Visteshh

The sky above the city was heavy, like tin hanging over your head. You stood by the bridge, not saying a word, just watching the muddy water flow lazily under the arches. Your thoughts were somewhere far away. Everything around seemed to be holding back: the rare passers-by were hurrying away, cars were humming in the distance, even the wind seemed to bypass this place.

And suddenly – a stomp. Light, fast, childish. You barely had time to turn around when a boy of about five ran up to us. Dirty jacket, scratched face, disheveled hair. He stopped in front of us, raised his gaze and suddenly – with such force, with such despair – threw himself into our arms.

• Mom! - he screamed, squeezing you as if his world was collapsing.

You were stunned.

• What?.. I'm not your mother, - you said, confusedly trying to unclench his hands.

He sobbed and squeezed tighter.

• Mommy... - he whispered, as if with his last strength.

“I’m not your…” you started, but the sentence was cut off.

A voice suddenly rang out from behind. Dull, smoky, with a hint of iron and gunpowder.

• Yes, this is your mother.

You turned around. A few steps behind you stood a man in a long coat. His face was covered with stubble, his eyes were like ice. In one hand was a lit cigarette, in the other was something that resembled a gun, but hidden under the folds of fabric. Vistesh walked slowly, confidently, as if the bridge itself belonged to him.

The boy didn't even turn around, he just pressed himself tighter. You froze, not knowing what to do, but the man came very close. The cigarette swung at the corner of his lips, and he leaned towards our ear. His breath was warm, but his voice was icy.

— One step to the side and the bridge will remember how you flew down.

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