I heard this story from a woman I happened to talk to on the train. She said she needed to talk, and I, she said, seemed like a good listener. I don't know how true it is, but I remembered what she told me word for word. So, the heroine—let's call her Vera. Thirty-four years old, petite and well-built, with heavy dark hair and a calm, slightly tired face. Not a cover-girl beauty, but one of those women who men linger on longer than intended. Vera worked for a small agency that officially organized private events, but unofficially found escorts. Not prostitution in the traditional sense, more like theater: dinners, receptions, trips, the occasional night out. Vera wasn't the kind of woman to be called on often. She was valued for something else: her ability to get into character. She knew how to be whatever her clients were looking for: a giggly student, a bored wife, a stern teacher. The agency called it "individual support with elements of psychological reconstruction." Vera herself put it more simply: "I'm an understudy. I play people who are no longer around." The commission in question arrived at the end of November. The client, a forty-six-year-old man and widower, had a brief: to recreate one evening. A specific evening. His wedding night. Vera didn't agree right away. The agency considered such assignments difficult: too much personal involvement, too much pain. But the amount was such that it would cover half of the remaining apartment loan. So Vera went to the meeting. The client—let's call him Igor—lived outside the city, in a two-story dark brick house. It looked as if it had been built not for living, but for hiding. Vera arrived during the day, as arranged. The door was opened by the housekeeper—a silent woman of about fifty, with the face of someone who had long ago learned not to be surprised. She showed them into the living room. Igor turned out to be a lean, trim man. Graying temples, expensive glasses, a button-down shirt, despite it being his day off. He didn't fidget, but it was clear he was struggling. He spoke slowly, as if each word was a struggle. “I know this sounds weird,” he said. “I don’t just want sex. I need things to be like they were back then. Twenty-two years ago.” He put a thin folder on the table. — It's all here. How she dressed. How she spoke. What she liked for breakfast. The gesture she made when she was nervous. I wrote it down from memory. I want you to learn it. Vera opened the folder. Inside were handwritten pages and photographs—not erotic, but everyday ones. A woman in the kitchen, a woman in the garden, a woman by the window. Dark hair, like Vera's. A similar oval face. Igor hadn't chosen her by chance. "What was her name?" Vera asked. - Lena. - And you want me to be Lena? - I want you to try. Vera closed the folder. "I need two days. And I want no one in the house. Just you and me." Igor nodded. Vera spent two days studying. Not just facts—intonations, pauses, habits. She imitated in front of the mirror how Lena fixed her hair. How she laughed—briefly, as if surprised at herself. How she said "Igor"—not "Igor," but "Igor," slightly drawing out the last syllable. In the evenings, Vera sat on her bed and imagined what it would be like to be the woman who was no longer there. Gradually, she stopped noticing the difference. On the appointed evening, she arrived at the house just as it was getting dark. She was wearing the same dress—dark blue, with a high collar—that Lena had worn. Vera had found a similar one in a vintage store. On her wrist was the thin silver bracelet mentioned in the notes. Her hair was styled just as it had been in photographs from twenty years earlier. Igor himself opened the door. Seeing Vera, he froze. He simply stood and stared, not saying a word. Then he stepped aside, letting her in. "Are you hungry?" he asked, and Vera noted: he didn't say "you." He had already moved on. "A little," she answered in Lena's voice—a little lower than her own, with a slight hoarseness. "But first, I want some wine." Igor nodded. The housekeeper was gone. Just the two of them. Dinner was served in the dining room. No candles, no restaurant service—just a simple home-cooked meal, which, judging by the notes, Lena cooked herself. Vera played the part, but didn't overdo it. She smiled when necessary. She asked questions, the answers to which she already knew. Igor answered—at first reservedly, then more freely. He looked at her, unable to look away. After dinner he rose first. — Shall we go? Vera silently took his hand. His fingers were thin, dry, and slightly cool. He led her upstairs to the bedroom. The room was prepared. Not hotel-like cleanliness, but lived-in neatness: a blanket on the armchair, a stack of books on the nightstand, dim lighting. Vera paused by the window, knowing that Lena always did this—look out at the street before undressing. Igor came up behind her. He didn't touch her. He simply stood there, breathing down her neck. “I missed you,” he said quietly. - I know. Vera turned around. Igor's face was calm, but there was something in his eyes that made her chest tighten. She reached for the buttons of his shirt—slowly, like Lena had done. He stood there, motionless, allowing himself to be undressed. When the shirt fell to the floor, Vera ran her palms over his chest, shoulders, and neck. He had a good figure for his age—fit, without excess weight. “Now you,” he said. Vera took off her dress. Beneath it, she wore nothing but a silver bracelet. Igor looked at her the way one looks at an icon—with fear, reverence, and pain. Then he stepped forward and pressed his whole body against hers. The sex was... strange. Igor wasn't rough, he wasn't rushed. He entered her slowly, as if recalling something long forgotten. Vera moved beneath him, thrusting forward, but remained an observer at the edge of her consciousness. She felt not so much his desire as his desperation. He wasn't just fucking her. He was saying goodbye. At some point, Igor stopped, raised himself up on his elbows and looked into her face. “You’re not her,” he said almost in a whisper. Vera didn't answer. And what was there to say? He continued anyway. He finished, spilling inside her, resting his forehead on the crook of her neck. Then he lay down next to her and was silent for a long time. Vera lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his seed cooling inside her. She woke up early in the morning. Igor was asleep, his back to her. Vera quietly got up, got dressed, and went downstairs. An envelope was waiting for her on the kitchen table. Inside was money and a short note: "Thank you. This won't happen again." She left the house, got into the car, and drove back to the city. She thought about nothing on the way. Just before entering the highway, she stopped on the side of the road and took the silver bracelet off her wrist. She put it in the glove compartment. In the evening I called the agency and said that I was taking a break. "For how long?" the curator asked. — I don’t know. Maybe forever. She never said what broke her. Maybe it was Igor's face when he whispered, "You're not her." Or maybe it was the way she herself, for a second, believed she could become her. But Vera hasn't taken any more commissions since then. They say she now works in some office. A normal life, normal days. And the bracelet is probably still lying in the glove compartment. Or not. Who knows.