⏱ ~5 min reading
Artem had one secret pleasure: digging in the attic of his grandmother's house. It was accessed by a narrow wooden staircase that creaked underfoot. The attic smelled of old wood, dust, and something distant—like time itself, if time could have a smell.
That summer, Artem was looking for old toys there — his mother told him that there must be a doll somewhere that she had played with when she was little. The doll was never found — but something else was found.
In an old cardboard box from under his shoes lay photographs. Many. Black and white, with yellowed edges, some faded almost to gray. Artem took them out carefully — as if they were fragile. He sat down on a board near the window, where warm rays fell through the uneven glass, and began to look.
Some were familiar to him—a young grandmother and a young grandfather on their wedding day. Mom was small, wearing a bow, with a missing front tooth. Grandfather was in uniform—somewhere in his youth, not yet a grandfather, but a young man.
And one is special.
It featured a woman. A complete stranger to Artem. Young, with thick dark hair braided in a braid. Her eyes were deep, serious, with thin squinting at the corners—as if she was about to smile. In her hands was a bouquet of wildflowers: daisies, cornflowers, and something else small. In the background was a wooden hut with a gable.
Artem stared for a long time. For some reason, he couldn't look away. The woman was looking at him after so many years and seemed to know him.
He took the photo and carried it downstairs.
— Grandma.
Grandma was in the kitchen, shelling peas.
— What, swallow?
— Who is this?
Grandma wiped her hands on her apron. She took the photo. She looked at it for a long time. Her eyes moistened a little — Artem saw.
— This is my mother. That is, your great-grandmother. Olena.
— Great-grandmother Elena?
"Yes. You didn't know her—she died when your mother was still young. This is a picture from 1957. She's twenty-four here. I wasn't even born then.".
Artem sat down on a stool.
— Tell me about her.
Grandma sat down opposite. She put the photo on the table.
— She was quiet. And strong. Do you know what it is — quiet and strong at the same time? She rarely spoke, but when she did, everyone listened. Her hands were golden — she embroidered towels that could be displayed in a museum. One remained — I'll show you.
Grandma got up and took a towel out of the closet. White, with red and black embroidery — roosters, roses, a small cross. Artem stroked it with his hand. The stitches were tiny, even — like machine stitches. But she didn't know how to use a machine back then.
"And also," said the grandmother, "she loved flowers. She would go out into the field in the morning and come back with a bouquet. That's how it is here. It must have been her father who took her picture—he was in love with her all the time, right up until her death.".
Artem held the photo with both hands. He looked at his great-grandmother and felt something strange. It was as if a thin thread was stretching through this photo to himself. From her to his grandmother. From his grandmother to his mother. From his mother to Artem.
When he got home, the photo was with him. Grandma let him take it — she said, let it stay with you.
Artem sat down at the table. He pulled a sheet of thick cardboard from the shelf — leftover from a school project. He took out paints, a wooden ruler, and glue.
Artem spent the whole evening making a frame. He measured it. He cut it out. He glued together four frame strips. He painted it dark brown — to make it look like old wood. He let it dry. He covered the top with a thin layer of varnish that his mother gave him.
When the frame was dry, Artem carefully inserted the photo into it. It turned out beautifully — real, like in a museum. Not perfect — the corners are a little crooked. But it's his own.
Mom came and saw.
— What is this?
— Great-grandmother Olena. I found it in my grandmother's attic.
Mom sat down next to me. She took the frame in her hands.
"I barely remember her. This photo is almost all we have left of her. And the towel.".
— I already know about the towel.
"Where do you want to hang it?"
Artem thought.
"In the living room. On the wall where the TV is. Above it. So everyone can see it when they come in.".
— Nice place.
Dad came from the garage. He brought a hammer and a nail. Artem held the frame, dad took aim. They nailed it — opposite the window, into which the evening rays fell.
When the frame was hanging, Artem stepped back. He looked.
Great-grandmother Olena looked into his eyes. As if from the attic. As if from 1957. As if through all these years.
Since that day, four generations have appeared in Artem's living room. Great-grandmother - on the wall. Grandma - in a wedding photo that Mom put up next to it. Mom - in a photo from her university days. And Artem - in a fresh one, from the fourth grade graduation ceremony.
When friends came to visit, Artem sometimes showed:
— This is my great-grandmother. She embroidered the towels that are in our closet. Her name was Olena.
His friends nodded, not really understanding. But Artem knew that he was holding a thin thread in his hands. And this thread was simple, but very, very important.
💡 To cherish memories is to cherish the heart.