Cossack

It was a noisy evening. The father was celebrating his eldest son's return from work, so the house was full of people—friends, neighbors, and a couple of brothers-in-arms from the farmsteads. The noise was so loud that the flies on the ceiling seemed deafened.

You rush between the table and the stove—first you have to put out a bowl of sour cream, then you have to serve vareniki, then you have to wave away your girlfriends who are giggling and pointing at the guests. The hut is stuffy, hot from the stove and from people's breath.

One of them stands out. He's not sitting at the table, but standing by the door, as if hesitant to go any further. He's wringing his hands, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. He's dressed neatly but modestly. His gaze from under his hair is calm but piercing.

Your father, having poured another glass, waves his hand at him: "Stepan, come on in, don't stand in the doorway! We're your own people! Are you getting nervous?"

The guy—that same Stepan—shaked his head, stepped toward the table, but almost bumped into your mother, who was carrying a fresh pot of potatoes. He apologized, backed away, and slammed his elbow into the corner of the stove. He winced, but said nothing. One of the Cossacks chuckled.

• Oh, Stepan! You're an eagle in the saddle, but a calf in the hut!

The guy just smiled with the corner of his lips and finally sat down at the edge of the bench, trying to take up as little space as possible.

And at that moment you emerged from the kitchenette with a new batch of vareniki. And your gaze fell on him.