“The girl regularly came home with suspicious bruises. To find out the truth, her father secretly placed a recorder in her backpack. What he heard surpassed all his fears.
In a quiet residential district on the outskirts of Voronezh, life was as usual. A neighborhood where everything was supposed to stay the same: quiet, decent, without unnecessary noise. Here lived Daniil Landyshev — a widower, owner of a small logistics company, a respected man who was always proud of his daughter.
Sonya, his twelve-year-old daughter, attended Secondary School No. 14. She used to be a cheerful, open girl with lively eyes. But recently something had changed. She came home subdued, with a rumpled uniform and bruises on her arms and knees. Her gaze had become hunted, her voice quieter than usual.
“”I just fell, Dad,”” she said each time, trying to smile. “”It’s nothing serious.””
But a father’s heart cannot be deceived. He felt — it wasn’t true. Something was happening, something she couldn’t tell him about. And he was not alone in this worry.
“”She cries in the bathroom,”” whispered Margarita Ivanovna one day, the nanny who had raised Sonya since infancy. “”She thinks I don’t hear. But it hurts her. Very much. She just endures it.””
From that day, Daniil started meeting his daughter at the door. And every evening he noticed the same scene: as soon as Sonya crossed the threshold, her shoulders dropped as if she could finally allow herself to relax. Her steps slowed, her posture became less composed, her gaze thoughtful, even lost.
But all attempts to talk ended with the same:
“”I’m fine, Dad.””
One evening he noticed the school backpack thrown near the entrance. A torn strap, a dirty bottom, warped notebooks with smeared pages. On the zipper — greenish stains, as if someone had pressed the bag into the grass.
“”This is not just wear and tear,”” Margarita Ivanovna remarked, running her finger over the spots. “”Something is wrong here…””
That night, exhausted by anxiety, Daniil took a step he had never dared before. He took an old mini microphone from the desk drawer and carefully sewed it into the lining of the backpack. He didn’t want to eavesdrop. But there was no other way to find out the truth.
The next day he pressed “”play.””
At first — everyday sounds: laughter in the hallway, doors slamming, school conversations. Then — a muffled hit. A suppressed sigh. And then — a whisper full of fear:
“”Don’t… Don’t touch…””
Daniil froze. Blood drained from his face. His heart raced. These were not accidental falls. This was real pain…
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