“The old man was tidying his son’s grave when his dog began digging in the ground. The discovery alarmed the entire village. Fyodor Petrovich had long dreamed of visiting the cemetery to see his son. However, his health had not allowed him to fulfill this wish for a long time. The paint and tools had been prepared in advance, and today he woke up feeling better. After breakfast, he began to get ready. Two months ago, he noticed that the fence at his son’s grave was tilting, and the gate was hanging unevenly. This was not surprising, as it had been almost ten years since he buried his boy. In fact, Sasha was not his biological son. Fyodor Petrovich and his wife had been together for 20 years, but they had no children. After much thought, they decided to adopt a child from an orphanage. There, they immediately noticed a thin five-year-old boy who looked at them sadly. Fyodor Petrovich felt his heart squeeze.

“”Why is this boy sitting alone?”” he asked.

“”Sasha is special,”” they replied. “”His mother brought him here six months ago. It was a hard scene. He cried, didn’t want to part with her, and our hearts broke. Since then, he’s lived by himself, unable to forgive and understand this betrayal. No matter how hard we try, he won’t connect.””

Fyodor Petrovich and his wife immediately decided that they could help Sasha believe that life is not so grim. While processing the paperwork, they took him for walks. Sasha did everything they suggested: ate ice cream, rode on carousels, but his eyes remained empty.

It took a whole year for Sasha to look at them without fear. Only after a year, one evening, he approached Fyodor Petrovich and asked:

“”Will you really never leave me?””

“”Never, I promise you.””

Little Sasha pressed against him and cried. From that moment, they forgot that Sasha was not their biological son. The boy delighted them in everything. He did well in school and after graduating, he enrolled in a military academy. They lived in a small village, and few of the young people continued their education after school, so the parents were incredibly proud of Sasha. During holidays and vacations, he came not to rest, but to help his parents. In the village, everyone was envious, seeing how tenderly Fyodor Petrovich and his wife treated their son.

Sasha remained in service. His parents worried, especially when he did not make contact. They knew he was in dangerous places. Later, he was discharged due to his health condition. Sasha became sad, and two years later, he fell ill. Doctors could only shrug their shoulders. The disease was detected too late.

Soon after the death of his son, his wife also passed away, and Fyodor Petrovich was left alone…

He went out into the yard, and an old dog named Buyan ran up to his feet. The dog was also old. If translated into human age, he was the same age as Fyodor Petrovich.

“”Well, Buyan, shall we go to Sashenka? Let’s go.””

The old dog seemed to understand his master’s words and happily wagged his tail.

They closed the gate and headed down the dirt road. The cemetery was on the other end of the village. They had to walk through the entire settlement and then another kilometer.

“”Good day, Fyodor Petrovich! Where are you and Buyan headed?”” called out Marya Stepanovna.

“”Hello, Marya Stepanovna. I’m going to my son and wife. Need to fix the fence and paint it.””

“”Oh, how are you yourself? You’re ill. Surely you could ask someone?””

“”God didn’t give me grandchildren, and to ask a stranger… You know yourself, they’ll take the money, and then I’d have to redo it. Times are such…””

Fyodor Petrovich and Buyan continued on their way. At the entrance to the cemetery, they met a man, clearly not a local. He walked past without greeting. Fyodor Petrovich was surprised: in their village, everyone greets each other, even if they’re strangers. But here…

The cemetery was in disarray. A week ago, there had been a strong wind that broke branches. Fyodor Petrovich sighed…

“”Oh, how much work we have ahead of us, Buyasha.””

The dog growled.

“”What are you growling at? Didn’t like that passerby? Me neither. But what’s it to us…””

As Fyodor Petrovich was gathering branches, Buyan suddenly began to dig at the very edge of the fence. Soil flew in all directions. The dog dug, simultaneously barking and squealing. Finally, he stopped and barked loudly.

Fyodor Petrovich approached the hole and froze…Continued in the comments.

 

Fyodor Petrovich had long wished to visit the cemetery where his son was buried. However, his declining health had made it difficult for him to fulfill this desire. He had prepared paint and tools in advance, and today, upon waking up feeling better than usual, he decided it was time. Over breakfast, he thought about how two months ago he had noticed the fence around his son’s grave leaning, the gate hanging at an odd angle. It was hardly surprising—ten years had passed since he had laid his boy to rest.

Sasha had not been his biological son. Fyodor Petrovich and his wife had spent twenty years together but had never been able to have children of their own. After much thought, they decided to adopt. At the orphanage, their attention was immediately drawn to a frail five-year-old boy sitting alone, his sad eyes filled with silent pain.

“Sasha is different,” the caretaker replied. “His mother left him here six months ago. It was heartbreaking—he clung to her, sobbing, refusing to let go. Since then, he has kept his distance from everyone, unable to forgive or understand why she abandoned him. No matter how much we try, he doesn’t open up to anyone.”

In that moment, Fyodor Petrovich and his wife knew they had found their son. They were determined to show him that life was not just a series of betrayals. While the adoption process was underway, they took him on outings. He obediently did everything they suggested—ate ice cream, rode the carousel—but his eyes remained hollow.

It took a full year before Sasha finally began to trust them. One evening, he cautiously approached Fyodor Petrovich and asked, “You won’t leave me, will you?”

“Never,” he promised.

