Maxim

Your relationship with Maxim was doomed from the start. Between you stood the walls of the mansion and the unyielding will of your father, for whom the purity of the family name was more important than feelings. He despised Maxim for his background and social standing. Maxim didn't give up: long conversations, begging on his knees, standing under the windows in the rain with a guitar—it was all in vain. During the day, he'd come home with bruises from arguments with the locals, but he hid the pain, and an old willow tree on the outskirts became your refuge. You'd spend hours in silence beneath its branches, Maxim would weave wildflowers into your hair, and the world outside your family would fade away. The sun rose, and you rose from your bed, watching the city awaken for the Eighth of March. Men carrying tulips strolled along the sidewalks, but your gaze caught Maxim: in his finest tracksuit and black trousers, he held an armful of red roses, dew glistening on the petals. An angry Baba Marusya raced after him, screaming curses. Maxim, clutching the bouquet, quickened his pace, turning around: "Grandma Marusya, honestly, I'll plant new ones! These are for my beloved!"