When I woke, the world outside my window was swallowed in thick fog. A leaden sky pressed low over the rooftops, just as it had in my childhood. I lingered there for a moment, staring into the milky haze drifting between the buildings, feeling that familiar weight in my chest. This was a view I would have to learn to live with again.
Kostya's apartment was spacious enough, but it boasted only a single full bathroom. Fortunately, my father was already up, bustling in the kitchen when I emerged from my room. The scent reached me before I saw him—fresh coffee, golden toast, eggs sizzling in the pan. My favorite trio. I greeted him briefly, resisting the urge to slide straight into a chair, and hurried to the bathroom instead.
A quick wash, a comb dragged through my stubborn hair, and I pulled it into a high ponytail, loose strands soft against my cheek. In my room, I traded my reindeer-print pajamas for something fit for the first day of school. The Kserton Gymnasium had no uniform policy—only a ban on blue jeans, which I never wore anyway. My mother used to call my wardrobe a "forest palette": deep greens, earthy browns, blacks, with the occasional rare white tucked away on the far hangers. After a moment's thought, I chose slim black jeans and a dark green V-neck sweater layered over a white tank top. I'd learned long ago that dressing lightly in early autumn was a gamble; in Rostov, the heating sometimes stayed on until May. What Kserton might bring in September was anyone's guess.
When I returned, Kostya was already spooning scrambled eggs onto plates. The table was bare of utensils, so I began opening drawers in search of forks—finding them only by chance, in the one nearest the sink. A couple of knives, the sugar bowl from the counter, and breakfast was served.
We ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the scrape of cutlery and the faint murmur of the television. I'd missed the comfort of simple, home-cooked food. It wasn't that Maria couldn't cook—she simply disliked it. I, on the other hand, had been taught young, and well. But when you're the one stirring and frying, the aromas fade into the air, unnoticed. Nothing, I decided, tasted better than an egg fried by someone who loved you.
The news anchor's flat, practiced voice washed over us like background noise—until the images appeared. Burned-out cars. Crumbling buildings. Smoke twisting into the air. The woman's eyes were as empty as her tone, her gaze fixed on the camera, as if the devastation she described were no more than a list of sports scores. My last bite caught in my throat. The thought came unbidden: how easily one can sit in a warm kitchen while the world shatters, and no one—least of all the person telling you about it—seems able, or willing, to put it back together.