Katerina Melnikova had worked as a school nurse at Gymnasium No. 27 for nine years.
She was forty-one — a kind, smiling woman with a soft, calm voice and a rare ability to be both gentle and firm, especially with children.
Her office wasn’t just a first-aid room.
It was a place where the sterile scent of medicine blended with warmth and comfort.
Colorful health posters lined the walls, stuffed toys stood in the corner for frightened kids, and spare clothes filled the drawers — for anyone who tore their pants or got wet in the rain.
The children adored her.
The teachers trusted her.
Katerina noticed what others missed — a subtle eye twitch, a sudden change in tone, dark circles beneath a child’s eyes.
She always drew conclusions. And she always acted.
Then, on May 1st, a sudden heatwave struck the city.
After a long, cold spring, the temperature soared to thirty degrees.
Children came to school in shorts and T-shirts — laughing, tan, and full of energy.
But one child looked out of place.
Timur Grachev, a first-grader, had large, thoughtful eyes and a strange maturity about him.
When Katerina was doing checkups in the hallway, she noticed him — long sleeves, thick trousers, and that same blue winter hat he’d worn since the beginning of the year.
Even in the sweltering classroom, it stayed on his head, pulled almost to his eyebrows.
“Timur,” she said softly as he entered her office, “maybe you should take your hat off? It’s really warm today…”
The boy stiffened like a string.
He grabbed the brim of his hat and whispered,
– No… I have to wear it.
Katerina didn’t press him, but something inside her stirred.
He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t cold.
He looked as though that hat was his only shield — as if without it, he’d be exposed.
The exam was quiet, but Katerina couldn’t ignore how he flinched whenever the hat shifted.
It was as if the fabric itself hurt him.
Later that day, during lunch, she spoke to his teacher — Svetlana Alekseyevna Lapina, a gentle, observant woman with kind eyes.
“Yes, I’m worried too,” Svetlana admitted, stirring her coffee.
“He never takes it off — not even in gym class. Once, he had a breakdown over it. We stopped insisting.”
– When did this start?
– After spring break. Before that, he never wore one.
After a pause, Katerina asked quietly,
– What do you know about his family?
— His mother passed away two years ago from canc3r. Now it’s just his father and older brother.
His father’s strict — always talking about discipline.
The brother picks him up after school. Timur himself is very quiet. He blends in until he disappears.
Katerina’s unease deepened.
Children sometimes get attached to things — but this felt different.
There was pain. Fear. Withdrawal.
For a week, she quietly watched him — during breaks, in the cafeteria, in the halls.
The hat stayed on. His sleeves stayed down.
He moved like a child trying not to exist.
Then, one day, she saw it — a dark patch on the back of the hat.
Blood.
Her heart sank.
His records showed no head injuries.
That Friday, she called his father.
– Hello, this is Katerina Melnikova, the school nurse. I wanted to ask about Timur’s winter hat…
“He knows he must wear it,” the man interrupted sharply.
– It’s nearly thirty degrees outside. Maybe it’s a skin condition?
Silence.
– It’s a family matter. None of your business. That’s all?
– I noticed a stain on it. It looks like blood. Was there any injury?
– Minor scratches. We’ll handle it. No need for interference.
He hung up.
On Monday morning, Svetlana rushed into the nurse’s office before class.
Her face was pale.
– Timur’s in class. His head hurts — he’s crying. But he won’t let anyone touch the hat. Not even me.
Katerina grabbed the first-aid kit and hurried over.
In the corner of the classroom sat Timur — small, hunched, clutching his head.
When he saw adults, he straightened his back, forcing a blank expression — too practiced for a seven-year-old.
“Can I check your forehead? Just your forehead,” Katerina said gently. “I won’t touch your hat.”
He nodded.
His skin burned under her fingers. His body trembled.
And beneath the hat — she caught the faint, sickly smell of infection.
– Timur, I need to take it off. I think you have an inflammation. We’ll do it together, okay?
He froze.
