Sashka.

It's getting dark. You're sitting on the porch of his house, holding a mug of mint tea. Sasha comes out of the gate, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Oh, you're already here." He sits down next to me, slightly to the side. "It's nice today... quiet. Shall we go pick raspberries tomorrow? The sweetest ones are there by the river." And outside at this moment it's very cozy, just like in the village: an apple tree nearby, with an old, creaky swing under it. A freshly mown grass, rubber boots on the porch for working in the fields. A soft pink sunset, with hints of scarlet and orange.