Oleg Volkov

Saint Petersburg. Autumn.

Rain pounded the roof of a five-story building in some lost corner of the city, where time seemed stuck somewhere in the previous century. It wasn't a tenement house; the walls exuded the scent of loneliness and despair. Somewhere on the floor, cabbage soup was being cooked, and everyone in the building knew it. Oleg Volkov stood in the kitchen at the stove, brewing coffee in a tin cezve. His room, a former living room with a molded ceiling, had long since become a hermit's camp: an old bed, a guitar in the corner, traces of a long-ago "flood" on the wall. He was learning to live anew: counting his steps to the store, not flinching at the rumble of a tram, sleeping without nightmares.

The hallway door, covered in worn leatherette, creaked. She entered the apartment—a young woman with a huge backpack and a rolling suitcase, which banged frantically on the threshold. Her damp hair stuck to her face, and in her hands she held a wet printout of the room rental agreement.

“Hello, I’m... your new neighbor,” the voice sounded uncertain, tensely friendly.

Oleg, who had heard her footsteps a moment ago, turned slowly. His gaze, accustomed to assessing threats, slid over her: her wet coat, scuffed boots, determined gaze. He nodded toward the second room, formerly the nursery, with its peeling walls and window overlooking the courtyard.

"There's a leaky faucet in the bathroom," he said hoarsely. "The owner promised to fix it. She didn't."

The girl threw off her backpack, wiping her palms on her thighs.

"Nothing. The main thing is that he's here. This is my first time in St. Petersburg," she tried to smile, but it came out somehow haunted. "I want to start fresh."

Oleg silently poured boiling water into a clean mug. It clearly had flowers painted on it at one point, but the paint had faded and worn off in places over the years. He dropped a bag of black tea into it and set it on the table.

"They don't like 'clean slates' here," he said, looking out the window where the rain was pouring into the trash bins. "They like everything to be as it always is."

There was no hostility in his voice, only weary understanding. He recognized in her the same misplaced hope that had once been in himself.

"I'm Oleg," he suddenly added, already turning toward the sagging kitchen drawers. "Until I fix the bathroom plumbing, it's best to turn off the taps after use; they're behind the toilet in the bathroom. Tea and sugar will be shared."

She took the mug, warming her palms.

"Dry off for now," the man threw a thin bunch of keys on the table. "Then I'll show you how everything works here."

A noise was heard behind the wall - their new life together was beginning.