– Dad said I can’t. He’ll get mad. My brother said if people find out, they’ll take me away. And it’ll be my fault.
“It’s not your fault,” Svetlana whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Behind the closed door of the medical office, Katerina slipped on gloves, laid out antiseptic and bandages, and spoke softly with every motion.
– I’ll be gentle. I just want to help. I promise.
The boy began to cry silently.
– Dad said it’s my fault. I behaved badly. My brother gave me the hat so no one would see. He said it would heal. But it hurts more now…
Katerina carefully lifted the edge of the hat — then froze.
“It’s stuck… It hurts,” Timur whimpered.
Slowly, she soaked the fabric with disinfectant and eased it away.
When it finally came off, both women gasped in horror.
The hair was scorched. The scalp was covered with fresh and healing burns — cigarette burns. Dozens of them.
Katerina shut her eyes for a second to steady herself.
Anger. Pain. Compassion.
But this wasn’t the time to break down.
“You did well letting us see this,” she said softly, treating each wound. “You’re very brave.”
Timur sat still, like a tiny soldier, enduring pain and shame that never should’ve been his.
“He does it when he’s angry,” he whispered. “When he drinks. He says it’ll teach me not to make mistakes.”
Every word was a knife.
Svetlana sat beside him, holding his hand.
He didn’t pull away — maybe because it was the first kindness he’d felt in months.
– When my brother saw my head, he fought with Dad. He wanted to tell someone. But Dad said they’d send me somewhere awful. So my brother gave me the hat. Told me to wear it till it healed.
Love and fear — intertwined.
But most of all, helplessness.
Katerina knew what to do.
She followed protocol — called the principal, the police, social services.
While others handled paperwork, she stayed with Timur — cleaning wounds, changing bandages, telling him how she once got a scar falling from a tree.
For the first time, he giggled faintly.
Trust had begun.
When the social workers and officers arrived, everything was ready — photos, reports, statements.
Timur sat quietly in a blanket, holding a new soft hat — one Katerina had brought.
“Only if you want it,” she told him. “This one’s warm, but it won’t hurt.”
He looked at her. His eyes were still dark — but light had begun to flicker inside.
“Can… can we leave?” he whispered.
Katerina nodded.
At the hospital, three days passed — tests, IVs, quiet reassurance.
The diagnosis: infected burns, malnutrition, severe psychological trauma.
Katerina and Svetlana took turns sitting by his bedside.
No schedule. No orders.
They simply couldn’t leave him alone.
Then one evening, Svetlana spoke to the head of social services.
— I want to adopt him. I’ve completed all the training. I was just waiting for the right child. And I think I’ve found him.
Katerina held her breath.
She hadn’t expected that kind of courage.
“I grew up in an orphanage,” Svetlana explained. “My sister and I both did. I want to give someone a home. And if not him — then who?”
At first, it seemed impossible.
Teacher and student. Boundaries. Procedures.
But solutions were found — new class, therapy, home visits.
Two weeks later, Timur moved in with Svetlana.
The first days were hard.
He washed dishes three times, afraid of doing them wrong.
He waited for permission to eat.
He sometimes sat quietly in corners, wrapped in a towel.
“It’ll pass,” the experts said. “He just needs time. Boundaries. Patience.”
Svetlana never gave up.
She joined a support group for adoptive parents and taped a note to the fridge:
“You’re doing great.”
Sometimes Timur would walk up, read it, and ask,
– Is that true?
“That’s true,” she’d smile.
By July, things had changed.
His hair had grown, hiding the scars.
He ran barefoot through the grass, laughing in the sun.
One day, Katerina saw him playing with the hose — soaked, hatless, laughing.
Tears filled her eyes — but they were bright this time.
“He still trembles in his sleep,” Svetlana said later, sitting beside her on the porch.
“But now, he wakes up and hugs me instead of hiding.”
– And you? Are you managing?
— I think so. I’ve applied to adopt him officially. The court will decide in March — exactly one year after I first realized something was wrong with that hat.
Katerina took her hand.
– I’ll always be here.
