the memory of the crash—it all hit him like a wave.
“Sorry. Everyone’s free to go,” he muttered, his voice hollow. Without another word, he rushed out of the restaurant.
That night, Mikhail couldn’t sleep. He wandered through his apartment, his thoughts racing.
She’s alive. She came to work in my restaurant. Was it a coincidence? Or did she know something? But why pretend to meet me for the first time?
The next day, Dasha didn’t show up for work. Mikhail asked the manager for her address.
“I’ve got it,” Sergey said, handing him a piece of paper.
Mikhail didn’t know what he was going to say, but he knew one thing—he had to help her now. He should have done it long ago.
Half an hour later, Mikhail stood in front of her modest apartment and knocked. When Dasha opened the door, she looked surprised, wearing glasses and holding a handkerchief.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect you,” she said, sneezing. “I just got back from the clinic. You can come in.”
Mikhail nodded and entered. Her apartment was small, but she had her mother lying on the sofa.
“This is my mom,” Dasha explained. “She had a stroke. She can’t walk, but she can think. Mom, this is Mikhail, my... boss.”
The elderly woman waved weakly.
“Hello. Dasha, at least offer the guest some tea.”
“No need,” Mikhail quickly replied. “I won’t stay long.”
In the kitchen, Mikhail set an envelope with money on the table.
“This is for you,” he said firmly. “No arguments. Stay home, get well, however long it takes.”
Dasha stared at him, confused.
“But…”
Mikhail interrupted her. “No ‘buts.’ Just take it.”
He turned to leave, but then paused at the door.
“Those glasses… have you been wearing them for a long time?” he asked quietly.
Dasha smiled faintly, shrugging. “I’ve had bad eyesight since I was a child. I wear lenses at work.”
Mikhail nodded, his mind racing. He rushed down the stairs, thinking only of her. Did she not recognize him? Or was it a relief that she didn’t?
Mikhail’s thoughts churned as he walked out of the building. He couldn’t shake the image of Dasha’s scars, the deep marks that covered her skin, the reminder of the crash and the nightmare he had lived with for so many years. She didn’t remember him. She didn’t know that it was him behind the wheel that day. And yet, here she was—alive, still standing, despite everything.
The truth he had kept hidden for so long now felt like an unbearable weight, pressing down on him. He didn’t want to burden her with it, but the guilt gnawed at him. What if she found out? What if she connected the dots? Would she ever forgive him?
Mikhail spent the following days in turmoil. He kept replaying that moment with Dasha over and over in his mind, her calm demeanor, her unflinching strength. But even in her strength, he saw the scars—scars that weren’t just physical but emotional, scars that would never fade. And he knew he was the cause of them.
By the end of the week, Mikhail made up his mind. He needed to see her again, to tell her the truth. It wasn’t fair to leave things unsaid, to let this guilt fester any longer. But when he reached the flower shop where Dasha worked, his nerves returned, and doubt crept in. What would she say? Could she ever forgive him?
The door to the flower shop chimed softly as Mikhail stepped inside. The familiar scent of fresh flowers hit him instantly, but it did little to calm his racing heart. He spotted Dasha behind the counter, arranging a bouquet. Her posture was as confident as ever, yet there was a distant sadness in her eyes.
“Dasha,” Mikhail said softly, approaching her.
She looked up, her expression neutral. “Mikhail, what brings you here?”
“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion.
Dasha gave him a small, polite smile, but there was something guarded about it. “What about?”
Mikhail took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was it. The moment he had been dreading, the moment he could no longer avoid.
“I’m the one who caused the crash. It was me behind the wheel that day.”
Dasha’s expression froze. Her hands trembled slightly, and the flowers she had been arranging slipped from her grip, falling into a vase with a soft clink. For a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the silence between them thickening with the weight of his confession.
“I know you don’t remember,” Mikhail continued, “but I’ve been living with the guilt for years. You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
Dasha stood there, unmoving, her eyes locked on him. She didn’t speak for a long time, and Mikhail began to wonder if she would say anything at all.
Finally, she took a step back, her gaze never leaving his. “You should have told me this sooner,” she said quietly.
“I know,” Mikhail replied, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t. I was too afraid of what you would think, too afraid to face the truth.”
Dasha nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. She didn’t seem angry, not in the way Mikhail had expected. Instead, there was a sadness in her eyes that mirrored his own.
“You’ve been carrying this burden alone, haven’t you?” she asked.
Mikhail nodded. “I have.”
“I don’t know if I can forgive you right now,” Dasha said, her voice steady but filled with quiet pain. “But I appreciate you telling me. It’s more than I ever thought I’d hear.”
Mikhail felt a wave of relief mixed with guilt wash over him. At least the truth was out, at least she knew. But Dasha’s words hung in the air between them, an unspoken promise that healing, if it came, would take time.
“I understand,” Mikhail said, his voice soft. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But I needed you to know.”
Dasha finally spoke again, her voice tinged with quiet strength. “I’ll think about it. I need time to process everything.”
Mikhail nodded. “I’ll wait. Whenever you’re ready.”
With that, he turned and left the shop, the door chiming softly behind him. As he stepped into the cool air, he felt a small sense of relief, but also the weight of what lay ahead. He couldn’t undo the past, but he had taken the first step toward redemption.
As he walked down the street, he knew that he had no control over what would happen next. But for the first time in years, Mikhail felt like he was no longer running from his past. And maybe, just maybe, Dasha would find it in her heart to forgive him.
