The house stood at the edge of the forest — dark, crooked, with rusted tin pipes and a fence that had long collapsed.
Sam had lived there for twenty years, hardly ever going into the village.
Sometimes, at the store, people would ask:
“Is it true you have a bear?”
He’d answer simply,
“True. But he’s not mine.”
The bear lived behind the house, in a sturdy pen made of old logs.
His name was Tim — huge, his fur dull, his eyes slow and tired.
He was twenty years old, maybe more.
People were afraid to come close, but Sam never locked the gate.
He just knew — Tim wouldn’t leave.
They lived side by side, like neighbors.
Sam fed him porridge, fish scraps, bread.
Sometimes he’d sit on a stump across from him and say,
“It’s all right, Tim. Just a little longer — and it’ll be summer.”
The bear would grunt softly, as if answering.
Long ago, Sam had worked in a circus.
He looked after the animals — fed them, cleaned the cages, fixed the bars.
Then one day, a performance went wrong.
A young bear broke free, panicked, and ran into the crowd.
There were screams, chaos, running feet.
That day, the trainer died.
A woman.
Her name was Lena.
After that, the circus fell apart.
Sam left — couldn’t stay.
He took the same bear cub — the only one they hadn’t sold off.
Said he’d bought him, though no one checked.
He just took him… and disappeared.
Since then, he lived on the outskirts with Tim.
People called him strange, said he drank too much, went wild.
But those who knew him better said he hardly drank at all.
He just sat by the window in the evenings, listening to the slow breathing of the animal behind the wall.
One spring, a journalist came — young, wearing a puffer jacket and holding a camera.
“I’m writing a story about you,” she said. “They say you keep a bear. Why?”
He was silent for a long time. Then said,
“Because I was supposed to die that day. And she did instead.”
The journalist didn’t understand at first.
“You were there? In the arena?”
He nodded.
“She loved that cub. Every night she’d stroke his muzzle before leaving. I just… couldn’t abandon him. He’s the last living thing left of her.”
He said it calmly, without self-pity.
Then stood up, opened the gate.
The bear walked closer, laying a heavy paw on the edge.
“You see,” Sam said quietly, “he didn’t kill her. He was just afraid.”
And he smiled — a strange, almost gentle smile.
When the journalist drove away, she looked in the mirror:
the old man stood by the pen, the bear sitting across from him — two survivors from the same day.
She had almost reached the highway when the photographer who’d come with her called.
“You won’t believe this,” he said. “I checked the old circus archives. The bear — it’s the same one. He had a white mark on his chest, shaped like a heart.”
“So?” she asked, tiredly.
“This one has it too. He’s old, but… the mark’s still there.”
She didn’t reply.
Just turned off the phone and looked in the mirror one last time.
Out of the forest, near the crooked house, two figures stood — a man and a beast.
And suddenly it became clear:
sometimes guilt lives longer than love.
