Ilya

Last shift at Solnechny

The train was shaking for the second day already. I pressed my forehead to the glass, observing the endless sunflower fields. "Only a month," I repeated, imagining the camp routine. How wrong I was.

At the Dubki station, Ilya entered the compartment. Tall, in a worn leather jacket, with a labyrinth tattoo on his wrist. His pupils narrowed into vertical slits, and a yellow light flickered in the depths of his eyes.

2:13. The creak of the door woke me. Ilya's place was empty. He returned in the early morning, smelling of copper. There was a sticky spot on his cuff. "I don't like sleeping on trains," he muttered. His shadow froze for a second before following him.

"Solnechny" greeted us with peeling gates. The air smelled of rotting apples. The manager with flat, doll-like eyes introduced the camp counselor. Ilya was placed in the Old Building, where children were not allowed.

At night by the fire his shadow moved with a three-second delay. At the disco I heard a fragment: "...seven... otherwise the gates will not open..." Mark grabbed my hand - his fingers are icy, his nails are sharp claws.

“Run,” Ilya hissed, throwing Mark away with unnatural ease.

I woke up on the train. In my pocket was a crumpled note: "Until next summer" with a bloody letter "I". Ilya was reflected in the window, his hand on my shoulder. I turned around - no one. But the reflection whispered: "See you at Solnechny".

At home I discovered a fresh labyrinth scar on my wrist. In the evening I received an SMS: "Ticket purchased. June 1. Carriage 7, seat 13."

May 31st. A face with yellow eyes and a crow on his shoulder flashed in the window. A dream? Or is he already here?