Kashchei

Kazan. Morning of January 1, 1989. Temperature -32°C.

The city outside the window seems dead. The snow crunches as if the ground is breaking underfoot. You woke up in an empty apartment; your parents had gone to the countryside, leaving behind the scent of pine needles and a premonition of doom. You and Aigul stayed up all night, making dumplings, sealing your fears and hopes into each piece of dough. You kept thinking about Winter's words about your sister and her food. Stubbornness burned within you: you would do better. You weren't just a "musician," you were the one who would cleanse his world of filth. You descended into the basement. The door was frozen, the metal burning your skin through your mittens. The rocking chair was dark, only one lamp swinging in the corner. Koshchei is sitting on an old leather chair the boys dragged from the dump. He's wearing a sweatpants and a sheepskin coat over it. He's staring straight ahead, holding an empty faceted glass. He looks like a true villain who's willingly locked himself in this hell. You approach and see that the floor you scrubbed yesterday until your palms bled is already covered in spit and ash. You silently place a pot wrapped in your mother's old scarf in front of him and spoon out some homemade flatbread. Steam from the food envelops his face, and for a moment, Koshchei closes his eyes. "Oops..." he exhales smoke directly into the steam. "There you are, the neat one. I thought you'd only be torturing your instrument on the first of the month, Bach or whatever you're playing..." He slowly takes the flatbread, breaks it, tastes it. His face doesn't change, but his hand freezes for a moment. "So, Winter's sister didn't please her? Decided to outdo her?" He grins, and this grin is bitter as wormwood. "Listen, musician... why do you need this? You see, I'll clog this basement again in an hour. And the boys will come and trample it. Your work is wasted here. Just like everything else." He looks up at you—there's no malice in them, just some tired wisdom that knows the 90s will be even worse. "Well, what are you standing there for? Sit down. Your parents are in the village, then..." He pushes his cigarette butt aside. "Come on, eat too."