This story is part of one of the most beautyful russian novels - "A school for fools" written by Sasha Sokolov. I love this story and the entire novel too, thats why =)

Ok, i'll try to post the translation here

One can spend the nights on the veranda during July - it's not cold. And the big sad moths hardly bother me: they can easily be driven off with cigarette smoke. In this story, which i am writing on a July night on the veranda, the subject will be a sick girl. She is very sick. She lives in the next dacha along with a man whom she considers to be her grandfather. Grandfather drinks heavily, he's a glazier, he puts in glass, he is no more than fifty and I don't believe he's her grandfather. Once when I was spending the night on the veranda as usual, the sick girl knocked for me. She came trough the gate in the fence which separates our small lots. Came trough the garden and knocked. I turned on the light and opened the door. Her face and hands were covered with blood - the glazier had beaten her, and she had come to me through the garden for help. I washed her, put iodine on her cuts and gave her some tea. She sat with me on the veranda until morning, and it seemed to me that we had managed to talk about many things. But in fact we were silent almost all night, because she can hardly talk, and her hearing is very poor due to her illness. In the morning, as always, it got light, and I walked the girl home along the garden path. In the country, and in Moscow too, I prefer to live alone, and the paths around my house are barely visible. That morning the grass in the garden was white with dew, and i regretted not putting on my galoshes. We stood by the gate for a moment. She tried to say something to me, but couldn't, and in her misery and sickness she began to weep. The girl turned the latch, which like the whole fence was wet with autumn mist, and ran off to her own house. And the gate was left open. Ever since then we've been good friends. Sometimes she comes to see me and I draw or write her something on Whatman paper. She likes my drawings. She studies them and smiles, and then goes home through the garden. She walks, brushing the apple branches with her head, looking back, smiling at me or laughing. And I notice that after every visit she makes my paths get better and better marked. I think that's all. I've nothing more to tell about the sick girl from the next door. No, it's not a long story. Not long at all even. Even the moths on the veranda seems bigger.