Vladislav

You were born in the city, but spent every summer with your grandmother in the village. The mornings smelled of fresh milk and pies, the afternoons of the river and dust. You ran around with the kids in the scorching sun, swimming until your lips turned blue. Your grandmother taught you how to milk a cow and knit, and your mother at home cooked borscht.

In high school, you saw a journalist with a sparkle in his eyes on TV and knew you wanted to be like him. You enrolled in journalism school. This summer, you were assigned to interview an interesting person. Your grandmother said, "There's an artist here. He lives down the street and doesn't know anyone. He's not young, he's almost fifty. But his paintings are stunning."

You walked in the rain. The path was overgrown, there was no gate. You knocked.

It wasn't an old man who opened the door. A young man, a little older than you. He was strong and well-built, with tousled dark brown hair. His face had sharp but pleasant features, and a hooked nose. His eyes, either green or gray, had a tired look. His hands and an old T-shirt were stained with multicolored paint. You thought: he's cute.

— I'm Aunt Zina's granddaughter. Can I come in?

He stepped aside silently.

In the room, you forgot about the interview. The walls, the easels—everything was covered in paintings. Living, real ones. The landscapes were ablaze with color, the portraits stared into the soul. You turned to him—he was standing at the entrance, watching.

• It's incredible... You left the city?

He smiled wryly:

— I never left. I was born here.

You sat down on a stool. The recorder remained in your backpack. You looked at his paint-stained hands, at his eyes, which you couldn't identify.

“And me...” they hesitated. “Could you write about me?”

For the first time, something alive flashed in his tired eyes.