It's hard to say how long I had been walking. When I finally stumbled upon a clearing, a patch of earth free from the uneven dips and rises of the forest, a wave of genuine relief washed over me. My feet quickened their pace in the last few meters, as if desperate to drag my body out of the emerald thicket. Once I stepped onto the open road, that peculiar, ticklish unease in my stomach faded, as if the curious eyes that might have been watching had vanished into thin air. How strange it felt.
Fate, it seemed, decided to reward my ordeal: right across the road stood the very supermarket I had been heading for. Its bright red sign, letters bold and white, gleamed in the fading light, a neat subtitle beneath promising: Open 24/7. Finally, a landmark I could count on to find my way home. Hesitantly, I decided I should grab a bottle of water and a couple of chocolate bars—just in case trouble found me on the way back. They wouldn't be superfluous in my backpack, and having a little sweetness on hand is never a bad idea.
Surveying the area in front of the store, I noticed there was no designated bike parking. Nothing for it, then. I set my jaw into what I hoped was a serious expression, leaned my trusty iron companion against the railing by the shopping carts, and fished a lock from my backpack to secure it. I remembered all too well my first disastrous bike parking in Rostov—leaving it outside a busy cinema only to return to find nothing but a wheel and a lock. That mistake would never repeat.
Why so much sternness over something as simple as parking a bike? So passersby wouldn't mutter about "bikes having no place here." It was a small town's oversight, common everywhere: everyone spoke earnestly about ecology, yet no one bothered to make space for alternative transportation, the kind that didn't guzzle fuel. Biking, after all, keeps you moving and gets you where you need to go. Yes, it's sweaty, but proper clothing and a spare shirt in your backpack solve that. A thin merino sweater can do the trick, keeping you warm, wicking away moisture, and staying relatively odorless. I even tried to convince my mom to switch to biking—unsuccessfully. Her go-to rebuttal? "You're just afraid of driving a car."
I wasn't sure what motivated me more: trying to consume less, refusing to buy yet another beautiful planner until the old one's pages were full, or choosing practical clothing, expensive but lasting longer than the flashy foreign brands filling the malls. Kostya claimed no such stores existed in Kserton—perhaps he just hadn't looked carefully, indulging himself when he visited Rostov. We always traveled together, as Kserton had no airport.
At the supermarket entrance, the glass doors slid open, revealing aisles stretching far into the fluorescent-lit expanse. My eyes widened; the interior seemed impossibly vast.
"Bigger on the inside than out," I whispered with a small, restrained smile, thinking of a line from a favorite TV show.
A ten-ruble coin later, I had unhooked a cart and dropped my backpack inside. I tied my jacket around my waist, uncertain how filthy my jeans had become, and, feeling halfway presentable, began to push the cart, eyes scanning the towering shelves.
The shopping list, along with my phone, had vanished somewhere. I relied entirely on memory, hoping not to overlook anything crucial. Improvising in the kitchen wasn't new to me, but I preferred not to push my luck.
The spice aisle made my eyes widen. Tiny paper packets, plastic containers with grinders, neat blends, single spices—it was a riot of color and smell. I crouched to inspect a flashy laminated packet for chicken seasoning.
"Of course, it's all curry and paprika," I muttered, thinking I was alone.
"Don't like curry?"
Startled, I looked up. Golden curls, intense blue eyes, a teasing smile revealing perfect teeth.
"Nikita?" I blinked, caught mid-thought.
He crouched beside me, squinting down the long row of spices. "Ah, here it is!" A green packet labeled Poultry Seasoning appeared between his fingers. "Dehydrated garlic, salt, marjoram, coriander—and not a gram of curry, I promise."
He winked, handing me the seasoning. I accepted gratefully—not because I needed help, but because I wanted to be home before sunset.
"Thanks," I said, smiling easily. "Were you… following me?"
Now it was my turn to surprise him. His expression flickered in confusion before he straightened, arms stretching wide.
"No, no," he said, his blue eyes disarming. I almost bit my tongue to stop a silly joke from escaping. "I just… work here."
The red vest he flicked casually over his shoulder bore the store's worn logo near his heart. For a moment, I ignored it entirely, focusing on Nikita's face instead.
"I must stand out with this bright yellow coat."
"Like a firefly," he added.
"Exactly," I agreed, charmed by the comparison. "Saving up for a car?"
"Easier than that—it's a family business." He gestured as if to embrace the store itself. "Dad believes you need to start at the bottom to understand how a business works from the inside. So you'll find me here two to four days a week." His words trembled with a trace of melancholy, but then a spark lit in his eyes, as though he had just discovered a long-sought idea. "By the way… we could use help. Evening shifts are hard to fill in this town."
"Everything in Kserton shuts by six," I said.
He nodded. "Used to. But after the bypass opened, travelers and truckers began stopping. You might have seen the gas station at the end. Dad noticed and decided to stay open 24/7. We sell goods, run takeout… hired kitchen staff, but the registers are still short-handed. More shifts than we'd like."
"And pay well?"
He waved ambiguously. I raised an eyebrow.
"Well…" he faltered, unsure if we shared the same concept of money. "Not much by Moscow standards… maybe okay by Kserton's."
"I don't know how much they make in Moscow or Novosibirsk."
He perked up. "Then forget what I said. It's a lot!" Leaning on the cart at the pasta aisle, he grinned so wide I almost thought he was flirting.
"Even a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity deserves thought," I said. "What if I'm overestimating it?"
His gaze held mine, teasing and certain. "I have no doubt you'll succeed."
With Nikita's help, I found everything quickly. A natural guide, he knew exactly which shelf held what I needed, saving me countless minutes wandering endless aisles.