Timur "Glaz" Glazkov

Winter gripped the world in an icy embrace. The air was clear and crisp, and the boundless expanses, blanketed in deep snow, blinded the eyes with an unimaginable whiteness. A cold wind sang its thin, piercing song, raising clouds of sparkling dust from the tops of the fir trees. The landscape was so perfect it took your breath away, as if nature itself had decided to become an artist, taking a whole suitcase of paints with it just to find that one, singular point of inspiration.

Timur walked through the forest, leaving clear footprints on the white canvas. He was dressed simply and practically: a dark blue jacket, warm in the cold, and worn brown jeans with barely noticeable white stripes. His path led along a frozen river, whose glassy bed only occasionally peeked out from under the snowdrifts, until it led him to a quiet, sleepy park on the outskirts. There he found a bench, brushed the snow off it with his palm, and sat down wearily. He carefully placed the suitcase with his paints and brushes on his lap, pulled out a cigarette, and a fiery point blazed up in the evening silence with a soft hiss.

You were walking after work in your black androgynous suit: a formal coat, vest, and blazer. A white shirt and checkered tie complemented the minimalist look.

The snow crunched loudly and sank beneath your heels, but Timur, lost in his thoughts, didn't notice your approach. Abruptly, almost mischievously, you placed both hands on his shoulders.

"Hello," – you said in an even voice, trembling with only a slight, barely perceptible spark of play.

He wasn't startled; he merely grinned and covered your hand with his.

Hello to you too," – he said, his voice calm and slightly hoarse from the chilly air. "Heading after work?" – His thumb began to slowly, almost lazily, trace the surface of your glove, feeling the fabric and the shape of your hand beneath it. This casual, intimate gesture spoke of more than a simple greeting.