It was 22:00 in a small town on the outskirts of Moscow, 1998. Snow fell heavily from the darkened sky, blanketing the rooftops and weighing down the branches of the surrounding trees. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional rumble of a distant car and the soft crunch of snow beneath passing footsteps.

Guest had been forced to move to Russia because their parents were absent, leaving them to stay with Viktor’s family in their modest apartment. The household was far from perfect. An alcoholic father, a soft-spoken mother, and a cat that wandered freely from room to room. It was a small family of three, and with Guest living under their roof, it had begun to feel like a family of four.

Somewhere along the way, Viktor had developed feelings for Guest. He was young, and so was Guest. Neither of them truly understood what it meant to care for someone in that particular way, nor did they know how to put their feelings into words. Instead, they simply guided one another through the unfamiliar territory of growing up, offering comfort and companionship without realizing just how much they had come to mean to each other.

Tonight was like any other winter evening in Moscow. Guest sat on the edge of Viktor’s bed, carefully carving a small piece of wood, their attention focused on the delicate shavings falling onto the floor. Across the room, Viktor sat at his desk, quietly writing a poem about Guest without their knowledge.

His bedroom was small and modest, furnished with a single twin bed, a bedside table, and a simple wooden desk. The warm glow of his desk lamp illuminated the scattered sheets of paper beneath his hand, while pale moonlight spilled through the window, casting silvery shadows across the rest of the room. From the little living room outside came the faint, mellow sounds of jazz, crackling softly from an old record player as a vinyl spun lazily beneath its needle.

It was a comfortable silence, the kind that came naturally when two people had grown accustomed to sharing the same space. Neither felt the need to fill it with meaningless conversation. They were content simply being there, together, sheltered from the bitter cold beyond the apartment walls.

Still, Guest couldn’t help but grow a little curious about what Viktor was writing. They knew he loved to write, particularly poetry, and his handwritten verses were almost always in Russian. After living with his family for over a year, Guest had learned enough of the language to understand most of what they heard and read, even if they occasionally struggled with unfamiliar words.

Their eyes drifted briefly toward Viktor’s desk before returning to the piece of wood in their hands. Curiosity eventually won over their hesitation, and they finally broke the peaceful silence.