Four shivering children were thrust through the front door of our cottage as if by an invisible hand.
Emily, someones knocking! shouted Peter, flicking the old kerosene lamp to life. And in this dreadful rain, too?
Anne set her knitting aside and strained to listen. Through the hiss of the downpour and the winds mournful whine, a faint rapping reached the doorwayso soft it might have been a twig striking the porch.
Perhaps its just the wind? she asked, glancing at her husband, but he was already moving toward the entry.
A cold gust slammed the door open, and a shiver of wind slipped into the hallway. Anne hurried after Peter, stopping on the threshold.
On the dimly lit porch, four little figures huddled under threadbare blankets.
My God Anne whispered, dropping to her knees before them.
The children said nothing, but their frightened eyes spoke volumes. Two girls and two boys, barely a year apart, no older than twelve months.
Where did they come from? Peter said, picking up a crumpled scrap of paper from the floor. He unfolded the watersoaked note and read aloud, Help them We cant any longer
Quick, bring them inside! Anne pressed one of the boys against her chest. Theyre frozen solid!
The cottage filled with wails and rustling as the children were tended. Martha, roused by the noise, descended the stairs, pausing on the last step.
Mother, help me! Anne pleaded, trying to soothe the infant while wringing out its sodden clothes. They need warmth and food.
Where did they appear from? Martha asked, but without waiting for an answer she stoked the iron stove.
Sam arrived shortly after, and soon every adult was occupied: someone warming milk, another fetching clean towels, a third digging through the ancient oak chest for any longforgotten baby supplies.
These little ones feel like a gift from above, Martha murmured as the first panic faded, and the children, now snug and fed on warm milk, drifted to sleep on the broad family bed.
Anne could not tear her eyes from them. How many nights had she wept, dreaming of these tiny souls? How many trips to the doctor had she and Peter made, each one draining hope a little more?
What shall we do? Peter asked quietly, laying a hand on his wifes shoulder.
What else is there to think about? Sam interjected. Its a sign. Well take them in, end of story.
But the law? Paperwork? Peter fretted.
You know the local registrar, Sam reminded him. Tomorrow youll sort it all out. Well say theyre distant relatives, no longer alive.
Anne stayed silent, sitting beside the children, gently smoothing their heads as if afraid to believe it was all real.
Ive already given them names, she finally said. Mabel, Agnes, William and Thomas.
That night no one in the house closed their eyes. Anne kept vigil over a handmade cradle, refusing to blink, convinced she might be dreaming and unwilling to let the vision slip away.
She listened to their soft breaths, to their sleepy murmurs, feeling a blossom of hope unfurl in her heart with each inhalation.
Four small lives now rested on her, their fates tangled with hers like thin strands braided into a sturdy rope.
Outside, the sky lightened. The wind hushed, rain drops became sparse, and the first sunbeams pierced the clouds, painting the neighbours damp roofs a tender rose.
Peter was checking the harness on his old workhorse when Anne handed him a parcel of food and a fresh shirt.
Managing alright? she asked, studying his focused expression.
Dont doubt me, he answered, giving her shoulder a brief squeeze before disappearing into the fields.
He returned at dusk, the cottage cloaked in twilight, shedding his damp shirt and placing a battered file on the table.
These are now officially our children, he announced, pride barely contained in his voice. No one can take them away. It would have taken years through the usual channels.
Martha crossed herself silently, then fetched a clay pot of hearty soup from the stove.
Sam placed a steaming mug before Peter, gripping his shoulder brieflyno words, but a whole lot of respect, pride, and trust conveyed in that silent gesture.
Anne leaned over the cradle, gazing at the four peaceful faces. For years shed carried the ache of childlessness like a thorn in her chest. Every thought of motherhood had cut her heart. Now tears streamed down her cheeks, salty with joy rather than loss.
Four tiny hearts beat beside her own, trusted to her by fate itself.
Im now a father of many, Peter whispered, embracing his wife.
Thank you, she murmured into his chest, fearing any extra word might shatter the fragile happiness.
Years slipped by, the children grew, the family steadied, though hardships still rose.
Enough of these rules! shouted William, slamming the kitchen door so hard the old hinges squealed. I wont spend my life in this backwater!
Anne froze, holding a bowl. For thirteen years she had never heard her younger son speak like that. She placed the dough on the table and wiped her hands on her apron.
Whats happened? she asked softly, stepping into the hallway.
William stood, back against the wall, his face pale with anger. Peter stood mute, fists clenched, breathing heavily as if after a sprint.
Your son says school is pointless, wants to quit and head to the city, Peter rasped. He says books are a waste of time.
And why the textbooks? William shouted. So we can spend our lives digging the earth like you?
Peters eyes flashed with pain. He took a step toward his son, but Anne gently held him back, standing between them.