Sasha pressed himself against him and cried. From that moment on, they no longer thought of him as adopted—he was simply their son. He brought them joy in everything he did. He excelled in school and later enrolled in a military academy, a rare path for boys from their small village, making his parents incredibly proud. During holidays, instead of coming home to rest, he would help them with chores. The villagers often remarked on how fortunate Fyodor Petrovich and his wife were to have such a devoted son.

Sasha remained in military service for several years, though his parents worried whenever they lost contact with him. They knew he was often sent to dangerous places. Eventually, he was discharged for health reasons. His once-bright spirit dimmed, and two years later, he fell gravely ill. The doctors shook their heads; the illness had been discovered too late.

After Sasha’s death, his mother did not live long. Fyodor Petrovich was left alone.

One morning, he stepped outside, and his old dog, Buyan, came to his feet. The dog had aged considerably, its muzzle now gray. If translated to human years, he and Fyodor Petrovich were nearly the same age.

“Well, Buyan, shall we go visit Sashenka?” he said. “Let’s go.”

They locked the gate behind them and started down the dirt road. The cemetery was on the far side of the village, requiring them to walk through town and then another kilometer beyond.

“Good day, Fyodor Petrovich! Where are you and Buyan off to?” called out Maria Stepanovna, a neighbor.

“Hello, Maria Stepanovna. I’m going to visit my son and my wife. The fence needs fixing, and I plan to give it a fresh coat of paint.”

“But how are you holding up? You’ve been unwell. Why not ask someone for help?”

“I have no grandchildren to turn to, and hiring a stranger… well, you know how it is. They’d take my money, and I’d just have to redo it myself. It’s better this way.”

They continued on their way. At the cemetery entrance, they passed a man who was clearly not from their village. He didn’t offer a greeting, which was unusual—everyone here, even strangers, exchanged pleasantries.

The cemetery itself was in disarray. A storm had recently passed through, scattering broken branches everywhere.

“We have our work cut out for us, Buyasha,” he sighed.

The dog growled low in its throat.

“What’s gotten into you? That stranger bothering you? I didn’t like him much either, but it’s none of our concern.”

As Fyodor Petrovich gathered branches, Buyan suddenly began to dig furiously at the base of the fence. Dirt flew in every direction, and the dog barked frantically.

“Calm down, boy,” he said, approaching.

Buyan continued until a cardboard box became visible beneath the soil. It had been buried recently—the damp earth had not yet soaked through it.

With effort, Fyodor Petrovich pulled the box free. Then something inside moved. His hands trembled as he tore at the cardboard. Buyan circled around him, barking wildly.

Inside, wrapped in rags, lay a tiny newborn baby girl. She squirmed weakly, mouth opening soundlessly, too exhausted to cry.

“Oh, dear Lord!”

Without hesitation, he gathered the baby in his arms and rushed toward the cemetery exit. Buyan bolted ahead, barking as if summoning help.

He ran straight to Olga Sergeyevna’s house—the retired village paramedic. She was in her garden when she saw him coming, panting and clutching the tiny child.

“Fyodor Petrovich, what’s wrong?”

“Found… buried… in a box…” he managed to gasp.

The baby whimpered softly. Olga snapped into action, taking her inside, wrapping her in warm towels. Her husband called emergency services and the police while the entire village gathered, murmuring in shock. Someone gave Fyodor Petrovich heart drops.

The next morning, an unfamiliar car pulled up to his house. A tall, sturdy man stepped out, carrying a box.

“Are you Fyodor Petrovich?” he asked.

“That’s me,” he said, standing with difficulty.

“My name is German. I’m the baby’s grandfather. You saved my granddaughter’s life.”

He placed the box on the table alongside a thick envelope.

“This is for you—some treats, and money for anything you need. I know gratitude can’t be measured in money, but I don’t know how else to thank you. Please accept it.”

Fyodor Petrovich sat heavily in his chair.

“My daughter married a man I never trusted,” German explained. “He only wanted her for money, but she wouldn’t listen. When she became pregnant, I thought maybe I was wrong. But she died in childbirth. I didn’t even know. The baby survived, but my son-in-law wanted to claim her inheritance, so he tried to get rid of her. I never imagined such cruelty. He’s been arrested, and my granddaughter… she’s all I have left of my daughter.”

“I understand,” Fyodor Petrovich said quietly. “Is the baby alright?”

“Thanks to you, yes. She’ll be okay.”

Later, as he recounted the events, he mentioned that he had originally come to fix the cemetery fence.

Days passed before he could move normally again. When he finally did, he took a measuring tape and set off to order a new fence. Buyan trotted beside him.

“Coming with me, old friend?” he asked.

The dog wagged his tail.

At the cemetery, he was stunned to find a newly built memorial. The graves of his son and wife were now surrounded by a pristine black metal fence, the ground covered in white gravel. Their names were etched into elegant stone markers.

“German,” he murmured, understanding at once. “Thank you, kind man.”

He sat on the bench, speaking softly to his son and wife.

“Now you can rest easy. Everything is as it should be.”

That evening, Maria Stepanovna noticed Buyan return home alone. The dog whined, restless. Sensing something was wrong, she gathered the neighbors, and they hurried to the cemetery.

They found Fyodor Petrovich sitting on the bench, a peaceful smile on his face. He had passed away.

German arranged the funeral. Buyan refused to leave his master’s side. Two years later, the old dog died near the same fence and was buried beside him, remaining loyal to the very end.