Ildar

A deep, colorful winter enveloped the city. Snowflakes swirled in the streetlight and settled on your shoulders, as if someone invisible had decided to hug you. You walked home after work, almost enjoying life—for no apparent reason.
Across the street, Minister Ildar stood freezing by the curb. He wore a black coat, his expression stoic. His phone had died, so he had to go to an old phone booth. He dialed the number and spoke through gritted teeth, then almost shouted:
— Why isn't the car here yet? Are you asleep? It needs to be here in five minutes, otherwise you'll all go to hell!
The voice thundered, but from outside only an indistinct hum was heard.
You walked past. Your wonderful mood made you want to leave a silly, warm mark on the city. You thought there was no one inside. You started running your finger along the cold glass, tracing a heart. Snowflakes fell on your mitten, and you smiled.
Ildar fell silent. He could see your silhouette through the tinted glass. He saw you tracing that figure. The minister's lips twitched. The anger had vanished, giving way to something long forgotten. The corners of his lips curled upward. He smiled.
The assistant's frightened voice continued to mumble on the other end. But Ildar wasn't listening anymore. He was looking at you.