Lets speak calmly, without shouting, she said, holding back tears that threatened to spill.
Whats there to discuss? William crossed his arms. Im not alone. Egor backs me, and the girls are scared to admit they also dream of leaving.
At the doorway, Viratall, with disheveled hair framing a pale facewatched the family.
I heard you were arguing, she said quietly. Whats the matter?
Tell them the truth, William demanded of his sister. Admit youve hidden that album of city landscapes under the pillow.
Vira shivered, but didnt look away. Her braid quivered as she straightened.
Yes, I dream of studying painting seriously, she confessed, meeting her fathers eyes. Theres an art college in the city, and my tutor says I have talent
See! Were being held here in muck and potatoes while the world moves on! William leapt up.
Peter exhaled sharply, as if struck, turned and stormed out into the night.
Anne swallowed a lump of fear, refusing to let the tears fall.
Dinner will be ready in half an hour, she announced calmly, returning to the simmering soup.
The evening stretched in silence. Mabel and Egor exchanged glances. William tossed his fork about. Vira stared at a point in the wall. Peter never sat down at the table.
That night Anne lay awake. Peters breathing drifted in the darkness, and she recalled the first night the children appeared on her step, the way she fed them with a spoon, taught them their first words, rejoiced at each new step.
Morning brought a harsher tone. Over breakfast, Egor declared,
I wont help Father with the farm any longer. I have my own plansserious sport, not milking cows.
Peter rose silently and walked out. Within minutes a tractor roared to life outside.
Do you realise what youre doing to your father? Anne snapped. Hes given his whole heart to you!
We never asked for this! William shouted suddenly. Youre not our fathers! Why are we even here?
Silence fell. Mabel went whiteeyed and ran from the table. Vira covered her face with her hands. Egor sat, mouth agape.
Anne stepped toward William, looking him straight in the eyes.
Because we love you, more than life itself, she whispered.
William lowered his gaze, then bolted out the door. From the window Anne saw him sprint across the fields toward the woods.
Martha, who had been watching in quiet, shook her head.
Thats just the age, love, she murmured. It will pass.
Anne knew it wasnt just age.
Dad, wait! William called, sprinting back, arms flailing. Ill help!
Peter stopped the tractor, wiped sweat from his brow. The day was hot, the work endless.
Ill manage on my own, he muttered, not turning.
Dont be stubborn, William said, laying a hand on his shoulder. Together were faster. You taught me that.
Peter fell silent, then nodded, moving aside. William climbed into the cab, and the tractor rumbled forward.
Nearly six months later, the cottage on the edge of the village had changed. Anne watched, amazed, as the children who once plotted escape now returnedfirst in body, then in spirit.
All of it began that night when William failed to come home. The whole village searched for him until dawn. They found him in a forest hut, shivering, feverish, eyes wild.
Mother, he whispered upon seeing Anne, and that single word altered everything.
A long illness followed. William drifted in and out of consciousness, clutching Annes hand as if terrified of being lost again.
Vira was the first to realise how foolish their rebellion had been. She brought out old photo albums, recounting family stories to her siblings.
Look, Egor, she said, heres Dad carrying you on his shoulders after you won your first race.
Egor wept silently.
Mabel began helping in the kitchen. Her gloomy sketches turned into bright watercolours of the cottage, meadow, and woods. One even won the district art competition.
Ill keep studying art, she told Anne, but Ill always come home. This is my home.
By the time of the school graduation, everything had settled so well that Peter smiled genuinely for the first time in years. He stood on the schoolyard, tall and proud, as his children were called one by one.
William Petrovsports achievement! Vira Petrovliterary award! Egor Petrovyoung mechanic of the year! Mabel Petrovart contest finalist!
The Petrov family, together at last.
That evening the cottage rang with laughter. Relatives, neighbours, friends filled the rooms.
Mum, Vira whispered, hugging Anne, Im going to art college, but Ill commute. Its close enough.
So will I, William added. Why stay in a dorm when we have a home like this?
Anne smiled through tears. Peter came over and placed his hands on her shoulders.
Everythings falling into place. When theyre eighteen, theyll decide for themselveswe wont hold them back.
She gazed at her grown children, still her children, and thought of that first night when fate knocked on the door.
Martha and Sam stood by a framed photograph on the wall, having left recently but still watching the grandchildren grow into good people.
The village was settling into night, crickets chirping, distant voices of youth echoing.
Anne stepped onto the porch, wrapped in an old shawl, and looked up at a sky strewn with stars like coins in a dark pouch.
She smiled and silently thanked the universe.
A soft rustle behind herPeter appeared.
What are you thinking about? he asked.
About how family isnt blood. Its love. Pure love.
In the dark, the voices of their children returning home drifted, as if the world itself welcomed them back to the place they were loved most.
