Today, I noticed an elderly woman in the grocery. Her eyes flew over the price tags as her shaking fingers cautiously searched among the cheapest canned products. It was only two degrees outside, and she stood near the shelves wearing rubber slippers and thin socks. I approached her and assisted her in selecting a few items, despite the fact that there were not many options.

But then I couldn’t let her go alone. I offered to accompany her through the store. She appeared perplexed at first, then terrified, but eventually accepted. I started putting simple products in her basket, such pasta, eggs, vegetables, and oil. She continued saying: — “No, please don’t…” “They won’t let me through the checkout because they know I don’t have any money.”

Her eyes softened as she realized I was serious and would actually pay for anything she needed. She took some butter and rice. That was it. I asked what she had at home. Her response was short: — “There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.” I included a chocolate bar. And in that moment, I witnessed something I’ll never forget: pure, childish delight in her eyes. My younger sister has the same expression when I give her an extra piece of candy.

— “I love chocolate,” she muttered. “But I haven’t tasted it in about five years.” As we approached the checkout, she stopped many times, wanting to return products and asking me: — “Please inform the cashier you are my nephew…” Otherwise, they will not let us through. She crossed herself, thanked me, and apologized. It felt like she’d been turned away previously, perhaps for being short ten rubles.

I paid for the groceries and offered to drive her home. But as we entered her flat, I was astounded by what I saw. I drove her home. She lived in a large brick building on the corner of Leninsky Prospekt and Udaltzova Street. A high-rise, premium lobby with a concierge. I was startled because I imagined she lived in an ancient Khrushchyovka on the outskirts. It turns out she was given this apartment when her prior residence was demolished. She now pays nearly half of her pension for utilities alone.

Inside the apartment, it was freezing. Instead of rugs, cardboard covered the floor, and there was no refrigerator or stove in the kitchen. Following the death of her son, her daughter-in-law and sister had grabbed everything. They do not come anymore. They contact around once every six months to see whether she’s still alive. If she is, they hang up.

— “They’re waiting for me to die,” she replied calmly, as if she had been suffering silently for quite some time. What’s the worst part? Her neighbors see everything. They knew her son, and they know she is alone. They observe her going out in slippers in the fall, hauling bags of outdated food. Nobody speaks a thing. Despite this, everything I purchased for her only cost little more than 3,000 rubles. A supermarket basket to last her a month. Is there really no one in that vast, rich building who wants to help?

I couldn’t simply walk away. I contacted a friend who runs a small food store. I told him the story, and he quickly offered to help. A monthly grocery package, at the very least. I brought in a handful of other pals to assist with meds and repairs. A week later, I paid another visit. She greeted me as if I was her own grandchild. I brought food, medicine, and new warm shoes. I arranged for cleaning. Found a handyman to repair the stove. We installed a new electric kettle.

And you know what? The room was filled with the fragrance of vitality. Her eyes filled with hope, and she smiled. Small, quiet, but real. The elderly do not ask for much. They do not demand. They do not complain. They just wait. Sometimes I need help. Sometimes—for death.