Four hours in the air from Rostov-on-Don to Novosibirsk, two more on a suburban train to Bolshaya Torana station—none of it unsettled me as much as the thought of spending an hour alone in a car with Kostya. The thorn between us had always been the same: I almost never called him "Dad."
For the first few years after Maria left him, she refused to let me see my father. She raised me with my grandmother, working two jobs, until one day Kostya appeared at our door as if conjured. I still don't know how he found us in a city where we knew no one. Maria suspected his connections—good policemen collected them quickly, and with Kostya's career rising fast, acquaintances multiplied like fresh pastries from a grandmother's oven.
That day, my parents locked themselves in the kitchen for hours. Twice I crept down the hallway to eavesdrop, pressing an ear to the door, but my grandmother always materialized to shoo me away like a guilty kitten. Eventually I gave up and went back to watching Tom and Jerry.
When they finally emerged, both looked serious. They sat on either side of me, trying to explain—Kostya fumbling for words, resorting to clumsy gestures to show that he was my father without broaching certain details my age didn't permit. From then on, I spent a few weeks in Kserton each year, getting to know him.
Now, as I repeated the word "Dad" in my head like an unfamiliar foreign phrase, I planned to greet him warmly, to set a good tone. We had to live together until the New Year, and fewer reasons for conflict seemed wise.
But plans rarely survive reality. The platform was lower than I expected. Gripping my suitcase with both hands, I tried to lift it, staggering under its weight. A queue formed behind me, impatient and muttering, yet no one offered help. I was seconds from kicking the damned thing onto the tracks when a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Asya! Leave it, I'll get it."
I turned to see my father. He looked almost the same—broad shoulders under his black leather jacket, white turtleneck fitting snug across his frame, the same soot-black mustache. With practiced ease, he set my suitcase down and offered me his hand. I placed mine cautiously in his, my cheeks burning at the laughter behind us.
Kostya had aged well—so well that strangers sometimes mistook us for a couple, a fact that mortified me. Still, he was every bit the gentleman, helping others with their bags before leading me out.
When I'd told him about moving to Kserton, I'd expected resistance, but he'd agreed readily, even enrolling me in the local school. He promised me a car for graduation, as though that could sweeten my opinion of the city. Still, Kserton's university was my one bright spot—a place that might help me find my calling.
On the drive, Kostya broke the silence.
"So—back in Kserton. I thought you and Maria never liked it here."
"That's true," I said, eyes fixed on the blur of forest beyond the glass. "But maybe it's time to give it another chance."
"Or maybe you could give me a chance—and try calling me 'Dad'."
I forced a smile. "We can try."
"What? Didn't quite catch that—something missing?"
"We can try, pa-pa," I said, biting off each syllable.
My father laughed, warm and unguarded, and gave my shoulder a reassuring pat—as if to say, We'll be fine, you and I.
I wished I could share his confidence. Instead, the dull ache of loss settled over me, heavy and familiar, as I thought of everything I had left behind in Rostov. Tears threatened, and I longed for silence—just enough to let myself feel the weight of the moment.
Then, as if on cue, his favorite song came on the radio. I recognized the tune instantly; I thought it was BI-2. Kostya turned up the volume, and before I knew it, my foot was tapping along to the beat. We didn't speak for the rest of the drive. The music became our bridge, carrying me past the worst of my mood. By the time a lively Checherina track came on, I found myself singing along with him, thinking—just maybe—he was right. Maybe everything really would be fine.
Nearly an hour later, a weathered road sign announced Kserton. Three turns past the city limits, Kostya steered into our neighborhood, Bugrad, and began threading the car through the narrow yards where parked vehicles turned every passage into a test of patience. Eventually, we emerged into the gray tangle before the long, green-speckled building the locals called "The Spruce." Three entrances lined its façade; the third was ours.
When I moved to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk, Kostya muttered something about not lifting a thing that heavy and waved me toward the entrance. I didn't argue. At the door, I hesitated, fumbling the code twice before finally getting it right. Thankfully, Kostya was still at the car and didn't see me struggling—forgetting the code to your own home was embarrassing enough without an audience.
Inside, the apartment surprised me with its neatness. Four rooms, bright and practical, with a large living area divided from the kitchen by a tidy bar counter—more the home of a family than of a lifelong bachelor. As far as I knew, my father hadn't had a serious relationship since my mother. He never introduced me to anyone, and no unfamiliar women's belongings ever appeared in the apartment. The only traces of him were in the cluttered antechamber: photographs from our trips together, and a proud display of fishing trophies.
Fishing was his great passion. He always said the Ob River teemed with life, and that only the lazy went home empty-handed. I wasn't lazy, but during his rare attempts to involve me, our basket always stayed empty. I lacked the dexterity and coordination for sports of any kind, much to my PE teacher's despair. Eventually, he abandoned all hope and assigned me endless reports on past Olympics instead—earning me a steady, respectable B.
I preferred books to sports, losing myself for hours in the scent of paper and ink. I devoured words greedily, letting them tug at my imagination and my heart. The deeper I fell into reading, the more I longed to make literature my life's work—but my parents always dismissed the idea. My father worried about money; my mother considered it a hobby, not a profession. If only the authors she illustrated could have heard her…
At the far end of the apartment was my room. Even when I swore never to return to Kserton, Kostya had left it untouched. When he unlocked the door, he handed me the key with a quick smile.
"I repainted and put in mosquito screens," he said. "It's September, but don't fool yourself—this isn't Rostov. Open the window with the light on, and you'll have half the insect kingdom in here."
I hid my smile at his half-playful, half-gruff warning and stepped inside. The lavender walls were brighter now, but everything else was as I remembered: the sheer lace curtains, the cacti on the windowsill, the shelf above the desk lined with childhood favorites—The Chronicles of Narnia, Artemis Fowl, Alice in Wonderland. I'd once read them under the covers with a flashlight, convinced I was committing a daring act.
Kostya left me to rest and unpack, and I was grateful. The room smelled faintly of fresh paint, but beneath that was the familiar scent of home—one that had been waiting for me all these years.