Сирень перевод на английский

Prologue
The scent always appeared first. Bittersweet, intoxicating, it floated down the street, ahead of spring itself. For Matvey, the lilac was more than just a bush by the gate of an old house. It was the scent of childhood, the scent of the last school dance, the scent of her hair—Lena's. The scent of the life that remained on the other side of the war.
He never planted lilacs in his city courtyard. He couldn't. It would have been a betrayal of the only one left there, back in distant '41, near a station with an unfamiliar name, covered in lilac blossoms.

Part One. Autumn
The 1990s. Matvey Ignatyevich Gordeyev, gray-haired and with the straight back of a former officer, was retiring. His life had been a series of orderly, gray days: work in the design bureau, the evening newspaper, the occasional visit from his daughter and grandson. He resembled a closed book, long since read and stored away on the top shelf.
Everything changed when a noisy family moved into the apartment next door. And along with them, their nanny, an elderly but surprisingly lively woman named Vera Stepanovna. She kept a low profile, but one day, seeing Matvey Ignatyevich looking out the window at the bare trees, she said simply:
— The lilacs are fading soon, which is a shame. It's the most vital scent.
Matvey winced. They started talking. First about the weather, then about their grandchildren, then about the war. He, usually silent, suddenly told her about those lilacs at the station. Not about the battle, not about the retreat, but about the smell.
"It's strange," he said, looking past her. "There's noise and smoke all around, and that smell... it was the strongest of all. I thought then: peaceful life—it's right there, in that smell. And it's there somewhere."
Vera Stepanovna listened attentively without interrupting. Then she said:
— And during the evacuation, in Siberia, I planted lilacs. The locals said: “It won’t take root.” But it did. Lilacs are resilient. They grew through the entire war.
After this conversation, an invisible connection developed between them. They drank tea in the kitchen, walked to the park, and shared silence. Matvey was surprised to discover he looked forward to these encounters. Vera Stepanovna was like a warm light in his sterile apartment.

Part Two. Winter
Matvey's daughter, Olga, was alarmed. Her father, always so stern and unapproachable, had changed. He was coming alive. At first, she was delighted, but then she saw Vera Stepanovna—a simple woman with no higher education, working as a nanny. The sensible engineer, the wife of a successful manager, spoke up in Olga.
"Dad, are you sure?" she began cautiously. "You never know who these people are. She's from a completely different circle."
Matvey's face darkened.
"Circles, my daughter, only happen on water. But you and I are on land. And I've come too far to divide people into circles."
But Olga insisted. She arranged "chance" encounters with the lonely literature teacher, sent friends to see her father, and hinted at loneliness. Matvey sensed this and withdrew. An old wound, one healed by the scars of war, began to ache. The wound of loneliness among loved ones.
One evening, when Vera Stepanovna was sewing a jacket for her grandson and Matvey was reading the newspaper, she quietly said:
"Olga's right, Matvey. You're an intellectual, a real professor. And I'm simple. I've been on my feet my whole life."
He put the newspaper down and looked at her directly, in a military manner.
"You know, Vera, I realized something important at the front. A person's worth isn't measured by rank, but by their ability to remain human. You... you remind me of that lilac. The one in Siberia. Growing through everything."
It was his first attempt to say something more. The winter outside was bitterly cold, but Matvey's apartment smelled of tea and warmth.

Part Three. Spring
The conflict with her daughter reached its climax. Olga, unable to convince her father, resorted to open reproaches: "You're betraying my mother's memory!" (Even though her mother, Matvey's first wife, had died many years ago, and their marriage was more of a contract between two lonely people).
Matvey suffered in silence. He watched Vera Stepanovna distance herself, trying not to cause discord. And he realized he was losing the only person in years with whom he had truly felt good.
A conversation with his fifteen-year-old grandson, Sergei, proved decisive. The boy, fascinated by computers and completely uninspired by his grandfather's sentimentality, came to him one day and said:
"Grandpa, this Aunt Vera... she's so cool. She told me about space, can you imagine? Not like at school. And her pies... they're amazing. Mom's nervous about something. Don't listen to her."
In these simple words, Matvey heard what he himself had been missing: simplicity and clarity. The world had changed. And perhaps it wasn't he, with his war wounds, or Olga, with her social prejudices, who was right, but this guy who saw the essence: "She's cool."
Matvey put on his coat and walked to the building where Vera worked. He waited for her at the entrance, clutching a small box in his pocket—a simple silver ring.
When she emerged, tired, he approached her and, without a word, handed her a branch of lilac. The bush by the entrance was just beginning to bloom, and the first purple buds were on the branch.
"Vera," he said hoarsely. "I don't know how to speak beautifully. All my beauty remained there, in '41. But the fact that you exist... it's like that lilac. It grew through my entire winter. Let's not listen to anyone. Let's just plant our own bush."
Vera Stepanovna looked at him, at the branch in his hand, and her eyes filled with tears. She didn't say "yes." She simply took his hand in hers.

Epilogue
Five years passed. A lush lilac bush grew on Matvey and Vera's dacha plot. Not the legendary one from the war, but their own. It bloomed incredibly profusely, and its fragrance filled the entire yard.
One Sunday, Olga came to visit with her husband and Sergei, now a student. She looked at her father, laughing and fiddling with the grill, and at Vera Stepanovna, who was bringing a pie to the table. Olga's expression softened. She approached the lilacs, touched the dew-dampened blossoms with her palm, and inhaled deeply.
“Dad,” she said quietly, approaching her father. “I’m sorry.” He put his arm around her shoulders.
"It's okay, daughter. Lilac isn't just about the past. It's about how life always wins. At any age."
The evening sun gilded the lilac clusters. A bittersweet and intoxicating aroma drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and freshly cut grass. It was the scent of peace. The scent of real, difficult, yet so longed-for life.