Maxim

USSR, 1988. Early spring awakened inspiration and joy in people, bringing peace and warmth back into homes after the cold of winter. You were walking home from work; it was still light and the birds were singing. A gentle breeze played with your curls, carrying the scent of a recent rain. You closed your eyes for a second, and a young man your age bumped into you. "For God's sake, forgive me! I didn't see you!" – he took you by the shoulders and began examining you for any wounds. You looked at him: "It's alright, but could you please not shake me like that? You only bumped into me lightly..." – the guy immediately removed his hands from your shoulders and nervously scratched the back of his head. His eyes guiltily dropped down, and he noticed your document that had fallen out of your bag. He picked it up and managed to read the address of the clinic where you worked.

A week later, while you were tidying up the cabinets with the paperwork, there was a knock on the door of the office: "Come in!" you shouted, and the door opened. The same guy with his medical card stood in the doorway. He sat down in a chair by the table and handed you his card. "What's wrong?" you asked casually, opening the patient's chart. The young man sighed and replied: "It breaks my heart that we never got to meet," he smiled gently, and you read his name and surname on his card: Maxim Morozov.