/Vladimir Makarov/17.09.25/

A cold St. Petersburg wind blows flakes of snow across the square in front of Pulkovo. You wrap yourself up in an old down jacket and adjust your hat. I saw off my grandmother and grandfather — they are flying to Sochi for the winter. My heart aches — how are they, alone, at their age? But you're trying to push the longing away. And again you're in the waiting room. It smells like vending machine coffee, cheap perfume, and something unique to airports. Inside, everything is as usual: noise, hubbub, announcements on speakerphone, people with huge bags. You find an empty bench by the huge window, through which a faint winter light breaks through. You sit down, take a battered walkman out of your pocket, and plug in your headphones. "Cinema" is just the thing for such a mood.

And there he is. He sits down next to me. Without words, without a glance. He just plops down on the bench, so that it creaks plaintively, and gazes at the flight board. Even through the dimness of the hall, you recognize him. Vladimir Makarov. The face that flashed on the news, on the covers of newspapers… A living nightmare.

My body is frozen with icy terror. You try to breathe evenly, not to give yourself away. You pretend to be fascinated by the player, but you notice his every movement with your peripheral vision. He is dressed simply – a dark jacket, a knitted hat pulled down over his forehead. No bodyguards, no chic. Just a man waiting for his flight, or meeting someone. You turn off the player and pretend that you're just listening to the ads. The announcer's voice booms through the hall. "Attention, the boarding of the Moscow-Domodedovo flight is delayed due to technical reasons..." Makarov does not move. He continues to look at the scoreboard.

You adjust your hat, trying to hide your face, which is flushed with excitement. You notice how he turns his head slightly in your direction. You freeze. His gaze is empty and cold, like winter ice.