She remained silent for three years until one day a man entered the bank branch and, to everyone’s surprise, fell to his knees in front of the cleaning woman.

She didn’t speak for three years – until he knelt before her.

They called her Aleptina. A silent woman in a headscarf, a shadow flitting through the bank’s corridors. For three months, she cleaned surfaces as carefully as if each were a temple—leaving no trace but the fresh scent of lemon. She never spoke. Never looked for more than a moment. She was present, yet seemingly outside of time.

Some whispered, “Mute… maybe mad?” Others sneered, “Hey, mute! You left some dust here!” She just lowered her head and continued wiping. Her silence was like a wall—impenetrable.

No one knew she had once had a voice, a home filled with light and passion, a teacher and a painter. Her name was Aliya. Until that night, when a fire broke out in her apartment building. Without hesitation, she rushed to her neighbor’s apartment. The flames were already consuming everything. A boy—Lesza—and his mother lay on the floor. She picked up the child. At the last moment, through the window, she released him into the arms of the firefighters.

Lesza survived. His mother didn’t. And Aliya? She was hospitalized with severe burns. She went through hell. She lost her voice—not from her wounds, but from pain, trauma, and grief over the death of her mother, who couldn’t bear it all. From the day of the funeral, she remained silent.

She disappeared from her life. She abandoned her easel. She worked as a cleaner, because the silence in that job was natural. Only her hands spoke—hands that bore the mark of that night, yet still managed to bring order to the chaos.

Until the day came when he – the regional director, Sergei Mikhailovich – walked into the bank. Elegant, cool, indifferent… until he saw her. Crouching by the door, polishing the doorknob. He stopped. He took off his glasses. He looked. And he recognized her.