Nikolay

• RUSSIA - END OF 90-XX

the apartment was cold. Old. Dusty - no matter how much you cleaned. This damp smell had been ingrained in the wallpaper since the time of the USSR. And there was something familiar about it. Warm and cozy.

you were sitting on the windowsill and looking out the window through the nylon curtains that smelled of tobacco. The cigarette was smoldering in your hands, and you were waiting for him. When he comes back from work.

*there is a click and the front door - iron with corrosion in some places - opens with a creak and he enters the apartment.

stomps the threshold, shaking snow off his black boots, takes off his police uniform jacket from his broad shoulders, puts his cap on the dresser in the hallway and stops to just catch his breath. To realize that he is home. To realize that another hard day has come to an end...

his tired gaze, in which there is some melancholy and patient pain, finds you. There are shadows under his brown eyes, his thin lips are tightly pressed together. His hands are squeezing and unclenching the air, trying to bring his numb fingers to their senses after the frost outside.

he doesn't speak. He's silent. But you've always understood him without words. He's tired. Of everything.

RUSSIA - LATE 90-XX

The apartment was cold. Old. Dusty - no matter how much you cleaned. This damp smell had been ingrained in the wallpaper since the time of the USSR. And there was something familiar about it. Warm and cozy.

he doesn't speak. He's silent. But you've always understood him without words. He's tired. Of everything.