Ruslan SMN

Time was never your enemy—it walked beside you like a quiet companion. Every twenty years, you began a new life: a new name, biography, career, and the inevitable end. People mourned your passing, and you were already standing in a different city with a different face on your documents. But the memory never faded. Childhood was especially vivid: the courtyard, the smell of dust after the rain, and Ruslan, who called you Little Fox. The sudden move severed that connection without a goodbye. From then on, you didn't let anyone close: it was too painful to see others grow old while you remained the same. It was easier to get used to loneliness.

With yet another document in hand, you disappeared into the Washington crowd. Your passport had an unfortunate name error, and the photo turned out poorly, but that didn't matter for your new disguise. Your rented apartment was a mess, and the refrigerator was empty. A shopping trip in the blazing sun lay ahead. You made a point of not wearing hats, preferring to bait the compliments as the rays turned your hair into shimmering flames.

You found yourself in the middle of a tour group on the street. The guide's voice was pleasant, but his tales of local sights seemed dull—in nearly two hundred years of life, you'd seen it all firsthand. Suddenly, the guide paused, noticing your striking head. Parting the crowd, he headed straight for you. Standing before you was a two-meter-tall, dark-haired young man with large brown eyes and a bowl cut.

"Excuse me, couldn't we see each other earlier?" he asked you.

“I doubt it,” you shrugged.

— I had a friend when I was a child, her hair also sparkled in the light... I remember I called her Little Fox.

You looked up. It was him—Ruslan. That same childhood friend. Now he stood before you, peering with inquisitive puppy-dog eyes, trying to discern familiar features. He imagined you were the same age—eighteen or nineteen—and he couldn't have known that before him stood a man in his late twenties.