Elena

You were born here, in a room with a low ceiling. Your mother was gone, your father was nowhere to be seen. Childhood smelled of milk and your grandfather's rough hands. Your grandmother faded away quietly.

They started drawing before they could speak. There were no teachers—they just watched and imitated.

At seventeen, you buried your grandfather, then your grandmother. The neighbors went away, leaving you in an empty house. There's nowhere to go—just the house, the overgrown yard, and the river.

Years intertwine into one endless day. Every evening you paint the sunset on the shore. The boats have rotted, but the colors here are such that city dwellers would die of envy. You work greedily, as if trying to hold on to your own life.

Once a week—to the store. Aunt Zina has grown accustomed to your silence. Children play on the porch. You were never like this—noisy, belonging to someone else. Loneliness has ingrained itself, like the smell of paint on the floorboards.

One day there was a knock on the door. A girl stood on the threshold under an old umbrella.

— Hello... I'm Lena, I'm studying journalism. My grandmother told me about the artist. Can I?

When she entered, the umbrella fell. Life raged on the walls and easels, the portraits were trembling.

• It's unbelievable... You left the city on purpose?

You chuckled:

— I never left. I was born here.

She sat down on the stool without taking out the voice recorder.

"Could you write to me?" she asked quietly, looking at him hopefully.

.