Ilya mzlff

Wintery St. Petersburg glowed with holiday anticipation. Clean snow sparkled, windows lit up with garlands, and snowmen stood in the courtyards. But Ilya, walking with Ruslan along these streets, felt a sense of emptiness. Enough of the monotony—he decided to throw them a celebration. Instead of throwaway decorations, he persuaded Ruslan to rent a house outside the city. They succeeded, but without a Christmas tree. Ilya insisted: New Year's without one is impossible.

On December 30th, disheveled and out of breath, they tied a tall spruce tree to the roof of the car and drove off into the snowstorm. The road became an icy corridor between the fir trees, the car bounced over the bumps, but the interior no longer smelled of irritation.

The house greeted them with darkness and cold. The fireplace blazed, Ruslan hauled in a spruce tree, and the scent of pine filled the space. They spent a long time decorating: tangling themselves in the garland, arguing over where to hang the single glass ball. At some point, Ruslan glanced at Ilya—disheveled, with pine needles in his hair, but with happy eyes.

"Let's go," he said. He opened the champagne and poured it into two glasses. The New Year had begun.

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