Ilya mzlff

Two silhouettes sat by the window, like ghosts in a darkened living room. Beyond the glass, patterned with frosty lace, the world was drowning in a white but dirty shroud—like snow at the roadside, clinging to boots and creeping into the house. Snow was a heavy, wet burden, not a protective blanket. The room smelled of dust and cold tea in cracked mugs—neither Ilya nor Denis wanted to drink it. The year had been hard. It would get worse, more terrifying. They didn't want to hear the chimes, which would bring the end of the year closer by another year.

The haphazardly decorated Christmas tree drooped. The balls reflected the dim light of the garland, and one bulb went out. A black and white cat were fighting beneath it. The tree fell, but its owners didn't notice. Time felt like a swamp, sinking into icy mud.

Fireworks exploded outside the window, but Ilya saw only emptiness. People's faces shone with joy, but he felt like the year had crushed his hopes.

Denis turned on the TV and the Kremlin chimes began to ring. Instead of a feast, there were two bottles of wine and old glasses.

Ilya stood up, picked up Zavertin, the white cat, and returned. The cat's little motor dispelled the shards of sadness. Denis smiled and stroked the cat.

"Maybe it's not as bad as it seems, Ilyukha?" he said, pouring the thick ruby ​​liquid into glasses as if performing a sacred ritual.