—Nice little boy. - Tretyakov pats my son on the curly top of his head and does not take his attentive gaze off him. - So reminds me of one person... - Sorry, Volodya, we’re in a hurry. — I take Denis by the hand and want to leave, but Tretyakov blocks the way. — How old is he? Is this Igor’s child? I remain silent. And when I finally decide to answer, a miniature blonde comes up to us and hangs on Tretyakov’s shoulder. A ring glitters on her ring finger. “Darling, who is this girl?” - she asks and turns her attention to Denis. His face turns pale and changes. “He’s a copy...” “This is the bride of Igor, my deceased brother,” Tretyakov interrupts her, continuing to look at me. I thought that I would never cross paths with the past again, but it turned out that for some time the father of my child would live in one city.