Olena was fading away before everyone’s eyes. Just a few years ago, she had been the village beauty: golden hair, clear eyes, a bright smile. But lately, it seemed as though life was dripping out of her day by day, like water through a cracked bucket. Her face had hollowed, her cheeks were gone, and the dark bruises beneath her eyes could no longer be hidden.

Neighbors shook their heads when they saw her dragging herself toward the library, where she had once worked. Books were her only refuge, her last breath of comfort, because her own life had long since turned into a nightmare.

Mykola, her husband, had changed completely. Once gentle and caring, he now came home grim, irritable, and often carrying the scent of another woman’s perfume. Olena remained silent, knowing that arguments would change nothing—only make it worse. She had even seen lipstick on his shirts, but when she tried to say something, he just laughed.

— “Can you imagine, woman?” he smirked. “I can wash my own shirts now! You’re weak and sick, so I’m helping out.”

But in truth, he only washed his shirts. Everything else he left for her to do. Olena swallowed her pain, hiding it deep inside. She had no energy left for quarrels anyway: fever wracked her body, a cough tore her chest, rashes spread across her skin.

Her childhood friend Nataliya tried to intervene, begging her to go to the city for proper doctors. But Olena only shrugged sadly:
— “There’s nothing left they can do for me…”

Meanwhile, Mykola was playing a different game. He already had a new woman in his life—a city beauty, young and demanding. She dreamed of dragging him away from the village, into her world. Mykola wanted the same, but he had a problem: no apartment of his own, and a sick wife tying him down.

So he decided to go all in. To finally rid himself of the wife who was fading away, he sold half the house… to an ex-convict.

The whole village was shocked. How could anyone leave a frail, sick woman under the same roof with a man fresh out of prison? But Mykola shrugged:
— “What do I care? It’s no longer my problem.”

Olena didn’t resist. She had no strength left for fighting. Yet somewhere deep inside, she felt that her fate was about to change forever.

Time passed. Her illness grew worse, and Mykola was already dreaming of her death, imagining himself the sole heir. But when he returned later to claim what he thought would be his inheritance, the sight that greeted him froze the blood in his veins.

The house was transformed. The yard was tidy, the fence freshly painted. Flowers bloomed along the path—flowers that had never grown there before. Warm light glowed in the windows, and voices could be heard from inside.

And then he saw her.

Olena sat at the large table—not sickly and ghostlike, but radiant, smiling, dressed beautifully, with light in her eyes. Beside her sat that very ex-convict, now looking like a completely different man: neat, strong, confident.

It turned out that after prison, the man had truly been searching for a new life. He was skilled with his hands and set to repairing the house. He took Olena to doctors in the city, bought her medicine, stood by her through recovery. He not only restored the home—he restored her.

— “As you see, Mykola, I’m still alive,” Olena said calmly, meeting his stunned gaze. “And everything else… no longer belongs to you.”

In that moment, he realized he had lost everything. Not just the inheritance, not just the house—but the woman he had once betrayed and discarded.

And worst of all—she was now happier than she had ever been with him.