For the rest of the ride, I peppered Nikita with questions about the city. It turned out that the heart of the otherwise unremarkable Kserton was an old sawmill perched on the outskirts. The town's founding had been handed down through generations, a tale of noble settlers who came from afar and were the first to stake their claim in the emerald forests. They built a family estate and devoted themselves to logging, drawing peasants to work the land. Slowly, the town grew, attracting newcomers in search of opportunity—those fleeing droughts or floods, wanderers lured by whispers of a picturesque place where labor was always needed. They ventured westward, braving untamed, sometimes hostile wilderness, clinging to the hope of a new home.
This was the story of Nikita's family. He descended from fifth-generation settlers who had made their way north to Kserton from the southern lands. I would never have guessed it from his features—nothing in his appearance hinted at sun-soaked origins. If anything, the faint translucence of his eyes suggested a more northern lineage.
"Did the first settlers' house survive?" I asked as the car veered under the "Bugrad" sign.
"Yes," Nikita said, pausing for a moment, brow furrowed as he navigated a pothole. "So what?"
"I'd like to see it," I said, unable to hide my distaste for modern glass office blocks and faceless apartment complexes. "They steal the beauty of the landscape. Old buildings, by contrast—they're low, magnificent, with soaring ceilings and wide window frames. They have character."
Nikita nodded in understanding, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips.
"Then you'll probably like it. It's an 18th-century estate, almost a miniature version of Peter the Great's Winter Palace on the Neva embankment. But I don't think you'll get inside."
"Closed for restoration, I suppose?"
Karimov shook his head slowly, choosing his words with care. "Not entirely. There used to be open days, tours twice a week. I remember in third grade, the whole class went to see the estate and the sawmill. It's still operational. Some parents even work there. It was more fun than boring, though I remember little—so much time has passed. But two years ago, the heirs returned and closed it off. They built an ugly fence around the perimeter, ruining the view. I don't know what the Smirnovs have done to the city's heritage."
My eyes widened at the familiar name, my mouth falling open in surprise. The school's renowned top five… from the founding family? I felt a pang of pity for the Smirnovs. They hadn't failed to claim their place, yet the land remained foreign to everyone else.
"Smirnovs are local celebrities, it seems," I murmured, a smirk playing at my lips, confused by the swirl of emotions inside me—a cocktail of admiration, irritation, and fascination that refused to settle into a single hue.
"Or like a royal couple," Nik added dryly, and I couldn't help grinning.
"Now it makes sense why they act so… strangely. Anyway, Edik—" I stopped mid-sentence, realizing I'd said too much.
Nikita's expression darkened. The air in the car seemed to thicken, mirroring the weight of his mood.
"Did he do something to you?" His voice held a metallic edge I hadn't heard before.
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully, aware that the car had stopped and that the familiar entrance door loomed outside the window.
"No, not really," I said lightly, hoping to close the topic. My thoughts were mere assumptions, unsupported by anything. I liked Nik, and I didn't want to burden him with my jumble of feelings.
"Thanks for the ride," I added, unbuckling my seatbelt and stepping out. Nik opened the trunk, muttering under his breath as he wrestled the bike free.
"Need a hand carrying it up to your apartment?"
"Oh, no, it's fine. You've already done enough," I said with a smile, inwardly relieved that I wouldn't have to drag the bike upstairs, yet wanting to seem unbothered in front of Kostya. "See you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow," Nik's voice lingered in my mind, soft and warm. His gaze followed me until the entrance door closed behind me, leaving a quiet echo of the evening in its wake.