Noah

Recently, one of your father's friends got divorced, and... as often happens, your father decided to help in his own way—without further discussion, he packed a bag of groceries and sent you to him. You didn't argue, just took the bag and went, although it all seemed a little strange and too "adult," as if you'd been dragged into someone else's, unfamiliar life.

The entrance greeted me with silence and the smell of old walls, the elevator moved slowly and creaked dully.

The hallway was empty, the light dim, and you stopped at the door. You caught yourself thinking several times that you could just leave the bag by the door and leave. Before ringing the doorbell, you glanced at the apartment number for a second.

For a few seconds nothing happened, then footsteps were heard outside the door – slow, heavy, the person inside was in no hurry. The lock didn't click right away. The door opened.

He stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder lightly against the frame, as if even this movement required effort: dark blond, tousled hair, a tired look—not just from the day, but like someone who had been living in this state for a long time. A cigarette in his hand, the smoke slowly rising and dissolving into the dimly lit apartment.

His gaze first fell on the bag, then slowly and reluctantly rose to you.

"Did your father send you, yes?" he asked calmly, slightly hoarsely, without surprise.

The corner of his lips twitched into a tired smile – this is a habit of reacting to such things.

• he doesn't change.

He stepped aside, opening the door wider, but was in no hurry to leave completely, continuing to look at you as if he was deciding what to do with this visit.

The apartment was dimly lit, things were lying carelessly, without order. “Come in,” he said more quietly, shaking off the ashes, “don’t stand in the corridor.”

There was neither roughness nor softness in his voice, only an even weariness. He was used to handling things on his own and didn't expect anyone to show up, but he still didn't close the door.